XIX. CHARLEY WARBECK IN PRISON—TRUE AND FALSE FRIENDS…

XIX. CHARLEY WARBECK IN PRISON—TRUE AND FALSE FRIENDS

While Phillip Redgill was congratulating himself upon the gradual completion and success of all his villanous schemes, Charley Warbeck was pining in prison, and totally deserted by all his “fast,” and “gallant” friends of olden times.

None of them would ever visit him.

“It was not respectable” to be seen within the shadows of a jail, they said.

Yet, if the truth were known, many of these fine “sparks,” and “gallants,” deserved to be in, rather than out of such an institution.

More than one, had justice been cognizant of their “little speculations,” would have consigned them to worse apartments than that assigned to the brave-hearted, but foolish, Charley Warbeck.

Of all who knew him in his days of prosperity, gaiety, and unimpeachable character, there was not one who visited him, or made the slightest inquiry regarding his wants or necessities.

He was consigned to oblivion in general estimation, and many of his former acquaintance stoutly denied that they had ever known or spoken to him in all their lives.

Old Sir Richard called at the gaol several times, and proffered all the aid in his power; but as Charles had already publicly acknowledged his guilt, and persisted in avowing it, legal assistance was considered to be of little avail.

Dame Worthington was an almost daily visitor, and brought every kind of refreshment for the prisoner, and her tears ever flowed copiously as she embraced “her dear son,” as she endearingly called him.

In truth, she frequently transgressed the rules of the prison, and remained much longer in her visits than the regulations allowed.

But her sorrow was so sincere and apparent to all, that the turnkeys, individuals apparently constituted partly of iron, and partly of stone, looked on with much compassion, and always remarked as she departed—

“If that there old lady was his own mother, she couldn’t hang around that young man more tenderly and lovingly than she does.”

Mistress Haylark and daughter were also frequent visitors to the unhappy youth, and brought him many little trifles which might comfort and console him in his solitude.

Miss Clara, in truth, was rather romantic in her behaviour, for she often passed herself off to the prison authorities as “his sister,” and gained ingress thus very frequently.

Charles had already explained to her the true nature of his offence, and the unsophisticated young lady firmly believed every word he uttered.

She forgot all about her curls and curl-papers, and was ever intent upon devising some scheme for his relief or comfort.

In her increasing love for the young man, she even suggested various methods for his “escape,” and proposed the exchange of garments for that purpose.

“Speak the word, Charles dear,” she would say; “and I will stay in your stead, if there is any prospect of escape.”

She related to him all manner of devices for getting out of the dismal walls, and in her enthusiasm spoke of Claude Duval, &c., but Charley listened to her interesting prattle with a smile, and kissed her tenderly for the affection which had prompted her to suggest so many and such romantic schemes.

Clara was “in love,” but could not realize it!

Charles was no better, yet smiled philosophically at the gradual, but positive growth of his attachment for the whimsical, romantic girl, with her luxuriant growth of curls, and mentally ejaculated—

“‘A friend in need is a friend indeed.’ I can’t help but like her! There’s something about her which makes me love her! I do love her, but, alas, I am not worthy of her!”

Several weeks passed away, and trials at the Criminal Court had not yet commenced.

Old Sir Richard was sick from over anxiety for his protegé, and his consultation-visits with good old Dame Worthington were long and frequent.

“If all the money I possess in the world could rescue the boy, I would freely give it,” was his constant expression.

And, as he sat on the sofa, beside good Dame Worthington, frequently without more light than that of the fire, he would press her hand affectionately, and the old lady would shed tears—yes, tears of bitterness.

“My poor, poor Charles!” the old lady would say.

“The poor lad!” was always the rejoinder.

And thus they sat before the fire, hour after hour, communing with their own thoughts, and recalling again from the vista of the past sunny hours of youth, when love had warmed their hearts, and made them oblivious of consequences.

Clara Haylark was Dame Worthington’s chief comforter, for she was always consulting with the old lady regarding everything that might alleviate the sufferings of “poor Charles,” and that would add to his comfort.

On several occasions Clara became so enthusiastic in regard to Charley that, with her head all shaking with curls, and tears in her eyes, she openly avowed her love for the young man, and averred that “she never would marry in her whole life without it was with him.”

This so much pleased the old lady that she caressed the young woman, and sat with Clara’s head in her lap for more than an hour without uttering a word.

As the Criminal Court trials approached the visits of Sir Richard Warbeck, Dame Worthington and Miss Clara (unknown to her mother) became more frequent.

Yet, despite all their endeavours, Charles persisted in refusing the aid of all legal talent, saying—

“I have avowed my guilt. No one is responsible but myself, and I am willing to suffer the utmost penalty of the law.”

When his day of trial came on there was a considerable muster of India House clerks and others in court, who, because he was unfortunate, were loud in their denunciation of the prisoner.

Dame Worthington, Mistress Haylark and Clara were present also, and as Charley, good looking and gallant in bearing, stood in the dock and pleaded “guilty” to the charge preferred, Clara and the old dame gave vent to their tears copiously, and fainted.

As the India House had been reimbursed “by some unknown individual” for the sum lost, the directors refused to prosecute, out of respect to old Sir Richard, who, it was well known, entertained great love for the accused.

Charley’s penalty was not so great as many expected.

Previous to his present fault, he had borne an irreproachable character, which tended much to lighten his sentence.

He was condemned to two years’ imprisonment with hard labour.

Had it not been through much influence at Court, and the blazing report of Wildfire Ned’s glorious deeds, he would have suffered death.

When returned to his cell, he was visited by a few friends, who congratulated him on his escape from a heavier penalty, and among the visitors was Phillip Redgill, Esq.

“I don’t like to see you in gaol, my boy,” was Phillip’s first remark. “I’m supposed to know nothing of your transgression; but I must acknowledge you were a fool, a big fool, for confessing it. If you’d only kept your tongue still you would never have been found out. Good-bye, old fellow; I hope to see you out again one of these days. We must all pay for our experience, you know. I jeopardise my position in society by visiting you here, you know, but for old old acquaintance sake I thought I’d call.”

“Thank you,” was Charley’s laconic reply, as Phillip left the prison. “If the truth were only known we might exchange places, perhaps.”

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XX. PHILLIP PROGRESSES IN LOVE—HIS FURTHER SCHEMING

While Charley Warbeck is receiving the last visits of a very few friends, prior to his journey from London to the State Prison, Mr. Phillip is in daily consultation with his legal advisers and his father’s executors.

From a deep study of his accounts, those interested came to the conclusion that Mr. Redgill deceased, was deeply involved in debt, and far beyond what any one might have expected.

“Who’d a believed it?” said Mr. Sloman, the lawyer, in surprise, when confidentially informed. “Who’d a thought that such a man as he was should be so much involved? Well, I’ve had some experience in worldly matters, but I never could have believed him to be so much in debt; no, not if an angel from heaven had warned me. What! old Redgill to be insolvent? I can’t believe it!”

Mr. Moss, who, as we know, was deeply interested, confessed that “his worst fears had been realised.”

He always supposed that the old gentlemen had been speculating too extensively.

“He owes me £50,000, with interest, on various notes,” said the Jew. “If his ships arrive safely, then I am safe, although there will be a very little margin left for Master Phillip when the other debts are paid. Let us hope, Mr. Sloman, that the ships will arrive safe, or else—I don’t mind confessing it to you, you know, Mr. Sloman—I am a ruined man.”

By some mysterious means old Sir Andrew had obtained an inkling of the true state of affairs, and when Phillip paid his usual evening visit to his fair daughter Fanny, who was always elaborately dressed, and in waiting for her husband-lover, the old gentleman’s manner materially changed.

Nor did he smile so benignly and fatherly upon the young man as was his wont.

“You must not give too much encouragement to young Redgill, Fanny,” said Sir Andrew, with much solemnity, on one occasion, while walking the room in a perturbed state of mind, “for it might turn out that he isn’t worth one penny.”

His daughter only smiled at her father’s fears, and when her husband lover came she received him in the drawing-room with more marked tokens of attachment than ever, with this difference, that the fond parent did not retire so far into the back drawing-room as of yore, but remained within earshot of all that transpired between the young people.

“Love laughs at locks,” it is said.

And so it happened with Phillip and his young wife.

They spoke in enigmas, and passed an hour or two each evening as happily as if the old folks were miles distant.

In truth, Miss Fanny’s evening walks became more frequent since her flying visit with Phillip to the country, so that man and wife often met clandestinely, unknown to her parents, and their invariable success in eluding her natural guardians often caused much merriment and satisfaction between Fanny and Phillip.

On one occasion the footman informed Phillip that Sir Andrew desired to see him in the library.

The old gentleman’s demeanour was so solemn and forbidding as he entered the apartment that Phillip imagined his marriage had become known to him.

“Mr. Redgill, is it true what I’ve heard, sir, that your very worthy parent died insolvent? Really, sir, I cannot believe it, but such are the rumours, and painful ones they are. Of course, you are aware, sir, that I allowed you to visit my daughter supposing you to be a member of society, who, in the event of marriage—an event, I know, happily yet far distant, and farthest from the thoughts of both—would be able to keep her in the style to which she has hitherto been used all her life. Of course, I could not think for one moment of allowing a penniless young man to make any serious advances towards one of mine.”

Phillip scouted the idea that his father had died insolvent, and re-assured Sir Andrew.

“For,” said he, “if my father really does stand insolvent, as his books might seem, and as rumours would have it, you are, of course, aware that his ships, when they arrive, would fully liquidate all claims of his creditors, and leave a very handsome surplus. In fact, you are aware, sir, that commercial communities think so highly of his transactions that even the insurance company, of which you are the president and greatest shareholder, have insured them for not less than £500,000.”

This latter argument was potent, and fully re-assured the misgivings of old Sir Andrew, who ordered in wine, and explained many matters to the young man of which he was not before fully aware.

Among the items of information thus gleaned in confidential conversation, after drinking much wine, it appeared that Sir Andrew’s insurance company was not so responsible and respectable as its “advertised” capital would lead the reading public to believe; for, in truth, Sir Andrew confessed, that should any serious loss fall upon it he could not honestly meet it, and that it might occasion a sudden collapse of the whole concern.

“Not that I should suffer so materially,” added Sir Andrew, with a knowing wink, “for I have all my private funds deposited with the ‘South Sea Bank’ unknown to any one, and in another party’s name, so that whatever might befall the insurance company I am all right and safe from personal danger.”

A few days subsequent to this conversation the executors returned a balance sheet, illustrative of the deceased Mr. Redgill’s affairs.

And it appeared, to the astonishment of every one, except those in the secret, that the late much-respected merchant really was insolvent, and owed his creditors much more than any would ever have anticipated.

If the “Racehorse” and “Eclipse” should arrive all claims could be satisfactorily adjusted; even if the ships were lost, and the insurance paid, this end might be accomplished; but without it the liabilities stood £200,000 beyond all assets, the chief debtor being the Jew Moss, for not less a sum than £50,000!

When the worthy executors had arrived at these unpleasant conclusions, and revealed them confidentially and unofficially to the gay young Phillip, he bit his nails in anger, drank off his brandy very copiously, cursed his father in a volley of bitter oaths, and in his fury burned the picture of the deceased, which hung over the mantle in the library.

Yet, fully alive to the consequences which any such disclosure of affairs might have upon his own worldly prospect, he called “a council of war,” and beseeched the worthy executors to make no disclosures for the present.

“Not for my sake, gentlemen,” he said, with much warmth and emphasis, “but for the sake of the reputation of my worthy and much-loved father. I have no mother, nor kindred of any kind, except Sir Richard Warbeck, and therefore show my disinterestedness in its true colours. All I desire is to save my father’s reputation in the community where he has lived and been respected for at least half a century; therefore I beg, gentlemen, that you will say nothing of this for the present. When the ships arrive there will be enough, and more than enough, to liquidate every claim, and thus preserve the honour of my family. As to myself, I care not a jot if there is not a penny remaining over and above all his just and honest debts; all I desire to see is that every creditor may be satisfied, even if I, his only son, go forth on the world penniless and in rags!”

Such sentiments were much applauded by the executors, who thought it might be wise to say nothing until the arrival of these vessels.

By some means, unknown to himself, Phillip discovered that old Sir Andrew had become aware of the true state of things.

But the young man argued so well that the insurance office director was comforted.

“These reports you have heard, Sir Andrew, are untrue,” said young Redgill, with much warmth and emphasis, “circulated, doubtless, by some unknown enemy, who, knowing my ardent love for Fanny, has sought this method to poison your mind against me; not that money could influence you in such an attachment as that which has always existed between myself and your daughter, for you are fully aware how ardent my love is, and how long it has existed, and I am positive you are too high-toned a gentleman to allow mere considerations of money to interpose between your daughter’s happiness and mine, for if I knew this moment that Fanny was not possessed of one copper it could never alter my attachment. I love her for herself, and expect nothing with her, and I am certain you would never object to me on any financial consideration.”

Old Sir Andrew, in the largeness and generosity of his hypocritical heart, confessed that money—“mere paltry lucre”—had never entered his thoughts regarding the apportionment of his daughter and her settlement in life.

“For, although I am rich, and beyond all want,” said he, “I should not object to my daughter marrying the poorest youth in the country, provided he was honest, sober, industrious, of good family, and talented. No, indeed! money is farthest from my thoughts; yet, still, I should, of course, like to see Fanny fairly matched with her intended husband in that regard, and would rather see her marry a rich than a poor man—for money, after all, Mr. Redgill, is not to be despised.”

For the third time Phillip had quieted Sir Andrew’s misgivings, and he visited Fanny, his wife, as before, regularly every evening; but, after profound consideration, the young couple decided not to disclose their true relationship for a week or two.

The “Racehorse” and “Eclipse” were frequently reported by fast-sailing ships to be on their way, “all well.”

In truth, the captains of both vessels had written letters, stating how successfully their voyage had progressed, and what valuable cargoes they were bringing.

The last letters were dated from Land’s End, where they had put in on account of wild and dangerous weather, and the captains said that but a few days would elapse ere they would be reported by the telegraph station at Holyhead or Gravesend.

The insurance-office of which Sir Andrew was president was particularly pleased at this information.

Sir Andrew was jubilant and in ecstasies.

“I must manage to get rid of this young Phillip,” thought he. “I know the state of his father’s affairs much better than he supposes. Ha! ha! he can’t blindfold me! I know a thing or two! Men on ’Change, as I am daily, hear many very curious things within a few hours.

“When the cargoes of these vessels are sold, and old Redgill’s debts are paid, there will not be much to spare, particularly when he pays me the fifteen thousand pounds he already owes me.

“He wants to marry my daughter, does he?

“What a smart youth he is, to be sure!

“As if I didn’t see his nice little game!

“No, no, Mr. Phillip—my daughter is destined for a richer man than you are!

“’Tis true, she likes him, and all that; but what’s that to do with it?

“Lord! she’ll soon get over all childishness when she learns the true state of things.

“I’m mighty glad, though, that those two vessels are perfectly safe; if they were lost, it would be a very serious thing for me, and no mistake.

“Never mind, I must take care not to take so heavy a risk next time, and then it will save an immense amount of anxiety.

“Heigho! well, this is a curious world. I will dismiss Phillip, and take Fanny to the continent out of the way. We’ll have a gay time there, and she’ll soon forget that young schemer, Phillip.

“I wish those vessels were arrived, the cargoes sold, and my money paid in, and then—”

“Letter, sir,” said the servant, handing in a note, and retiring.

Being in the daily receipt of letters and messages about ships and the like, old Sir Andrew paid little attention to the present one; but, observing that “Ship news—immediate,” was on the envelope, he opened it, and read:—

To Sir Andrew McTurk, President of the London Insurance Company.

SIR,—The captains and part of the crews of the China ships “Eclipse” and “Racehorse” have just landed at Hollyhead, and report the total loss of their respective ships, which were attacked and stranded, robbed and burnt by the famous Skeleton Crew off the Land’s End a week since. Nothing could withstand Death-wing and his band. The crew had scarcely time to get to the boats ere the ships struck the rocks, and were instantly smashed into pieces.

Yours truly, CAPTAIN BROWN, King’s cruiser “Seagull.”

If a twenty pound keg of gunpowder had exploded beneath Sir Andrew’s easy chair he could not have risen from his seat more suddenly than he did when he read that letter.

He seemed to have jumped into the middle of the floor.

And there he stood gazing at the round table, as if he saw thereon a nest of vipers.

“Gone!” said he, with an affrighted look, pulling his hair about, with eyes distended and open mouth.

“Gone! lost! Both of ’em? Captured by those sea-fiends! It can’t be!”

He read the fatal letter again, word by word, and then sank into his seat with a spasmodic groan.

“Ruined!” he muttered mournfully, and groaned again.

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XXI. TWO KNAVES QUARREL—THE STARTLING CONFESSION

Sir Andrew rose and walked about the room like a maniac.

The unfortunate cat came in his path, and that he kicked through the window, slammed the room door and was about to leave the house!

At that precise moment Phillip Redgill arrived, and there they stood gazing at each other in the hall like two beasts of prey.

“What do you want here, sir?” said old Sir Andrew, in a terrific rage. “Get out of my house, you penniless scamp. Get out of my house, you miserable intriguer! I curse the hour I ever saw you!”

“Sir!”

“Sir! Don’t ‘sir’ me, Mr. Redgill; this is no time for compliments, sir, and you know it. I want you to pay me what you owe me, sir, without any delay; the £15,000 which I have loaned you at different times! I want it, sir, paid up immediately, sir, and I’m bound to have it, too, or else——”

“Sir!” continued Phillip, astonished.

“Don’t stand there ‘siring’ me, Mr. Redgill; get out of my house this instant. I loathe the very air you breathe, and wish I’d never laid eyes on you.”

“Really, sir, and madam,” continued Phillip, addressing husband and wife, for the latter, attracted by the noisy altercation, had arrived upon the scene, “really I cannot understand what all this means. I really——”

“You can’t, eh? Well, come here, sir,” continued old Sir Andrew, entering the parlour again, and dancing about into every corner of it; “you can’t, eh? Then read that, sir,” said he, throwing down the letter, “read that, sir, and then get out of my house as quickly as possible.”

“Lost?” gasped Phillip.

“Lost, aye, lost! So are you, and so am I, and so are all of us lost—down to the bottom, among the silks and teas.”

“This news, sir, is astounding!” said Phillip, looking very pale, and biting his nails. “The Skeleton Crew did it, eh? This almost unmans me, Sir Andrew.”

“Does it? Well, then, sir, what must I feel, who have to bear nearly all the loss? You’ll oblige me, Phillip Redgill, by getting that money of yours together—I’ll stand no more delays. And I’d thank you never to set foot in my house again.”

“Really, Sir Andrew, your conduct is inexplicable! I came to see your daughter, my——”

“You did, did you? Ha, ha! he, he! But let me tell you, sir, that before she should be your wife, I would rather see her in——.”

“Sir Andrew, dear,” interrupted Lady McTurk, getting in between the two angry gentlemen. “Husband, dear, be calm, I pray!”

“Go away, wife, I know what I’m saying well enough. And let me tell you, sir, that I do not want the honour of your presence in my premises any longer; I don’t allow penniless, good-for-nothing vagabonds to prowl around my house! Come to court my daughter, eh? Ha, ha! Whoever heard of such a thing? What next, I wonder?”

“I do not come to court your daughter, sir; I come to claim her as my——”

“Capital! capital! To claim her as your——Ah, ah! capital! capital! Who ever heard of such impudence in all their life?” said Sir Andrew, dancing about like a half-crazed monkey. “Get out of my house, sir, I tell you for the last time—get out, or I’ll kick you out!”

And acting up to his words, he was about to put his threat into execution, when Fanny, his daughter, rushed upon the scene, blooming in paints, crinoline, and flowers.

“Father, dear, hear me!” she said, falling on her knees between her parent and Phillip. “Hear me, father, dear! Pity me! pardon him if he has offended you! For my sake, forgive—pardon my—my—husband! Father, dear, I—am—his—wife!”

“His what?” gasped Sir Andrew, as if shot, looking first at his daughter and then at Phillip. “His what, did you say?”

“His wife, father dear. Pardon me, I am his wife!”

Sir Andrew looked at Phillip for a moment with an eye full of devilish meaning.

That young gentleman advanced a few steps, and said very coolly,

“Wife! Yes, Sir Andrew, my wife! If you doubt it, read that,” he added, throwing down on the table the marriage certificate.

Sir Andrew glanced at it for a second with a quivering lip, then sank upon the sofa, and groaned with the intense weight of agony oppressing him.

Like dutiful children Phillip and his wife approached and knelt before the astonished, half-petrified father, while the mother was in hysterics in the back ground.

“You needn’t ask any blessing from me,” swore Sir Richard, rising, and rudely shoving the couple from him. “Blessing! What next? Daughter! you have made a fool of yourself; and, as for you, Phillip, you have had my blessing already, and will continue to receive it every day of your existence. As, of course, you did not marry for money, and have plenty of your own, I should feel extremely obliged if you’d pay all you owe me, Mr. Redgill, and take yourself and your bride out of my house just as quickly as possible, for another meal neither of you will ever eat under my roof. John, show this gentleman to the door,” he added, putting on his hat, and rushing into the street.

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Chapter XXII

IN WHICH SIR ANDREW SUDDENLY TURNS VERY PIOUS—A STORMY MEETING.

The loss of the well-known vessels, “Racehorse” and “Eclipse,” and their destruction by the Skeleton Crew under Death-wing, was a serious blow to several gentlemen in the habit of daily attending on ’Change, and their countenances wore the marks of care and anxiety, for Mr. Redgill, senior, had drawn heavily on his friends in making his grand China speculation in silks and teas.

Old Moss the usurer was like one demented.

He was seen rushing from place to place, making all manner of inquiries regarding the “soundness” of the London Insurance Office, but his fears were dispelled by the universal good opinion which prevailed in commercial circles concerning it.

“Pooh! pooh, man!” was the general expression. “Sir Andrew is all right. Bless you, it is as safe as the bank. Why, that office is worth any amount of money!”

The executors of Mr. Redgill, senior, were not long, of course, in presenting their “policies” for adjustment at the insurance office.

But Sir Andrew was “out of town, and was not expected to return for several days; but upon his return all just claims would be settled,” said the clerk.

Mr. Moss, as one of those principally interested, felt comforted, and awaited Sir Andrew’s return with recomposed feelings, but hot impatience.

When the affairs of the “London Insurance Company” were examined commercial circles were greatly surprised to find it unable to meet the heavy loss which had unexpectedly fallen upon it by the wreck of the vessels, and that, far from being able to pay £500,000 to the estate of Mr. Redgill, deceased, it was not possessed of more than a fiftieth part of that sum.

In truth, at the time in which these events occurred, the latter part of the merry monarch’s reign, the London money market was in a very unsafe, unsettled condition, and commerce was trembling on the brink of ruin from inflated currency, wild speculation, and general distrust.

Leading men had predicted the inevitability of “a general smash” should things thus continue, yet none were, of course, able to divine in which direction the storm might first break out.

When it was known on ’Change, therefore, that Sir Andrew’s office was unable to meet its liabilities many raised their hands and eyes in wonder, and exclaimed—

“Who’d a believed it?”

This was poor consolation to old Moss the Jew, and other persons interested in the settlement of Mr. Redgill’s affairs.

With a stooping gait, shrivelled face and hands, old Moss journeyed to and fro in an undeniable state of despair, and was in such a rage that he ordered his agent to turn every poor devil out of his numerous tenements who had not paid every farthing of their rents.

Sitting in his lonely, dirty office, without fire, or comfort of any kind, he gathered himself into a heap in a large, old arm-chair, and looked like some wild animal in wait for its prey.

Hour after hour he there sat, thinking of the past, and cursing every one in any way connected with his losses.

He cursed both the living and the dead, with an earnestness and an enthusiasm which greatly relieved his pent-up feelings.

To such an extent had his loss preyed upon him, that his face had become like a livid corpse.

He stalked through his dusty, dingy offices like one possessed by the devil, and when an unfortunate servant poked in her head from the back room, to ask a question, Moss raised a heavy ledger with great energy, and threw it at her.

“So Sir Andrew has returned to town again, has he? Ha, ha! Oh, he’s a nice gentleman—the intended father-in-law of that young vagabond, Redgill, eh? I see the scheme! No wonder the insurance office couldn’t pay its lawful debts! I know what their plans are. I’ll go and see him. I will see him; he can’t fool me, old as I am. I’ll tell him what I think of him. I’ll have my money, or I’ll see why!” cursed old Moss, walking about like a maniac.

The furious old Jew put on his tattered overcoat, buttoned it up to the throat, and with a good thick stick in his hand, trudged off towards Sir Andrew’s residence.

The servant said his master was engaged, and could not be seen.

Mr. Moss would take no denial.

He would see him, and without further ceremony flourished his stick at the footman’s head, and made his way upstairs to the library.

As he stood at the door, he heard the sounds of several voices, high in oath and angry altercation.

He entered quietly, took a seat near the door, and, finding the gentlemen to be creditors like himself, soon took part in their grievances, and opened an extra broadside of abuse upon the unfortunate Sir Andrew McTurk.

Sir Andrew, in his easy chair, one leg over the other, played with his watch-chain and seals in the coolest manner imaginable.

This was one of those occasions in life which “try men’s souls,” and call forth their Christian virtues in bold relief against the revilings of an angry audience.

Sir Andrew’s resignation and Christian forbearance was extraordinary.

He even smiled, as one after another of Mr. Redgill’s creditors grew red in the face, struck the table, and told what they thought of him.

Old Moss, the Jew, was “sitting on thorns,” for he was very uneasy in his chair.

He at last arose, and, approaching the Christian and martyr-like Sir Andrew, he flourished his clenched fist in the face of that meek and smiling gentleman, and said,

“I’ll tell you what I think about you, Sir Andrew McTurk—you are a d—d rogue, sir! and the whole lot of you are a gang of thieves, and ought to be hung, if there was any justice in the world.”

With wonderful forbearance, Sir Andrew listened to all these personal compliments, but at last said, with much mildness,

“Really, gentlemen, I cannot understand all this! I owe you nothing; neither does the late company, of which I, unfortunately, was president. You had better present your claims to the executors of Mr. Redgill’s estate. They are the proper persons to whom you should apply. I have nothing to do with all this.

“The London Insurance Company certainly closed their doors very suddenly, but I was out of town at the time, and only heard of it by letter. We have had very extensive losses of late, but, had I any capital, it would have given me infinite pleasure to meet all claims—it would, I assure you!

“In truth, I make the humiliating confession to you, gentlemen, despite your angry and unjust accusations, that I, personally, have not one penny in the world!

“Were it not for some funds, which I cannot legally touch, owned by my wife’s sister—”

Mr. Moss groaned very audibly at the words “my wife’s sister.”

“On deposit at the South Sea Bank, we should not be worth a fraction, and would be all turned out into the streets!

“But, my dear friends, why do you come to me about these affairs? I have nothing to do with them.”

All this was said with a faint smile, which was like wormwood to all present.

Mr. Moss, who flounced about the apartment like a mad morris dancer, flourished his walking-stick, and said,

“The reason I come to see you, you sanctimonious old scoundrel, is to tell you what I think of you!

“Had you paid the insurance on those vessels, like honest men would have done, I and every other creditor would have been satisfied in full; but now we don’t get one penny!

“No, not a solitary farthing!

“And do you think I don’t know all about your scheme—eh, you smiling old villain?

“Don’t I know that young Redgill is going to be your son-in-law, eh? and that if you had paid the insurance, he wouldn’t lawfully come in for one penny?

“Do you think I don’t know all about it, you scheming scoundrel?”

Mr. Moss was bursting with rage.

This disclosure only tended to raise the ire of the other creditors, who became so furious and noisy that they crowded round poor Sir Andrew, gesticulating and cursing so that they reminded one of a pack of hungry and furious wolves.

Sir Andrew was placid as a lamb, and said not a word.

He played with his watch keys, and gazed at the fire, until, when his noisy visitors had departed, he smiled, and said,

“Well, let them howl as much as they like. I am all right—so that’s all that concerns me! It wasn’t a bad idea! They can’t touch the money of mine now which my wife placed to the account of her sister, for it is all in the name of a third party, and is taken for her own personalty. Who cares if others do lose? Why, if we had paid the policies, I shouldn’t be worth one penny! In fact, we couldn’t pay it. By closing doors we have ‘done’ them all, and saved ourselves! They may say what they please; ‘business is business,’ but let every one take care of themselves.”

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Chapter XXIII

MISERIES ACCUMULATE THICK AND FAST—FEARFUL SITUATION OF SON AND FATHER-IN-LAW.

Every one did take care of themselves.

No sooner had the news spread that the insurance office had closed up its business than a whole host of tradesmen sent in their “little bills,” and Sir Andrew’s residence was besieged with creditors.

In order to escape their annoyance and importunities it was resolved that the much-persecuted gentleman should make a sojourn in the country, by which time “the storm would have blown over.”

“How much money did you draw from the bank to-day on your sister’s account, wife?” asked old Sir Andrew, of his spouse, as they both sat before the parlour fire, talking of his intended journey.

“Five thousand pounds, my dear,” was the reply. “Thinking you would prefer it, and that it would be more safe, I drew it in a single package of notes. I went very early, and escaped much notice. Phillip Redgill is a clerk there, now, I see. The bank messenger brought the packet. It is in the safe.”

Evening had now closed in, and the parlour blinds were drawn.

A loud knock was heard at the door, and rudely shoving the servant out of the way, Phillip Redgill somewhat intoxicated, ushered himself without ceremony into the parlour.

“How often must I forbid you my house, Phillip Redgill?” Sir Andrew began, rising in fatherly majesty and wrath. “How often will you compel me to insult you, sir?

“You have been the cause of all my losses and humiliations, and I curse the hour I ever saw you.

“You have robbed me of my only daughter; you have repeatedly dishonoured that miserable old man, your late father; you have lost all honour yourself, and now you dishonour me.

“For the last time I tell you to be gone!

“Leave my house, sir, and never place foot in it again!

“My daughter is now yours——Be calm, my wife, and don’t interrupt me——You have clandestinely married her, contrary to my hopes and wishes, and now you must provide for her the best way you can.

“I have disowned her!

“She has married the poor, penniless beggar, forger, and blackleg, as you are, sir, and no longer has any claims on me.

“You are a beggar, yourself, and a blackleg, a scoundrel, I repeat; but don’t imagine for one moment you will ever receive a penny of mine—no, not a farthing. Go!”

“Dishonoured you, you old scoundrel!” Phillip began, laughing and grinning, “dishonoured you? Why, it is you who have dishonoured me! Why don’t you pay the insurance policies on my father’s ships, you old rascal? If you were to do so all the debts would be paid, and to the utmost fraction; but you managed to fail, did you? Well, your turn will come one of these days.

“I do not come, sir, to ask from you anything for myself. I would scorn to receive a penny from your miserly dishonest hands, but I come to demand from you, in the name of my wife, the £5,000 which you hold that belongs to her, as her aunt’s legacy; this is my business with you, sir, and I shall not stir until you pay it.”

“You won’t, eh?” said Sir Andrew, rising. “I suppose you saw my wife drawing from the bank this morning, as you are a clerk there now, and thought it a proper time to come and bully me, eh? No, no,” said the old man, opening a small safe and taking the packet of notes therefrom, “no, no, I am penniless. I am a ruined man, and all through you, Phillip, I haven’t a penny of my own now. I am totally dependent on my wife. I am a beggar, and can pay no one. You needn’t trouble yourself by calling again, sir; I shall be out of town for several months. This, sir, flourishing the packet of notes, this sum, sir, is all I can now call my own, and part of it is my travelling expenses.”

He placed the notes upon the table, saying,

“This miserable sum is all I can now call my own. Tell your be-lov-ed wife, sir, that when my affairs are a little settled, and I can see my way clear, I will, perhaps, pay her aunt’s legacy; but even, in that case, she must call for it herself, for I wouldn’t trust you, Phillip Redgill, with a penny piece.”

“You will not pay her then, eh? you old villain,” said Phillip, intently eyeing the old man, who was undoing the packet of notes. “Well, then, I’ll take it,” said he.

Rushing towards the table, he nearly succeeded in seizing the packet, but the old man’s hold upon it was so firm and tiger-like, that Phillip was unable to do so.

In the scuffle which ensued, the packet fell to the ground, and the notes were strewn about in all directions; but, to the horror of both parties, it was not a package of bank notes, but nought else than a package of bank scrip given in mistake!

This sudden discovery startled both father, mother, and son.

They stood looking at the bank scrip as if in a dream!

Sir Andrew sank in his chair, hiding his face with his hands.

“There is roguery and robbery on every side,” said he, in a husky voice. “That packet came from the South Sea Bank, Mr. Redgill, and should have contained bank notes.

“There is some one about that establishment who is a deep-dyed scoundrel! You have succeeded in getting a situation there lately, I hear,” said the old man with fiery eyes, “and perhaps you might guess his name, sir,!” he added, rising, and looking Phillip full in the face.

“When the bank opens in the morning, I shall inform the directors of this beautiful little trick, and seek redress. So you have imitated Charley Warbeck’s knavery already, eh, sir, I find? You will live to repent it.”

“It will avail you little to tell the bank of your suspicions, old man,” Phillip answered, with a triumphant scowling look, “for I beg leave to inform you that the South Sea Bank, of which I am a clerk, suspended payment at three o’clock this afternoon! Their notes are exactly worth nothing!”

Sir Andrew convulsively clasped his temples; his limbs trembled under him, and he sank upon the sofa, like an inanimate heap of humanity.

He groaned despairingly, and most furiously gave vent to his Christian feelings in a volley of oaths.

His wife, in tears, was kneeling by his side, and would fain console him.

Phillip Redgill, demon-like, and laughing, stalked forth into the street again, triumphant and beggared, yet a villain to the heart’s core!

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Chapter XXIV

CHARLEY WARBECK’S FRIENDS—PRISON LIFE—TRUE LOVE—THE SURPRISE AND PARDON.

Mr. Charles Warbeck had now been in confinement for more than three months, and even had become more or less reconciled to his lot.

His luxuriant head of hair was cropped so closely, according to “regulations,” by the prison barber that very little capillary substance was left upon his cranium, which now looked very much like a close-worn blacking-brush.

His highly-prized bit of whisker, upon which he had bestowed so much fondness and care—his moustacheos, also, which, with the aid of unguent, much combing, brushing, and Hungarian paste, had assumed of yore quite a fierce and military twist—were all now sacrificed to the barbarous razor.

And shorn of these hirsute charms, he felt very little sorrow or humiliation when vested and officially enrobed in the zebra-like suit of striped flannel jacket and trousers, which was the apparel of the prison.

Although by no means a rogue, he was herded with a gang of ruffians, murderers, swindlers, pickpockets and the very off-scourings of all the earth.

And such society, it must be confessed, was a much greater punishment to his sensitive feelings than the confinement, remorse, or a thousand inconveniences and annoyances to which he was daily and hourly subjected.

Had he been of pliant nature he might soon have become as utterly depraved as his companions.

But his demeanour was so gentle, his manner so mild, and general deportment so humble and resigned, that the prison authorities soon removed him from the bands of ruffians with whom he had hitherto laboured in the quarries and on the public roads.

He seldom spoke, and although there was a mild resignation in his looks and bearing, his eyes had a light of honest independence about them, and his voice a firmness of tone which told of a guiltless soul suffering from some chance misfortune over which, in a moment of temptation, it had not sufficient control.

The prison keepers and guards were unanimous in pronouncing his conduct “excellent,” and so stated it upon their several day-books and weekly reports.

The chaplain, indeed, with whom Charley had as frequent interviews as could be allowed, was loud in his praises of the gentlemanly prisoner, and when Charles had confessed to him, in conversation, the whole story of his misdemeanour, he shook him by the hand, and said,

“I fully understand the whole case; it was a pity.”

“And yet,” he added, “although paying the penalty of what might not be considered actually a theft, since you had fully determined to deliver the packet, this, your present experience, may be of incalculable good to you for your whole life.”

Good old Dame Worthington was a frequent visitor to see “her dear boy,” and was always provided with a basket of considerable size, containing a plentiful supply of whatever the authorities would permit to prisoners.

Not unfrequently, also, Miss Clara took the same journey, sometimes with Dame Worthington, but more often alone, for the distance was not very great, so that she could go and return very easily in a few hours.

The interviews between Charles and Dame Worthington were of a painful description to both.

Sometimes old Sir Richard was present likewise, by “mere accident,” as he said.

They were loud in their hopes of obtaining a pardon from the king.

With the prospect of speedy relief Charley’s spirits rose, and his health began to improve so much that he soon acquired a strong, hardy, robust look, from wholesome hard labour, a good appetite, and a pure conscience.

His hair began to grow again, and curl as luxuriantly as ever.

Miss Clara was in raptures at his improved appearance, and seemed so lost in his company that she frequently came very near losing her conveyance, which would have been not only very annoying, but must have disclosed these frequent visits to her mother.

Mistress Haylark, in truth, often checked her daughter’s eloquence when discoursing of Charles and reminded her in a whisper that he was a “convict,” and that “it would not do to have anything to say, or even to know such a person.”

“Besides, my dear, you have good prospects in life, and money to receive when you marry; but if your ambition doesn’t run higher than to love a penniless fellow like him, without character or prospects, why then you are not ‘a Haylark,’ that’s all I can say about it.”

Despite all that could be said by her mother to the contrary, Clara was constantly thinking and dreaming about Charles.

She had committed a grievous theft, and stole his likeness on ivory from Dame Worthington’s back parlour, and having made a case for it, hung it round her neck inside her bosom, and whenever feeling particular sentimental, she would draw it forth, kiss it, put it back again, and then indulge in that inexpensive luxury known to females as “a good cry!”

Miss Clara had fully made up her mind to marry Charles when he came forth from prison—that is, if she could get him.

But upon that point she sometimes had very serious misgivings.

For she knew several young ladies in the neighbourhood, who in former times were “setting their caps” at him.

Such disagreeable reflections often threw her into fits of despondency, and on such occasions no one could prevail upon her to sing or play in the parlour, as was her custom of an evening.

And she had been known to flounce out of that apartment in high dudgeon, on one occasion, when someone had mentioned the name of Miss Josephine Smith, who lived next door, and enjoyed a great reputation for a pretty figure, and a graceful dancer—two things in which Clara innocently supposed herself to be greatly deficient.

On a particular afternoon, Miss Clara had been excruciatingly miserable, and knew not the reasons why.

When twilight came she went into the parlour and uncovered the harp, with the intention of playing some pathetic air by way of consolation; but, upon entering the apartment, she perceived Dame Worthington and old Sir Richard Warbeck in earnest conversation in the back parlour, and Charles’s name being mentioned, Clara leaned against the half-opened folding doors and listened.

“Well, I know that the affectionate little Dolly likes him, as much as any girl ever could do, but I don’t think he cares so much about her, perhaps,” said the old dame.

“Say no more about it; if he makes a judicious match I will assist him in the world; but as to mere ’curls, and ‘harp playing,’ and all that superficial nonsense, I know he has an ambition above all that. The girl he carries in his heart has greater qualifications than these, or I am much mistaken, I know the lady he admires most, and she doesn’t live more than a hundred miles from this house,” Sir Richard said.

Clara Haylark could hear no more; she rushed from the apartment in despair. The die was cast! Charles was lost for ever!

For several days she kept her rooms, and could not be prevailed upon, despite all importunities, to appear in the parlour after tea.

No one could assign a cause for her absence, and a certain Augustus Fumbleton, Esq., who was hopelessly paying his addresses to her under the secret auspices of her mother, called evening after evening without seeing his idol on the music-stool, and retired to his cold and lonely lodgings in meek resignation, luxuriating in melancholy madness, yet feeling an intense dismal satisfaction that he could truthfully report to his intended mother-in-law that he was daily decreasing in rotundity, and fast falling into a galloping fashionable decline!

* * * * *

Charles, who, in his legal seclusion, far from all temptation and the frivolities of the world, knew comparatively nothing of what was passing within the sphere of the good old dame’s respectable hotel, was much surprised at the altered language in which Miss Clara now addressed him, and could not divine the causes therefore.

Clara’s notes, which formerly were full of hope, love, fidelity, and all the tender and most interesting passions, now pictured to him nought but her bleak and blank despair.

She told him she was “lost.”

That all she wished for now in this sublunary world was “a quiet grave,” where, of course, moss-roses, violets, and forget-me-nots might bloom.

But of aught else she had neither hopes nor expectations.

She told him, moreover, that her heart was broken, and intimated that nought on earth could mend it, or join the dissevered parts anew, &c.

Finally she said his heart was given to another, and that she was left alone to droop and die!

Surprised beyond measure at the change in her style of language, Charley Warbeck chafed exceedingly, and could not understand what had happened to cause a rupture between his “little curly head,” as he jocosely termed her, and himself.

Surely no one could have divined the temporary passion which had inflamed him for the old gaoler’s daughter, he thought; and save this slight indiscretion, his heart had not strayed from the affectionate, unsophisticated Clara!

Until now, he knew not how much he had loved her!

Now, indeed, his passion began to flame with tenfold ardour; and when she no longer visited him in prison as of yore, and sent no word of love or kindness by the much-expected and long looked-for post, he begun to decline in health, and visibly to pine.

“Some enemy has been at work,” thought he.

“I would give untold wealth to have this thing explained! A more true-hearted girl never breathed the breath of life, and I would give ten thousand kingdoms to call her mine!

“She has been faithful to me in all my adversity.

“She, of all I ever knew, is the only one who does not despise me.

“If I live I will make her my wife, or else have none at all, if I could even exist for a thousand years.”

Dame Worthington, and also Sir Richard, visited the prisoner as of yore. They abated nothing of their former kindness—if anything, they loved him all the more—yet Charley’s health visibly declined, nor could his friends imagine the cause thereof.

Mental anxiety had laid him upon an hospital bed, and there he lay for many days.

The good doctor had watched his case with more than ordinary anxiety and care.

When making his usual “rounds” to the patients, he came laughingly to Charley’s bedside one morning, and jocosely observed, as he passed on, “I will not prescribe for this case to-day,” and placed in his patient’s hands the King’s pardon!

Surprised beyond measure, Charles read the document time after time, as if distrustful of his senses, and then begged permission to leave the prison walls immediately!

The good doctor smiled, and at last permitted it; and Charles, weak, pale, and subdued in spirit, put on his best clothes, and was soon on his way to Dame Worthington’s.

It was past the time for dinner.

He saw by the light in the parlour that some one was there!

The door stood ajar.

He went into the passage, and noiselessly entered the parlour!

At the harp sat Clara, and behind her Augustus Fumbleton, Esq., who was pressing her to sing.

She hesitated much, and begged to be excused.

As there were no other persons present, her beau impudently attempted to kiss the player.

But this was more than Charley could bear.

He quietly advanced, knocked Fumbleton aside, and kissed her himself!

Clara’s surprise was great!

She gave a little scream, rose from the music-stool, and embraced Charles unreservedly.

Fumbleton, Esq., perceived at a glance that he was not at all wanted, and considerably “out of place.”

Like a wise youth, he vacated the apartment very expeditiously, and was never seen here more!

It was some moments ere Miss Clara was released from the strong arms of Mr. Charles, and even then he seemed much loth to part with the mass of curls which had nestled so affectionately and confidingly around his neck.

But her little scream had been heard by Mistress Haylark, who, in maternal anxiety for her fair, accomplished, and only child, quickly arrived upon the scene, puffing and blowing, and, discovering the true state of things, gave a second edition of her daughter’s little scream, and sank upon the capacious sofa completely exhausted with her efforts.

Dame Worthington, hearing the rumpus, came into the room.

She looked at the youth for one moment, and would have fainted, but Charley supported her.

After much kissing and hugging, and re-kissing and re-hugging, she fully recovered, and began laughing and crying and bustling about, preparing a substantial meal for “her boy.”

And so the time passed, until a messenger having informed old Sir Richard of the course of events, that worthy and much-esteemed gentleman arrived.

He shook Charles cordially by the hand, and retired for a private chat with Dame Worthington in the back parlor, where—as Mistress Haylark often afterwards solemnly affirmed—he was observed through the keyhole to kiss and embrace her as affectionately as if he were a youth of twenty, and she of not more than sixteen summers.

Be that as it may, we only know, through the “Truthful Chronicle,” that the evening passed extremely cheerful, and that all those acquainted with the true state of things drank more than one glass of wine to Charley’s success; that Dame Worthington wept and embraced him often and often; that old Sir Richard shook him repeatedly by the hand, and that Clara Haylark was more than once called out of the room by a whisper from the servant, when Charley waylaid and kissed her so often as to seriously jeopardize the safety of her cherry and seductively pouting lips.

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Chapter XXV

WILDFIRE NED AND MASTER TIM FALL INTO A VERY SERIOUS TRAP—THE INNKEEPER’S GREAT GENEROSITY—THE SECRET MINE—THE BULLET-PROOF STRANGER—THE “HAUNTED HOUSE.”

The news of Wildfire Ned’s first exploit on sea was soon the talk of the whole country.

So much mischief, and such dreadful depredations, had been committed by Death-wing’s ruthless band, that it was considered impossible that any crew, however well manned, could withstand them.

Wildfire Ned, however, had proved how silly this idea was, for during his first battle on the water he had everywhere wished to meet Death-wing, the grim chief, in mortal combat, but as often was he disappointed.

However, the Phantom Ship, one of those which the Skeleton Crew possessed, had quickly succumbed to Ned Warbeck’s prowess, and the crew, at least for the present, scattered to the four winds of heaven.

Ned Warbeck and his faithful Tim would have continued to cruise with the brave Lieutenant Garnet, but Ned was ordered to London to report in person to the king and to the board of merchants regarding Death-wing’s band.

As he heard also of Phillip Redgill’s villainy and of his brother Charley’s disgrace and misfortune, this spurred him on all the more to reach London quickly, so that he might inquire into the whole affair himself.

He swore to be revenged on Phillip, and was burning with impatience to reach his journey’s end, that he might disclose to Sir Richard Warbeck all he had learned from Bob Bertram about the old farmer’s murder.

Through sunshine and shower, therefore, Ned and Tim journeyed from Walton Abbey, on two capital steeds which the grateful marquis and the young lord had placed at their disposal.

Through the rain, sleet, and snow they journeyed, as fast as horseflesh would carry them, and among other eccentricities, in order to surprise and astonish the simple country folk, and in awful dread of again being recognised by any stray member of the Skeleton Crew or Sea Hawk’s smugglers, Master Tim blacked his face, and wore semi-theatrical attire, much to Ned Warbeck’s amusement.

* * * * *

It had just struck eleven by the parish clock when the inmates of an inn in a small town in the south of England were disturbed by a sudden clattering of hoofs on the pavement, and presently after by a loud knocking at the door.

“Who in the world can that be?” cried the sexton, aroused from a comfortable nap, “the devil a bit would I open the door at this time of night; for it must be the Old One himself, or Death-wing, chief of the Skeleton Crew, to weather such a storm. Why, the rain falls fast enough to drown a horse, and the wind would blow a millstone to London. I say,” addressing himself to the landlord, “don’t you open that door upon no account! We might——”

Here he was interrupted by another forcible appeal to the knocker, which made the glasses and cans rattle on the table.

The sexton, rubbing his eyes, shook with fear, while the host hobbled to the door as fast as his extreme corpulency would allow him.

“Who’s there?” cried he, with a voice which would not have disgraced a sentinel giving the challenge.

“Who’s there, and what’s your business?”

“A shelter for the night,” was the answer from without.

“That’s impossible; all my beds are taken, and my house is full.”

“A corner in your hay-loft, or in the stable, will be enough. Open the door, for goodness’ sake, and you shall be rewarded for your trouble.”

At the word “reward” the landlord unfastened the bolts of the doors and cast a keen glance on his nightly visitor.

“A wet night, this,” said he, opening the door wide.

“Ah, so it be, master,” answered a third person, whom the landlord had not yet discovered.

“You are not alone, sir traveller, it seems,” said the landlord.

“It is only my servant,” replied the young gentleman, entering, and shaking a broad-brimmed hat, dripping with wet.

At the same time he bade his servant lead the horse to an adjoining shed, the landlord’s stable being fully occupied.

It was none other than Wildfire Ned and Tim, on their way to London.

He then unclasped his cloak, which he threw upon a bench.

He was dressed in the uniform of a lieutenant in the navy.

The sexton, relaxing from his former harshness, invited the young officer to approach the fire, around which were seated five or six persons, whose uninteresting appearance requires but a few words.

The most conspicuous amongst the group was the landlady, a short, fat, buxom dame on the wrong side of forty, who might have been considered considerably handsome but for a small pair of twinkling eyes, disproportionate to the rest of her features.

At her right was seated the sexton.

A jolly, stout fellow, whose fiery face attested his devotedness to old Plymouth rum or nut-brown ale.

Next came the blacksmith of the parish, whose black leathern apron, spread over his knees, served as a screen for the landlady.

Not much could be seen of the others, who were seated in the background.

But they seemed to be pot companions of the blacksmith, with whom they were in earnest conversation.

Such was the party among whom the young officer found himself seated. To all their questions he was mute, or gave a short, evasive answer.

A few moments had elapsed when he received from the landlord a tumbler of hot rum and water, which he had ordered on entering.

To this he joined a few slices of old English beef, with a round or two of the landlady’s home-made bread.

Feeling himself more comfortable, both as to his inward and outward man, he was disposed to enter into conversation, which he had hitherto avoided.

“May I ask you,” said the landlady, observing him listening to the quaint jokes of the sexton, who was the oracle of the parish, “may I ask you—mean no offence, your honour—what brought you out here in this hurricane?”

“Why, my good woman,” replied the young officer, “I will not be deceitful enough to say that I came out on purpose to see you. I went, you must know, to see some friends, but, returning to my uncle’s home, the darkness of the night made me lose my way, and here I am, but where I know not.”

“Among friends, I hope,” cried the sexton, offering him at the same time a drink from the tankard.

He was in the act of putting it to his lips, when the young officer’s servant entered by the back-door with his horse-cloth strapped over his head.

“Well, Tim,” said his master, “I suppose you are in want of something to warm you? What will you take?”

“You are very kind, Master Ned; I’ll take whisky—what you know I always takes when I be cold.”

He flung the horse-cloth aside, and discovered to the inmates his grinning countenance, which he had blackened.

“Lawd-a’-mercy ’pon us!” exclaimed the landlady, “is that your servant, sir?—mean no offence, your honour, only he’s rather ugly; he may be a good servant for all that, though,” said she.

“Yes; and a faithful one, too,” replied Ned, his master, laughing and telling a fib. “I brought him over from the West Indies with me about five years ago, and he has never left me since, not even in the midst of danger.”

“I believe you,” vociferated the murky blacksmith; “black persons are generally faithful.”

Ned Warbeck could not repress a smile, and ordered in some refreshment for Tim, who, without any ceremony, seated himself on a three-legged stool by the side of Ned, his master, the others willingly making room for him.

His ivory grinders were soon at work, and the whisky flask in a short time was emptied of its contents.

He had scarcely ended when Ned, feeling weary, requested the landlord to show him to a place of rest for the night.

“Willingly, sir,” said the landlord; “but I am hearty sorry I cannot give you a bed, for, d’ye see, we’ve got several farmers who’ve been to the fair near by, and they’re rum sort of chaps, who wouldn’t stir an inch for anyone; free and easy, sir. I will, as you observed, give you a place in the hay-loft, where you must put up for to-night with a truss of hay for your pillow.”

“Good enough,” replied the young officer; “I’ve often had a worse bed than that. Come along, Tim, my boy; make ready, and to the right about—march!”

“A thought strikes me,” replied the landlord, “but I dare not propose it.”

“What is it? Speak out,” said Ned.

“Well, sir, I have at some distance from here another house, which I’ve had to let for these ten years, but nobody will live there, because they say as how it’s ‘haunted,’ though I’ve been in it several times myself in the day, and I have never seen anything.”

“But I have, though,” bawled out the sexton. “’Twas but the other night, as I was coming from the veterinary surgeon, and as I passed by your house yonder, I sees a light in your top room, and a large hand stretching out o’ the window, that gived the shutter such a slap. I trembles now at the bare idea of it, and if that there young gemman takes my advice he’d better sleep in the hay-loft. Nothing will disturb him there.”

“I thank you,” said Ned, “for warning me of the dangers I may have to encounter; but I have always been fond of singular adventures, and as this promises to be one of uncommon attraction, if the landlord will lead the way, I am ready to spend the night in the ‘haunted mansion.’”

“Amen,” said the sexton, “one bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. ‘Drink deep, and snore deep,’ that’s my motto, and for my own part I would rather sleep quietly here than run the risk of being murdered, slaughtered, or Heaven knows what, by ghosts or the Skeleton Crew.”

“Not so with me,” said the dauntless son of Neptune, dropping at the same time a purse into the landlord’s hands, “at all events, if I don’t return, ’twill be but a job for you, Mr. Sexton,” said he, with an arch look. “My servant Tim may stay here if he likes, and I will take him up, on my way home to-morrow morning, if hobgoblins don’t eat me up before.”

“I’ll not stay here, Master Ned, but go with you. I never saw a ghost, and would very much like to see one,” said Tim with a grin.

“Well, my boy, your wish shall be gratified; go and fetch the pistols out of the holsters, which, with another trusty friend I have here (striking at the same time on the hilt of his sword, which was lying on the bench) will give them a warm reception should they wish to annoy us.”

Ned and Tim were soon ready.

In the meantime the landlord prepared a bottle of brandy, some pipes and tobacco, which he put in a large bag, and slung over his shoulder.

“We will all go and see you safely in,” said the inmates, “but you must excuse us if we don’t share the dangers with you. We’ve had enough of ghosts and skeletons in our time about here.”

“Oh, certainly,” was Ned’s careless answer, “much obliged to you for your kind offer.”

All was ready, and Tim had just returned with the pistols, upon which, the whole party having bid good-night to the landlady, sallied forth about half-past twelve.

The rain had not entirely ceased, and the night, to use the sexton’s expression, was dark as the parish vaults.

The landlord walked first with a huge lantern, the reflection of which upon the wet stones formed a striking contrast with the surrounding objects.

After him came Ned Warbeck, between the sexton and the blacksmith.

Tim brought up the rear with the rest of the party.

They having arrived at the “haunted house,” the landlord soon applied to the door a key of vast dimensions.

It creaked on its hinges, with a harsh noise, as if forboding some calamity.

They all went up a few steps, looking cautiously around them, and came at last to a small apartment on the first floor.

This was to be the scene of action.

The landlord in a moment raised a sparkling flame on the hearth, and placed a table near it, with the refreshments already described upon it.

After having made his guests as comfortable as the place would allow, the host departed with his companions.

The young officer let them out with strict injunctions to the landlord to take great care of his horses; then, shutting the door, he put the key in his pocket, and prepared himself to meet with courage whatever might happen.

Young midshipman (or as he now was Lieutenant) Ned’s first step was to search the apartment.

But all his own and Master Tim’s endeavours to find an intruder were useless.

Three cupboards were divested of their contents, and the old tapestry, which served as wainscoting, was lifted up.

But all to no purpose.

They then proceeded to the room above, which underwent the same examination.

They looked into every corner likely to conceal a man.

Finally, tired of a fruitless search, they returned to the comforts of their own fireside.

But judge of their astonishment at finding the candle removed from its place, and also extinguished!!

After a short pause, however, Ned attributed it to the wind which arose from the opening or shutting of the door.

Ned Warbeck remembered the candle before he left the room again, not wishing, he said, to leave two such irreconcilable enemies near one another in their absence; meaning the brandy-bottle and candle. Satisfied that nothing could now disturb them, Ned took a seat near the fire, and desired Tim to do the same, who, nothing loth, obeyed the mandate.

He drew the cork from the bottle, and loaded his pipe.

His master, for greater safety, examined the primings of the pistols, and, giving them a fresh supply from the powder-horn, laid them on the table by the side of his naked sword.

This done, they both agreed to try and keep awake, for which purpose they each took a draught from the brandy bottle, and trimming their pipes, began smoking at a tremendous rate.

Now and then laying these aside they relapsed into a friendly, humorous chat, till, overcome by the fatigues of the day, Ned at last showed symptoms of drowsiness, which soon communicating to Tim, they eventually sunk in their chairs overpowered by sleep.

They had not been long in this position when Wildfire Ned starting from his slumber, thought he heard a distant rattling of chains!

His first impulse was to seize a pistol, and then to listen more attentively to the sound.

All was silent for a short time, and Ned was induced to think he was labouring under the effects of a dream.

He was half disposed to resume his seat, when he was again startled by the same noise, which this time seemed much nearer.

Surprised but not alarmed, he gave Tim a hearty shake to awake him, and beckoned him to take up the remaining pistol.

He himself seized the sword, which he replaced in the scabbard and girt to his side.

They now distinctly heard footsteps.

A moment after, they saw in a corner of the room the shadow of a tall man!

Tim drew near to Ned Warbeck, his master, and silently pointed to this apparition, which now seemed to have stopped!

They were not left long in this suspense.

The figure advancing, stalked into the room and stood motionless at the further end.

It seemed to be about seven feet in height and was clothed in a loose red robe, which came to its heels and concealed the feet.

The head-dress was composed of a large steel cap which covered the whole face.

A thick chain encircled the body and hung to the ground.

“Advance not an inch further,” exclaimed Ned bravely, “or I will kill you dead on the spot.”

“I too,” said Tim, resolved not to be behind-hand, “we will drive two bullets through your gizzard if you’ll not be off,” said Tim, bravely.

These threats had not the desired effect.

The figure began to march towards them as if regardless of their presence.

Tim and young Warbeck fired at once.

At the report of the fire-arms, the figure stopped once more, and, by a significant nod of the head, invited Ned to come towards him.

Excited by this extraordinary circumstance, Ned drew his sword, and determined to run all hazards to see where it would end.

He gave the pistols to Tim, with orders to load them, and walked fearlessly up to the figure, which, turning on its heels, took the direction it came in by!

Tim, though fond of his young master, followed reluctantly.

“For,” as he was heard to say afterwards, “he was sure it was a skeleton, and bullet proof, as he had never yet missed his aim, and that had he been the devil himself he would have brought him down.”

They proceeded for a considerable time through a dark hall, which must have had a secret door that had escaped their observation, since, in their search above mentioned, they had seen nothing of the kind.

Suddenly, at the end of the hall, which gradually became lighter, the figure disappeared, and Ned Warbeck, with his servant, Tim, felt the floor give way under them, and soon perceived they were descending at a rapid rate by the means of some invisible machine!

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XXVI. MR. PHILLIP’S MARRIED LIFE

All Mr. Redgill’s calculations for worldly prosperity had hitherto proved untrue.

Disappointed in his father’s affairs, he had married wholly and solely for mere consideration of money.

But the smashing of Sir Andrew’s offices, and of the South Sea Bank, in the general monetary “crash” which had suddenly and unexpectedly come upon all the banks, had found him bereft of nearly every friend, with no money, little credit, and a very gaily-inclined wife to support.

Sir Andrew and lady had retired to their little country house to reside, where they expected to be somewhat relieved from the importunities of creditors.

And thus Mr. Redgill was left alone in his glory on the scene of his bygone triumphs.

He knew not in which way to move to gain an income commensurate with his habits and his wants.

An ordinary young man would have sought out and taken his spouse to modest lodgings, the rates and expenses of which he might reasonably expect to meet and readily defray.

Such economical ideas did not coincide with Phillip’s practice and proverbial philosophy.

He boldly drove up to a first-class hotel, and, with the air of a millionaire, selected elegant apartments, but without the remotest idea as to when of how he should be able to pay for them.

He dined sumptuously every day, and drank expensive wines.

He smoked the very best cigars.

Found fault almost with everything, bullied and harassed the servants beyond human endurance.

He strutted or lounged about, picking his teeth, and ogling the ladies with all the airs and manners of an unlimitedly-credited ambassador or Nabob.

By borrowing money from former associates and acquaintance, but more with the manner of one who was conferring a favour rather than begging one, he contrived to meet incidental expenses, and played cards, and attended bear baitings with his former elegant manners, but very adroitly contrived to postpone the adjustment of all bills presented to him.

After two months’ residence at the hotel the polite and gentlemanly proprietor presented his bill, and hinted at the desirability of payment.

Phillip Redgill, Esq., towered into a fearful rage, strutted about, spoke of his “honour,” credit and family, and left the hotel that same day, telling the proprietor in an indifferent, but tragic manner, to send in his bill to the “St. Charles Hotel,” where he intended for the future to reside, intimating in a mildly ferocious style that did he consider the proprietor to be a “gentleman” he should feel no hesitation or compunction of conscience in treating him to an ordeal of fire, ball, and brimstone over in Battersea, or in the secluded Wormwood Scrubbs.

By such method of procedure Mr. Redgill and his “lady” lived for several months during Charley Warbeck’s incarceration, and all he did when bills were presented was to find fault, fall into a violent passion, and go elsewhere, or anywhere where his name or appearance would admit or credit him.

Everything has an end, and so had Redgill’s braggadocio and credit.

For the sake of past memories few would trouble his own personal effects for debt; but at last he had fallen so low in the social scale that he deserted the hotels, and sought accommodations for himself and wife in private lodgings.

He “hated the noise and bustle of hotels and public thoroughfares,” he said.

“Retirement and quiet suited him best.”

So that although he frequented card rooms and the like, little altered from his former style of dress and manner, his “whereabouts” were a mystery to all.

Nor could the most urgent importunities make him disclose his lodgings.

How he maintained himself no one was bold enough to inquire.

He was frequently seen in the company of rich young men desirous of seeing and being initiated into the mysteries of the town.

Many said, or rather whispered, that Phillip was nothing better than a card “sharper” and general blackleg.

These, of course, were only very distant rumours.

None were bold enough to publicly retail such reports for fear of Phillip’s ungovernable anger, and his frequent allusions to the number of men he had “stabbed” or shot in his brief career upon the town.

Certain it is, Mr. Redgill was more frequently seen handling cards than his prayer book, and a thousand times to one oftener seen in the bear gardens than in church, and, as officers will occasionally talk, Redgill was styled in general terms as “a man about town” “who knew a thing or two,” and “could generally in the season average £20 per night” at cards.

Whatever his “averages” might be, it is in point blank evidence that he gave his wife but little—nay, very little.

What with general neglect, harsh words, frequent blows, and general ruffianism, poor Fanny led but an unamiable life, and frequently begged for death as a release from her sufferings.

Sir Andrew’s visits to the City were few and far between.

Whenever he “ran up” by coach, he passed through the streets in a shadowy manner, without the slightest ambition, apparently, to be recognized by any of his former friends.

He was an “unsuccessful man,” and had involved many in losses with that of his own.

Hence, for the sake of peace and quiet, he adopted every little expedient of which he was master to shun his many creditors and acquaintance.

“I have secured my little country-house from the wreck of all my bygone wealth,” he sometimes would say; “let me live in peace.”

The “retired” gentleman need not have had recourse to any stratagem to avoid those who once had known him.

His present appearance was so altered, he had become so thin and cadaverous, and his attire withal was so “seedy” and out of fashion, that few would ever have recognized in him the spruce and scrupulously-attired Sir Andrew McTurk of former days, who could boast of having taken “risk” for almost fabulous sums.

It was not the welfare of his only daughter Fanny, or of Phillip Redgill, his promising son in-law, which occasioned his visits to town.

He hated both of them so intensely that he could not mention them without plunging himself into a fearful rage and stammering out a volley of oaths.

His real motive was pure infatuation—to see if there was any earthly prospect of beginning business again, in some shape or form.

City life had become so necessary to his existence that he seemed to loath the green fields and meadows, and sighed to be once more in the dusty streets round about the Exchange, or up in offices again, handling paper or counting gold.

Old as he was, and far past the meridian of life, the ruling passion for money was still strong in him.

Little temptation, perhaps, would have been requisite to prompt him again to nefarious deeds should the “chance” present itself.

Phillip’s wife had casually heard of these visits of her father to the City, and sought every opportunity to see him.

She did not desire assistance, but wished to beg his forgiveness for what she had done, and resolved that if he still betrayed any affection for her, she would beg of him to take her to his home, far from the City, and far from the ill-treatment and brutality of Phillip her husband, whose daily and increasing unkindness and neglect were killing her.

While in waiting for her father, at the corner of St. Paul’s churchyard, Phillip met her.

Being partly intoxicated, he abused her in unmeasured terms, and bade her go home instantly, at the same time irreparably wounding her womanly pride by inhuman epithets and accusations.

In tears she stood in the public street, leaning against a lamp-post for support, when who should pass at the moment but Augustus Fumbleton, Esq., who, in despair at his loss of the captivating Miss Clara, had been consoling himself with a serene contemplation of the numerous tombstones in the churchyard, near the railings of which Mrs. Phillip Redgill stood sobbing.

Fumbleton addressed the afflicted lady in a very respectful manner, and proffered to assist her home.

His gallantry and amiability so won upon Fanny, that she sobbingly consented, and he was generous enough to call a conveyance, and saw her safely to her own door.

A few days subsequent to this incident, Redgill and Charley Warbeck met near the Exchange.

The former waited until the latter had passed into a bye street, when he accosted him.

Phillip’s manner was so cordial and hearty, as fully to disarm all suspicions which Charley might have formed of him.

Phillip “was intensely sorry” to hear of his misfortune, and swore roundly that he had been the first to petition the king for his pardon and release, and that “the chief judge had said to him” and “he had said to the chief judge” &c., so that Charles began to imagine Phillip was a very “good fellow” and not so bad as he had imagined.

Phillip knew perfectly well where Charles lived and promised to call, particularly when young Warbeck casually remarked that there were apartments vacant which Dame Worthington desired to let to a man and wife without family.

The interview concluded by Redgill asking Charley to take some brandy, and begging the loan of “five pounds for a day or two,” a request which Charley was not foolish enough to grant him.

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XXVII. THE MATRIMONIAL PROSPECTS OF MISS CLARA

The sudden and unexpected return of Charles from prison, and the unmistakable tokens of affection he had shown to Miss Clara since his abrupt appearance in the parlour, and the unceremonious departure of Augustus Fumbleton, Esq., had so weighed upon the tender and susceptible feelings of that young lady, that she was somewhat bewildered and in a maze of delightful torment.

She could scarcely be said to be of sound mind, for her imagination was uncontrollable, and she gave herself away wildly to day dreams.

She was deeply in love but would not confess it, yet, as Charles had never declared his passion, she began to doubt if his apparent fondness was genuine, and whether it might not dwindle away into mere flirtation.

She paid particular attention to her toilet, and resorted to every means in her power to dispel the sorrow, care, and anxiety which of late had possessed him, and made his face so pale, careworn, and sad.

She played and sang more charmingly than ever, and always selected the most lively airs.

Yet all her gaiety seemed to have no power over him.

She began to imagine that Miss Josephine Smith next door, or some unknown lady, had snatched him from her, and that both Dame Worthington and Sir Richard Warbeck were fully cognizant of the fact.

The result of all her imaginings tended to make Clara languid in manner and much depressed in spirit.

She began to look upon the good old dame with distrust, and seldom spoke to any one.

Her appearance in the parlour was seldom.

She had no taste or inclination for gay society, and sought retirement.

Mistress Haylark had watched every movement of her daughter, and began to imagine that her many lectures regarding discountenancing Charley Warbeck’s addresses were beginning to have their anticipated effect.

She congratulated herself that no child of hers would be foolish enough to look so lowly as to encourage a person of suspected character.

She often said she would not have stayed a day in Dame Worthington’s house, if public opinion had not considered there were many extenuating circumstances in Charley’s guilt.

The true cause of Charley’s altered manner could easily be explained.

He was looked upon as a dangerous person, and one that should not be trusted.

Former friends and acquaintances passed him in the streets without the slightest indication of recognition.

He had applied for business engagements in various places.

But his name was more than enough to thwart his prospects.

When he informed gentlemen that his last occupation had been as clerk in the India House they put him off with specious promises, but never employed him.

He sometimes felt upon the verge of distraction, and more than once meditated self-destruction.

But some good angel stood by his side in the moment of temptation and bade him hope.

As often as he saw “little curly-head,” as he called Clara, flitting through the house, his heart smote him, and he gazed upon her averted face with fondness and sadness.

And then the angel by his side whispered hope more loudly than ever.

“I could not think of dragging her into my disgrace,” thought Charley, sentimentally; “it is enough that my name is stained without causing her a life of live-long distrust, poverty and reproach.

“No, I will not address her. I love her, but she can never be my wife.”

Mr. Charley Warbeck’s high-toned ideas of life-long self-sacrifice were very commendable and heroic.

But changes came o’er the spirit of his dream.

“What makes her maintain such provoking privacy, I wonder?” thought he.

“How altered she is of late; how sad-looking and pale! I wonder if Fumbleton has anything to do with it?

“He’s a nice-looking fellow enough, well-to-do, and all that; but I wish he was at the bottom of the sea, and out of the way.

“I hate that fellow.

“I saw him a few evenings since; if I meet him again I’ll have a little private chat with him, and sound him!

“I shouldn’t wonder, though, if he is after her.

“I see her go out frequently in the afternoon for a walk; I would lay a wager that she meets him!”

This latter thought stung Charley to the quick, and he sighed very deeply.

As he entered the parlour one bright afternoon, he discovered Clara sitting in the shadows of the window-curtains.

She held something in her hand, and kissed it!

The heart of Charley Warbeck beat very quickly.

She was apparently absorbed in thought, and knew nothing of his presence in the apartment.

He noiselessly approached nearer to her, and observed that she had a note in her lap, and frequently glanced at it.

There was no longer room for doubt, he imagined.

His worst suspicions were realized.

“She loves another,” was his conclusion; and he involuntarily sighed aloud.

This awoke Miss Clara from her reverie.

She placed the note and likeness in her bosom, and rose to depart.

Her manner was cold, and tinged with sadness.

As she passed him, she slightly bowed, never raised her eyes, and moved towards the door with a dignified and graceful step.

Charley never felt so sick at heart in his life before, and thought that Clara looked more blooming than ever.

In truth Miss Clara certainly did look captivating on this particular afternoon.

She was a brunette, of medium height, and symmetrically developed; her curls waved about her shoulders with every gust of air.

Her dress was of light blue, somewhat low-necked, and over her bust she wore beautiful lace, with sleeves of the same material.

Charley had not intended to speak to her.

But, as she was about to leave the room, he mustered all his firmness, and calmly said—

“Miss Clara, I——”

She turned her face, now slightly flushed, and said—

“Sir?” very coldly.

He placed a chair for her in the deepest shadows of the room, and said—

“Miss Haylark, you will really excuse me being so rude, but your looks are so sad of late, and your manners so altered towards me, that I am perplexed and concerned to know the cause.

“You, Clara, who were my only friend in hours of adversity, surely you will not follow the example of the world, and look upon me with contempt or disdain?

“I am unworthy to address you, it is true, but do—I beg of you to explain what I have done to destroy that friendship which has so long existed between us?

“Tell me why you avert your face, and why your eyes are filled with tears?”

Charley could say no more.

His heart was full.

“Forgive me, Clara, if I have offended you,” were the only words he uttered.

And as he stood beside her chair, and saw her weeping, without making any reply, he felt like a child, and could have almost wept himself.

For some time the lovers maintained silence, broken only by a suppressed sob from Clara.

At last Charley took her hand, and with much gallantry, kissing it, said,

“Were I a prince I could not rejoice in anything more precious than your friendship, Clara.

“If I had a throne I would ask you to share it.

“I would ask you to smile upon me, and bestow your hand upon me, for Heaven only knows how much I love you, Clara, and Heaven only is the witness of its sincerity.

“I cannot look up to you with confidence, although I love you heart and soul.

“You are too good, too holy, for one like me to aspire to.

“Yet believe me when I utter these true and honest words, that, disowned as I am by a cold, cold world, and looked upon with suspicion, my soul is as free from guilt as it ever was in the sight of God, and the only tie that keeps me in the world, the only regret I should have in quitting it, is the contemplation of one I adore with all the power of my mind and soul.”

Charles kissed her hand again and rose to depart.

“Stay,” said Clara, speaking for the first time, slowly, and almost in a whisper; “However unintelligible your character is, or may have been, to others, Mr. Warbeck, I have always looked upon you as a friend, and confess it openly everywhere, Charles.

“Were the world to be ten times as cold as it is towards you, I should never, never change, believe me.”

This little outburst of honest feeling was too much for Clara’s feelings.

She endeavoured to conceal her tears, but they coursed down her cheeks thick and fast until her breast heaved with emotion, and she audibly sobbed.

She rose in a hasty manner to leave the room.

Charley was fired with love, and caught her to his heart.

And she leaned her little head upon his shoulder confidingly, nor did she struggle or resist the many kisses he rapturously bestowed upon her, but sat on the sofa by his side.

And in a long conversation, carried on in whispers, the only two words which Dame Worthington slyly overheard were,

“Will you, Clara?”

“Yes, Charles.”

GIVEN AWAY!!

SCENES, SHEETS OF CHARACTERS, AND A LARGE STAGE FRONT FOR A NEW PLAY, CALLED “ALONE IN THE PIRATES’ LAIR.”

READ THE “BOYS OF ENGLAND,” AND SECURE THE ABOVE MAGNIFICENT GIFTS.

ONE PENNY WEEKLY.

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XXVIII. MATRIMONY AND HAPPINESS

Dame Worthington was delighted—Sir Richard Warbeck was delighted—every one in fact was delighted to hear it whispered that Charley and Clara Haylark were engaged.

Mistress Haylark was indignant!

She would not listen to any such proposition, and moved to and fro with an air of offended majesty!

Dame Worthington tried to console the proud woman, but she would listen to no words of solace.

She had “made up her mind against the match,” and the only one living fit to be Clara’s husband, she said, was that nice young man Mr. Augustus Fumbleton.

Since her mother was extremely angry, Clara’s life was anything but agreeable to her.

For morning, noon, and night, Madame was harping upon the rumoured match, and spoke against it with inexhaustible eloquence.

Miss Clara, however, took but little notice of her mother’s ceaseless prattle about the dignity, grandeur, and importance of “the Haylark’s,” but quietly bore all with meekness and resignation, and loved Charley more and more for all the railings hourly thrown out against him.

As Sir Richard had been fully informed of the true state of things by Dame Worthington, he sought an opportunity of speaking to Clara alone.

The girl’s manner was so modest and genuine, and she confessed her attachment for the young man with so much artlessness that old Sir Richard Warbeck was strongly prepossessed in her favour, and determined to do all in his power to reconcile Mistress Haylark to the match.

What with presents, great gallantry of manner, and marked deference to all her opinions on ordinary topics, he so far won upon the proud lady that her resolution to maintain the honour of “the Haylarks” melted away like ice before his eloquence and earnestness.

And after holding out for some time, “for the sake of form,” and in maintenance of her much self-styled “firmness,” she consented to the match, and began to bustle about in making suitable preparations for it.

The intended marriage was kept as secret as possible, yet many female acquaintances soon became aware of the fact by some unknown means.

And rumour had it that when Miss Josephine Smith, next door, heard of the approaching event, through the tattling of servants over the back-yard wall, she was seized with a sudden fit of hysterics, and gave vent to her disappointment and chagrin, in all manner of double-meaning phrases, and called Miss Clara everything that was unkind.

Dame Worthington Was literally beside herself.

She knew not what to do from day to day.

The nearer the important event approached, the more affectionately she behaved both to Clara and Charley.

She laughed and cried by turns, and said,

“She always knew it.”

Clara would kiss her, and Charley would joke her.

But, despite all her apparent perturbation and anxiety, she found time to have frequent and long interviews with old Sir Richard, until the young couple, seated lovingly side by side on the parlour sofa, could not understand the nature of them.

Dame Worthington deeply regretted that she could not possibly find accommodation for them in her house, but Sir Richard only smiled benignly and said,

“Leave that matter to me, Harriet, my dear.”

The old dame, full of confidence in his wisdom, did leave that matter in his hands, fully assured that he would manage it far better than any one else.

When the day approached, the hurry and bustle in the house increased tenfold, and to such a degree, that the servant confessed to Smith’s girl, across the back-yard wall, that “she was a’most worried to death,” and wished the marriage was over.

On the eve of the wedding, when everything had been prepared, two legal gentlemen unexpectedly arrived and after candles were lit in Dame Worthington’s back parlour, they arranged their papers with much apparent satisfaction.

Dame Worthington, the august Mistress Haylark, and the modest old Sir Richard, took their seats.

Charley was summoned into their awful presence, Miss Clara following, feeling as she afterwards confessed it, “all of a tremble.”

Old Sir Richard acted as chairman of the imposing committee, and informed the young people that, as they were about to be united in the holy bands of wedlock on the morrow, he wished to say a few words to both.

Mistress Haylark had informed him that Clara was entitled to the sum of five thousand pounds as her marriage portion, and, although this was unknown to Charley, he begged to inform him that twenty thousand pounds had been assigned to him as his portion, left by some person whom he should know at some future time.

In addition to this, kind Dame Worthington, in good-will and love to both, and in consideration of her lasting admiration of their mutual and disinterested attachment, presented them jointly with two thousand pounds—which she had been hoarding up for many years with this express intention—making a very handsome total, with which modest sum they might commence life very comfortably.

In conclusion, old Sir Richard said,

“As he himself had not contributed anything as yet to them, he would give them one of his houses in town, which was already furnished, and awaiting their marriage.”

The lawyers were there, he said, to legally ratify all these things, and, as general speaker for those then present, he wished them joy through many, many happy years.

At the conclusion of his remarks, which, it must be confessed, greatly surprised and pleased the young people, Dame Worthington, Mistress Haylark, and Clara were in tears, and seemed deeply affected.

Wine was produced, which tended to revive the two former ladies considerably.

Mistress Haylark recommended Charley to use smelling salts to her daughter.

But that young gentleman had his own specific for reviving her.

He conducted Clara from the back to the front parlour, where soon the sounds of merry laughter and lively music told plainly that she was fully recovered, and in the best of spirits.

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Chapter XXIX

SIR ANDREW AND PHILLIP HIS SON-IN-LAW MAKE FRIENDS AND ENEMIES.

The marriage of Charley and Miss Clara was duly announced in the newspapers, and the style in which it was said to have been conducted so astonished the clerks and employés of the India House and other circles in which he was formerly known, that every one unanimously considered that Charles must have had “a windfall,” or “a very sudden rise” in the world.

Sir Andrew, in the retirement of his little country house heard of it.

Mr. Phillip Redgill in the smoky, dingy, card and gambling rooms, also heard of it, and both were very much surprised.

The latter thought he would lose no time in congratulating young Warbeck.

“For he’s well up now,” said Phillip, “and will be a sure card for a hundred or two, if I ask him.”

Other persons besides these two notable individuals had heard of the marriage.

Miss Josephine Smith was present during the ceremony, and, in giving an account of the affair, said that the bridegroom looked happy and handsome.

But “as to the bride—ugh! good gracious! she was a perfect fright! All curls, as usual, my dear, and looking like a frost-bitten turnip!”

Augustus Fumbleton, Esq., was also aware of the awful event, and confessed that he had now lost every earthly hope, and was fast falling away in flesh and figure.

But as he seemed to be enjoying himself as usual with an evening drive in the occasional company of a fast-dressing woman, who was said to be already married, his most intimate friends could see but little diminution in the rotundity of his form or the proverbial magnitude of his general appetite.

The “lady,” with whom Augustus Fumbleton, Esq., occasionally drove out, was said to bear the name of Redgill!

Phillip had gradually fallen in the social scale.

He was not attired so sumptuously or neatly as of yore.

He was said to be extremely “seedy” in habits and appearance, and frequently very short of cash.

He seldom visited his wife, and seemed to care little what she did or with whom she might choose to associate.

He had introduced her to all kinds of persons, and she had formed, perhaps, exceptionable acquaintance.

But of this he cared nothing, so that she troubled him little for money, he was indifferent as to her associates and hours of leaving or returning home.

His wife, it must be confessed, was equally indifferent in her feelings towards her liege lord.

He had inaugurated habits of card and wine parties and very late hours and scenes of debauchery at her home, and as she was thrown into indifferent company—as she was expected and almost compelled to do the honours of the house and table to whomsoever visited her husband—it cannot be expected that the gaily-inclined Fanny was proof against the many temptations to which she was almost continually exposed.

She was, in truth, the gay, gambling wife of a gay, gambling, debauched and conscienceless husband.

* * * * *

No matter what others might think, it is recorded in the interesting “Chronicle,” that Charley and his young wife were extremely happy, nay, supremely so, and often confessed to each other, when sitting in the portico of their new and elegant house, that Providence had been very good and kind to them, and that their cup of happiness was full to the brim.

With a chip sun-bonnet in her hand, and leaning on Charles’s arm, Clara would go forth, all happiness, for an evening walk, and as they strolled in the green fields, or gazed upon the numerous snow-white sails moving to and fro on the bright splashing waters of the Thames, Clara would often laughingly recount how she first felt a partiality for the husband she then so highly prized and almost adored.

While Charley, full of humour and nonsense, would joke so wittingly and merrily until Clara become crimson in face, and shook her mass of raven curls with bewitching innocence and coquetry.

When it began to be noised abroad that the newly-married couple were well circumstanced in life, and backed by influential moneyed interests, public opinion began to grow very rapidly favourable in regard to Mr. Charley Warbeck.

So that, when he occasionally promenaded with his pretty, curly-headed bride, there were not a few of his former acquaintance who very suddenly recollected his existence and former footing, and did not fail, indeed, to recognise him in fashionable thoroughfares and places of public business.

Many, both young and old, who but a few months before had passed him in the streets, without a word or look of recognition, now bravely advanced to meet him with—

“Ah, Charley, my boy, how do you do? Allow me to congratulate you.” Or,

“Hullo, Charley! how are you?”

Many merchants and very respectable men of trade were not backward in offering him shares in their business.

Tradesmen’s cards poured in upon him by the hundred.

And he suddenly found himself surrounded by many who literally bored him with their civilities, and proffered to grant him any favour he desired, even to credit, as they said, “for any amount.”

The lesson he had received was not lost upon him.

It had given him a greater insight into human nature than he had ever before possessed.

So that he smiled at this sudden “change in the wind,” as he called it, and despised these sycophantic leeches with an honest indignation well-nigh amounting to loathing.

He seemed in no hurry to enter into business.

As the times were even yet unsettled from the recent financial panic, he contented himself, therefore, with looking out for some favorable opening for investing his capital to the best advantage.

And, instead of accepting any of the numberless invitations to balls and parties of which his wife was in constant receipt, the fond young couple contented themselves with boat excursions on the river, or frequent evening visits to good old Dame Worthington, with whom, and the stately Mistress Haylark, they passed many happy hours, and never seemed weary of their company.

Dame Worthington, in truth, was fast failing in health.

Yet, despite all her infirmities, she bustled about as busily and loquacious as of yore.

Nor did the mother-in-law lose an iota of that stateliness and solemnity of behaviour which was supposed to be hereditary with “the Haylarks,” and upon which, next to her reputation for “firmness,” she greatly prided herself.

In truth, Clara’s marriage only seemed to expand the mother’s importance.

She patronised flaming colours and the “latest styles” more recklessly than ever.

And in her frequent visits to Clara’s house, she was the terror of the servants, from the amount of fuss and bother of which she was always the occasion.

Her lectures on housekeeping were long and frequent, during the delivery of which Charley always wisely lit a cigar, and took a stroll in the garden.

The “best bed” and “the best room” were always reserved for “dear mama,” and from her increasing volubility on all topics connected with married life, and from the number of times she left her daughter in tears from scoldings regarding household affairs, Mr. Charley Warbeck thanked his lucky stars that she had not proposed to live with them altogether.

For “if such braggadocio and endless lectures are characteristic of ‘the Haylarks’” he thought, “I am very glad little Clara has not inherited any of the hereditary virtues of that illustrious family.”

If “mama’s” semi-weekly visits always ended in Clara crying, Dame Worthington’s had the contrary effect.

For the little wife was supremely happy, and always laughing at the old lady’s stories about “dear Charley.”

In truth, Dame Worthington seemed to know so much about him, and her memory reached so far back, that Clara thought her husband must have been a very young, and a very small child indeed, when the old lady had first made his acquaintance.

At all events, Clara thought,

“She is very loving, and thoughtful, and kind. She loves me very much, and, as for ‘dear Charles,’ she idolizes him, and a mother could not manifest more care and anxiety for his welfare and happiness than she does.”

Sir Richard frequently visited Dame Worthington as usual, and had a long chat with her in her snug back parlour.

And, upon some occasions, the robust, short-breathing, imposing Mistress Haylark would join the party, and monopolize all the conversation.

And it mattered little what topic was broached, Mistress H. always had a very long oration ready at her finger-tips for the occasion, and backed up all arguments or assertions with an everlasting appeal to “the Haylarks,” whether living or defunct.

Sir Richard became used to her loquacity, but frequently dozed in his arm-chair, and, falling fast asleep, ignominiously left the field of debate to herself, or to any one courageous enough to take up the cudgel and defy “the Haylarks,” constant and only authority on all subjects.

Dame Worthington’s house never flourished so much as it had since the wedding; and the old lady, it must be confessed, was “saving money.”

She had always contrived to do that, however.

So that now, although “times were hard,” and “money very tight,” as it always is, the old gentlewoman was laying by a considerable sum, and seemed to take much delight in saving or accumulating every spare penny.

* * * * *

But if prosperity had attended all the industrious efforts of the good old lady, and her newly-married “children,” as she affectionately termed them, there were other persons who figure in our story who had little of which to boast of in that particular.

Sir Andrew’s farming operations in the country were productive of little profit.

And he foresaw that ere long he must seek some other sphere than that of agriculture in which to make sufficient to satisfy his wants and daily growing greed.

One would have imagined that such misfortunes as he had experienced might have allayed his ruling passion for money; yet it did not.

The older he grew the more avaricious he became.

And to such an extent that he stinted his farm-servants so much that every one left him, and his immediate household affairs were conducted on such miserly principles that he even begrudged his wife the common necessaries of life!

His sole and absorbing ambition seemed to be mere “accumulation.”

“I am not more dishonest than the rest of people,” he would mutter, as he walked along the country roads and lanes. “There are hundreds who have failed beside myself, and are now in a flourishing business. Why cannot I be the same?”

Christianity, its virtues, and its responsibilities, hung very lightly on the shoulders of this old man.

He went to church, it is true, and sang and prayed as loudly and lustily as any member of it.

It was a “respectable thing” to belong to the church.

But it must be confessed that his most fervent prayer was in supplication for the framing of some law which prohibited all imprisonment for debt!

Sir Andrew, in his arm-chair, comfortably seated before the fire of his little farm-house, spent hours every evening in devising plans for recommencing business.

He was not particular as to what it might be, so that money should result from it.

He thought of the banks, and sighed devoutly at the fearful amounts which some were said to possess.

He ran through his personal reminiscences, and past life, and could point to persons in high stations, and of “unimpeachable respectability” whom he had known in years past, and often thought,

“If so-and-so had his due, he would be half-starving, or in prison, instead of rolling about so grandly with his carriage and greys.”

Such thoughts arose, not from honest indignation but from envy and gall.

Old Sir Andrew was thoroughly disgusted with himself and the world.

He was determined, however, to make another attempt at success.

But his son-in-law was like a heavy chain bound to his legs, and he could not move in any direction but he encountered either Fanny or Phillip.

And what a change had come over Fanny, his daughter!

She had separated from her husband.

But why?

The cause was this.

One night Phillip Redgill had a card party at his house.

Among those present, and who lost heavily at play, was Augustus Fumbleton, Esq.

Phillip was maddened with wine.

The memory of his wickedness and crime came over him.

Which ever way he looked he seemed to behold the apparition of his murdered father.

The terrible legs seemed to haunt him wherever he went.

While cards and dice were at their height, and all were merry, some one loudly knocked at the door.

The servant went and opened it.

Again the knocks were repeated.

And again did the servants go to the door.

They opened it, and looked out into the street.

But no one was there.

“This seems strange,” said one to another, in a whisper.

“I have seen and heard stranger things than that in this house,” was the answer. “I believe the place is haunted.”

While thus they conversed together with open door,

The heavy sounds of footsteps were heard entering the hall.

The two servants turned their heads.

It was the gory legs of Farmer Bertrand they saw.

With a loud shout, and looks of horror on their faces, the terrified domestics rushed upstairs in dread alarm.

“What means this?” growled Phillip, as he seized one of them by the throat, and drew his sword. “What means this, knave, eh? Go forth into the passage again, and return with better news, or take the consequences.”

The servant did as he was bidden, but had scarcely got into the passage when he rushed back again in increased terror, and upset a card table, money, and all upon the floor.

Every one present were now alarmed.

They heard the distant solemn tramp of heavy footsteps.

When, lo! there entered the room, with horrible stride, the gory limbs.

Phillip Redgill turned deadly pale.

His eyes darted almost from their sockets.

He gasped with terror, and his drawn sword trembled in his nerveless hand.

“Phillip Redgill——” the spectre voice began.

“No, no, no; mercy! ’twas not I!” gasped Phillip. “No, no! I see also the ghost of my father; but I did not do it! Away! away! Avaunt! gory, ghostly, damnable spectacle, avaunt!”

“Phillip Redgill, my footsteps will follow you for ever!” said the voice, which died away in the distance.

“Never! never!” said Phillip, staggering from horror.

“Ever! ever!” repeated the spectre voice.

With his heart bursting in fury Phillip tore his neck-cloth into ribbons.

His breast heaved with remorse and passion.

“Wine wine,” he said, with a fiendish laugh; “wine, wine, I say!”

His wife handed him a goblet brim full.

He gulped it down.

He threw the goblet into a corner of the room, and in fury struck Fanny to the ground.

The gallants present immediately stepped forward to protect the fallen woman.

With bitter curses on their lips for his brutality they drew their swords.

“Ha! ha! my braves!” said Phillip, pale as a ghost, and looking half idiotic and wild; “ha! ha! my braves! I see, my wife hath many ready to defend her. Come on, then, one and all.”

“So be it,” said Augustus Fumbleton, drawing his “toasting fork,” and assailing Phillip.

“The man who lays his hand upon a woman except in kindness, is a scoundrel,” he added.

Phillip was more like a maniac than a man.

But just as the husband and the lover were about to engage, Fanny threw herself in between the combatants.

“Hold!” she cried, in a voice of pain, and with blood streaming down her features.

“Hold!” she cried, “Phillip Redgill! husband! murderer! if you will spill blood, shed mine!”

“Murderer!” muttered Phillip, with chattering teeth! “murderer?”

“Yes, murderer!” gasped Fanny, with a firm, defiant tone; “spirits of the dead haunt you both night and day.”

“Liar! witch! sorceress!” exclaimed Phillip; “die with that lie in your throat.”

He made a desperate pass at his injured wife.

His sword was knocked up.

Next moment he was the centre of a fierce and deadly conflict.

The clash of swords, the sound of smashed mirrors, vases, windows, and the like, was heard on every hand.

* * * * *

When Phillip woke next morning he found his house deserted.

No one was nigh.

He lay upon the floor, with a sword cut across his brow, amid the ruins of chairs, tables, glasses, and a thousand fragments of ornaments and furniture.

“Where am I?” he said.

And he looked round with amazement on the wreck.

All things were in a wild state of confusion.

His brain was all on fire with drink, excitement, and pain.

“Oh, now I remember all,” he gasped.

The memory of all which had happened that night flashed before his mind.

While he lay in a state of stupor his eye caught light of a small dagger sticking in the card table.

It pinned down a note.

It was in Fanny’s handwriting.

He tore it open and read—

“Farewell and for ever for the rest of her days.

“Your worst enemy, “FANNY.”

“My wife absconded! the house ransacked! the servants gone! How is this? What can it mean? Am I dreaming?”

“Dreaming? No, man; you were never more wide awake in all your life,” said a distant voice, with a coarse laugh.

Phillip Redgill recognized the voice.

It was that of Captain Jack.

“You here,” said Phillip, astonished.

“Yes; and why not? Where would you have been if I hadn’t?”

“I don’t understand.”

“I don’t suppose you do. A man that was dead drunk and half crazy last night, mixed up with tilt and point among a dozen or more desperate gallants is not supposed to have very clear brains the morning after. ’Twas lucky we came to your assistance or you wouldn’t be sprawling on the floor as you now are.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Well, the thing is soon explained. I heard that a party of gambling youngsters were gathered at your house last night, and, knowing them to have more money than brains, I, Faulkner, and several others made up our minds to give you a call, so as to relieve them of a little of their spare cash. As we approached the house we heard you all high in oath.

“I rushed in at the doorway, but was fiercely beaten back by several gallants.

“I gave the word to my men to fall on the enemy without mercy.

“Just at that moment I perceived your wife hurrying downstairs, the way being led by one of her many lovers.”

“Many lovers?” said Redgill; “surely you do not mean to insinuate that my wife is a strumpet and——”

“Never mind about wasting more breath about her, Redgill,” said Captain Jack; “because if you don’t know her character, I do, and have done so long ago.”

“What!”

“Nay, nay; get not so hot, but let me continue with my story. Directly I gave the word to my men they each singled out a customer, and we fought desperately with our knives in the entrance-hall; the place was too small for the proper use of our swords, so I am sorry to say,” said Captain Jack, with a laugh, “that we had to cut the throats of one or two in the entrance hall (see Cut in No. 10), but it was all fair play. They didn’t know us, you see, so it don’t much matter. We quickly threw their bodies into the river, and they are food for the fish.”

“But my wife?” said Phillip surprised.

“Your wife, eh? she seems to give you much trouble all at once.”

“Well, what of her?”

“Why, she has run off with the man who gave you that nasty cut across the forehead.”

“And who was he?”

“Why, that elegant young man Fumbleton.”

A terrible oath escaped from Phillip, and he rose to his feet, looking like a blood-stained demon.

“I will be revenged,” said he, “if it costs me my life!”

“And so you shall,” said Captain Jack, “if you only let the matter remain quietly for a short time. Fumbleton is rich, and can bear plucking.”

“He has been plucked many times, I hear,” said Phillip, “and on one occasion to the tune of £2,000.”

“I know he has. I was the one to do it,” said Captain Jack.

“You?”

“Yes, me.”

“How?”

“Well, that I will tell you as we go along. You must leave this house at once.”

“But the furniture—I am not going to leave that behind?”

“You might as well, it ain’t worth anything.”

“Worth nothing—what do you mean?”

“Mean this, my boy; I have sold the house, furniture and all.”

“You? why it all belongs to me.”

“Perhaps so,” said Captain Jack, “but then you see why Fanny ran away with Fumbleton. I knew you would not remain here long, so while you were snoring I bundled off the servants, and sold everything.”

“Very polite of you, certainly.”

“Oh, don’t mention it—a friend of mine gave me a tempting price for the whole lot, so I took it, of course, being short of money, and as you deserve a trifle on our old account, why of course it’s all right.”

“But it’s all wrong. Where’s the money?”

“In my pocket,” said Captain Jack, very coolly, “where it is likely to remain until I want it.”

“And what do you want with me so early in the morning?” asked Phillip.

“Wash yourself, and get out of the house as soon as possible, and then I’ll tell you. There, that will do; don’t take overmuch pains with yourself—you ain’t going far,” said Captain Jack, with a sinister smile.

“But where to?”

“You’ll soon see; but as I was about to say, regarding Fumbleton; he’s been after your wife a long time, and you are the one to blame, for if you would introduce her to all the worst sparks in town, why of course you can’t expect her to respect you much.”

“You are very kind with your advice this morning,” said Phillip; “one would almost imagine you had turned parson.”

“So I have, when there’s been a hanging going on, and no one near to read the service. But as I was saying about Fumbleton; he fancies he can play billiards, and so unknown to him I disguised my friend Alick Faulkner, some months ago, and they agreed to make a match for £500 a side. Now, Faulkner and I played a good deal together, but I always beat him, and as Fumbleton always beat me, because I let him, Alick was thought to be a good “mark” for the elegant young swell. The number of points in the game was to be 1,000.”

Gentlemen amateurs who were supposed to have had ‘the straight tip’ were freely staking any odds on Fumbleton, which the “knowing ones,” with Alick as their champion, were eagerly accepting.

“When play commenced in the evening, there was much interest displayed by professionals to watch the game, and from the superior manner in which the young swell was playing, it was evident he would beat Faulkner his antagonist, with the greatest imaginable ease.

In truth it must be confessed that he threw away many chances where he could have easily “counted.”

But Fumbleton had so much of a lead, that he frequently amused himself with making “fancy shots” for his own, and the amusement of professional adepts, who loudly applauded him.

Towards ten o’clock the game was half over, and the miserable style in which Alick played, brought down very stinging remarks from bystanders, so that leaving him more than one hundred points in the rear, out of seven hundred then played, it was agreed to adjourn for the sake of supper and to finish the game afterwards.

Fumbleton partook freely of wine, and was all impatience to recommence the game.

Alick did not seem at all inclined for more humiliation at the swell’s hands, and to all appearance returned to the table very reluctantly.

The state of the game was apparent to all.

Fumbleton was considered to be much too far ahead to be overtaken by Alick, and any odds were freely offered on him and taken.

But the game suddenly changed in its character.

Instead of playing in his former slow and undecided style, Mr. Alick hit rapidly, scientifically, and so often, that he materially altered his score, and was soon close at the heels of Fumbleton, who opened his eyes widely at this sudden exhibition of his opponent’s skill.

“Never mind,” said he to his friends, “he can’t do it again, you know; it was all luck that time, I shall now go in and win with a rush.”

Alick had similar ideas also, and gained on Fumbleton so far, that when but fifty points remained to be played Alick was but five behind.

The chances row began to fluctuate, and Fumbleton’s friends, being still confident, freely laid odds, which were now eagerly taken.

In truth the silly swell had made such fine play that but five remained to complete his score, and make him the winner.

The other had twenty-five to get; but these were gotten with so much rapidity that Alick, in enthusiasm, overran that number, amid the applause of those in the “secret,” but apparently to his own dissatisfaction, for he seemed surprised and annoyed, whispering confidentially, as he pitched his cue and the bridge into the corner,

“I’ve won, but, upon my soul, Mr. Fumbleton, I wasn’t aware of it; I intended to lose!”

This was exceedingly poor consolation to the swell, who sat vacantly looking at the billiard board as one in a trance or dream.

It seemed that he considered it impossible to be beaten by such an opponent as Alick!

He was mistaken, however, and the best proof of it was that the money was handed over to Alick that same night, and the swell discovered himself to be minus of not less than five hundred pounds out of the six hundred pounds which he had brought to the billiard room with him.

“Who’d a thought,” mused Fumbleton, “that I should have lost in so unaccountable a manner; I am out of luck to-night, that’s it! I can beat two such players as he is at any time; but you can’t play against luck!”

To console the young swell, the winning parties declared that he was the paragon of players, and hoped he would soon have another game, and for a larger stake.

This latter remark seemed to contain a little more irony than Mr. Fumbleton could bear, so that he flamed into a passion on the instant, and high words arose.

Excited with wine, and infuriated to find he had been so egregiously duped, the swell gave vent to his feelings in unmeasured terms, calling Alick and his friends a parcel of scheming “black-legs,” until finding words would avail but little, they handled him roughly.

A general fight ensued among the partisans, and the last thing Augustus remembered in his cups was a general row, in which certain persons’ boot-toes came in sudden and violent concussion with certain parts of his person, and ejected him into the street, where he found himself on the following morning, without money, jewellery, and all high and dry in the mud.

Captain Jack laughed boisterously over what he had said. It was a capital joke, and served young Fumbleton right, for he had not been long from college, and was brimful of conceit and nonsense.

“I always make it a rule to look out for young collegians, when they are running wild ‘about town,’ as it is called, because they think they know everything. That £500, Alick Faulkner and I won, was the making of us.”

“The making of you! How?”

“Why, we were so hard-up, we should have had to go to house-breaking or something of that kind.”

“Well?”

“I knew a seedy ‘enemy’ of mine who had gone to house-breaking about that time. He wanted me to join him in the venture. But he little dreamed how much I hated him. I’ll tell you all about it one of these days; but as time is now short, I shall only say that I ‘split’ on him, and my respectable appearance in the witness-box got him transported for life. That’s how I generally pay off old scores with ‘lads’ who don’t act always on the square. After that I was appointed one of the Crown officers, and have been so ever since. I knew the chap at school, and hated him, and always swore to have him hung if I could; but let us go in here—here is a wine shop, let’s have a bottle together,” said Captain Jack, with a wicked smile.

“That reminds me of something that happened to me at school. It was the first ‘clever’ thing I ever did,” said Phillip, drinking a long draught of good wine.

“Indeed,” said Captain Jack, laughing. “I didn’t think you ever had done anything clever except that affair of old Bertram.”

“Hus—s—sh!” said Phillip, turning pale; “don’t mention that.”

“You’d have been in a gibbet only for me,” said Captain Jack.

“Perhaps; but I bought your silence.”

“Yes, so that’s all square. Let’s hear your story. I’ve got half-an-hour to pass in idleness; but all our gang have to muster to-night; we’ve got ‘a great thing’ on hand. Will you join us?”

“That depends.”

“Depends? But you must.”

“Must, eh! Well then, if you say so, then must it shall be.”

“Go on with your story then.”

“You won’t blow on me.”

“Me? You must be dreaming.”

“But you’d never expect to hear what I’m going to tell.”

“Perhaps not, but whatever it is, out with it.”

So encouraged, and even now half drunk with wine, Phillip began his story; his first step in crime, as he called it.

And as he went on, Captain Jack eyed him like a hawk, and his eyes glistened with deadly malice towards Phillip, as Redgill began:—

“Tom Templeton was generally admitted to be the greatest Greek scholar in college.

“Plato, Demosthenes and Xenophon were eternally in his hands, and his favourite amusement seemed to be to have a ‘quiet half-hour’ with Homer or Sophocles.

“How he could muster sufficient patience to pore over those tantalizing authors, seemed a great mystery to all the Juniors, but the ‘Nobs,’ ‘Dons,’ and ‘Big-wigs’ of the university would complacently smile, take a pinch of snuff, and nod to Tom, who, squatted at his ease upon the grass, would loll for hours under the trees of our extensive grounds and park, and smoke with impunity, in open defiance of every rule and regulation.

“He could leap, run, walk, fence, and, in fact, excel at anything to which he seemed, inclined to pay attention, except swim, which he never did.

“And he was such a favourite with all, that none seemed to take notice, or be at all surprised at anything he might attempt or accomplish.

“He had been known to kick a foot-ball over the college buildings, three stories high, and had soundly thrashed three or four town bullies, who were said to ‘travel on their muscle’ for a living.

“He never appeared to study very hard.

“A pipe was always in his mouth, and, strange to say, he had fascinated all the university officials so effectually, that he went in and out of places considered sacred to every one but the president, or his high and mighty assistants.

“The private gardens, even, were open to him, with all their much-envied riches of plums and fruits of various kinds.

“And Tompkins had more than once sworn that, when climbing the wall one day to get at some pears, he saw him lying full length on a bench smoking in the vineyards.

“Tom seems to have mesmerized the gardeners, or heavily bribed them, for he was never at a loss for the gate keys.

“And should they be out of the way, he would simply scale the wall, and commence his evening promenade with the inevitable meerschaum in his mouth.

“One evening, two Dons caught him.

“They entered the garden, walked along the avenues of vines, and there stood Mr. Tom, smoking as usual, as large as life, with a novel in his hand!

“‘I imagined I smelt something,’ one of the old professors said. ‘How comes it, sir, that—don’t you know——’

“Before he could add another word, Tom opened upon him with a fine passage from Virgil, which being apropos as to time and place, and well recited withal, disarmed the anger of the first doctor, who took a pinch of snuff and passed on.

“The second was red with anger.

“And as he totally eschewed ‘the use of the abominable weed in any form,’ was ready to explode with rage and indignation.

“For being a great epicure, he felt certain that most of the grapes would fall to his share at table, and didn’t wish their early growth in any way retarded.

“‘Mr. Templeton! I am astounded at you, sir. How dare you imagine that——’

“Tom did not appear to notice his remark, but casting a look of surprise upon the pompous old gentleman in cap and gown, burst forth into a Greek oration from the Iliad.

“And before the astonished professor could recover his surprise at the action and voice of Templeton, who was personating Achilles among his ‘black ships banked up on shore,’ left the vine walks in a state of triumph.

“Tom had been several years at college, and was deservedly reputed to be the best man ever on the rolls.

“He was light-hearted, gay, generous, a good musician, splendid classic, and passionately fond of dancing.

“He was courted and petted by all the mothers in town—anxious to provide for their daughters,

“The young ladies themselves were oftentimes at loggerheads to see who should advance fastest in his good graces.

“As there were several female seminaries within a few miles of town, intercourse was frequent at the houses of mutual friends or relatives.

“Many young men attending the University had sisters at a magnificent seminary but two miles from town.

“And as the yearly gymnastic exercises of our college were about to commence, evening drill was often patronized by the fair, so that the University grounds presented a gay and animating appearance during the beautiful evenings of May and June.

“Templeton had been elected chief of the gymnasts this year, and in his blue uniform, faced with red and gold, presented a fine appearance; so that there was more than one pair of eyes among the ladies who watched his movements with interest.

“At the end of gymnastic drill, which had been witnessed and much applauded by the fair, an old gentleman advanced to Templeton, and presented a bouquet.

“This was nothing unusual, for the ladies seemed to take delight in pelting flowers at us as we filed past them. But, as he took the nosegay from the old man, Templeton perceived a young girl laughing and blushing among a knot of her schoolmates, who were apparently joking her.

“‘I never saw her before; she is very pretty. I will make her acquaintance if I break my neck over it,’ thought Tom.

“Templeton went into town that evening, and returned to his rooms very late.

“He was musing in his chair at the window, gazing at the moon, and puffing out volumes of cigar smoke.

“In a week the gay fellow seemed to have changed his nature.

“He was thoughtful, absent in manner, and seldom touched his books.

“Instead of trespassing upon the privacy of the president’s gardens at evening, he was often found strumming a guitar, and singing snatches from various operas.

“Months passed away, and none could account for his change of manner.

“He was thin, pale, thoughtful, soft in voice and manner, and juniors whispered one to another that he was ‘heavily in debt;’ ‘the uncle refused to come up.’

“Others, rather lazy students themselves, would sigh, and say, ‘Just as I told you; now you see the effect of “Nights with Homer and Demosthenes!” he is in a galloping consumption!’”

“The lodge-keeper, that terrible portly official with the clanking keys, who frowned on little boys, and slammed the gates with a triumphant bang of self-importance; that awful, lace-trimmed gentleman, and bottomless depository of college secrets, said nothing, but sighed heavily, stroked his red nose ominously, and remarked—

“‘Some folks is wise, and some isn’t. I hasn’t been here a matter of more nor forty year without knowing that much; and if you’re well up in your Greek you’ll know better nor I can tell yer, werbum sap., as Homer very nicely remarks.’

“And with that, went into his lodge, closed the door, and smoked his pipe.

“It must be confessed I did wish to know what the matter was with Tom.

“He had always befriended me since entering college, and usually informed me of all his affairs.

“But during the past few months his conduct had been so much unlike his former self that I felt offended and annoyed.

“‘If you are hard pushed, Tom,’ said I, ‘and your uncle refuses, why not tell me? I can settle all that without so much melancholy and solitude.’

“I could glean nothing.

“‘Phil, my boy,’ said he, laying his hand on my shoulder, ‘you are gold—true gold, but—there is nothing the matter with me, I can assure you; I am only studying hard for my degree—examinations come off in another month, and then I leave these old walls for ever.’

“‘Templeton has passed!’ said all the juniors, as Tom solemnly strode through the crowd towards his rooms.

“‘How much for your parchment, Templeton?’

“‘Did they bother you, my boy?’

“‘I hope you floored Old Snuffy,’ said one or another of the students.

“But Tom, the subject of all these remarks, congratulations, and the like, bowed politely to his schoolmates, and went up to his rooms.

“‘I leave to-morrow, Phil,’ said he, as I shook him by the hand; ‘my books are all at your service, my boy; you’ll have to pass through the same unpleasant ordeal yourself next year. If you find any use for them, I give them with much pleasure. There are no “crammers” or “coaches” among them; I despise all that sort of thing as much as you do.’

“‘But why look so sad, Tom? Confound it, man! cheer up! there are scores within the walls this moment, who would willingly give thousands for your prizes and parchments. How delighted your uncle will be!’ said I.

“There was no response.

“He relapsed into his customary silence and thoughtfulness, and although we both drank heavily that night, not a word escaped him in his cups.

“Next day, towards evening, we drove together towards the coaching station, and when on the top of a hill about a mile from the University buildings, he stopped the vehicle and looked towards them in silence and with evident emotion.

“‘How beautifully the sun sets in the west, and how charming the old grounds look bathed in sunlight. See how the steeple casts its shadows across the grand walks, and how the clock-tower and weather-vane glow again with changing light! I never loved but once, Phil, and that was once too often for my own peace through life, yet the memories of Alma Mater, with its dingy walls, old towers, and chiming bells, unmans me more than all things else in the world!’

GIVEN AWAY!!

SCENES, SHEETS OF CHARACTERS, AND A LARGE STAGE FRONT FOR A NEW PLAY, CALLED “ALONE IN THE PIRATES’ LAIR.”

READ THE “BOYS OF ENGLAND,” AND SECURE THE ABOVE MAGNIFICENT GIFTS. ONE PENNY WEEKLY.

“He whipped up the horses suddenly into a brisk trot, and was silent.

“He pressed his hat over his eyes, and averted his face; for once in years of my remembrance, two tears were glistening in his eyes.

“It must have been a fearful struggle between his pride and secret sorrows, to have allowed them to escape; yet there they were, shining witnesses of human feeling.

“We parted.

“Templeton went into the north, and for six months corresponded with me.

“In answer to enquiries, he stated that he was not at his uncle’s, but in York.

“I judged, from the tone of his last note, that he was sick and pressed for means.

“I wrote to him again, but received no answer. A friend of mine was directed to visit him and let him have what money he desired.

“But he had removed his lodgings, and was nowhere to be found.

“There seemed to hang some mystery around Tom Templeton; some thought he ‘had been crossed in love’ while at college.

“Others said that pecuniary difficulties had involved him.

“Both of these surmises certainly must be incorrect, I thought, for he disclosed all his secrets to me. If Cupid had been in the case, some of us would have known it; as to money matters, all the college said his uncle was immensely wealthy, and intended to leave him everything.

“Mystery there seemed to be of some kind, and I was determined, upon graduating, to sift the matter to the bottom.

“I liked Tom as a brother; his troubles were mine, and, if in difficulty, I was willing to see him through it safely.

“When university dons had granted me my parchment with ‘A.M.’ engraved thereon, I returned home, and was soon engaged in my father’s extensive transactions, doing what people might term a ‘roaring’ business.

“My thoughts would occasionally revert to my lost friend, and while going homeward one evening at dusk, a poorly dressed stranger hurriedly passed me and glided into a back street, as if ashamed to be seen in lighted and thronged thoroughfares.

“I followed him.

“He strode through the streets at a rapid pace, but, by a side glance I got of him, there could be no doubt but that it was the same Tom Templeton of my school days.

“He had not gone far, when he entered a small, obscure house, and, in less than ten minutes, emerged again, but so differently attired and so gay, I could scarce have recognised him.

“Yet on his countenance was still the same calm, pale, melancholy.

“He actually stopped at the same house I was going to, and was admitted.

“What was his business there, I wondered to know.

“I knew what mine was, namely, to make love to the daughter of a very rich man my father had known for years.

“I did not knock at the door, but let myself in with a latch-key.

“When I quietly advanced towards the parlour door, I perceived Tom Templeton on his knees before the idol of my heart!

“What startled me more, was, the lady fair listened to his fair speeches, and returned his advances.

“For the first time in my life, I felt envy, malice, and revenge.

“I said nothing at the time, but I met my old schoolmate afterwards.

“A violent quarrel ensued.

“I accused him of all manner of misdemeanours, and last of all of ingratitude.

“But all I could do or say would not provoke him into a challenge.

“At last I gave him one myself.

“He accepted it readily, and we met.

“He wished to apologise for all he had done and said.

“I would not accept it.

“I fired.

“He fell down dead.

“I rushed towards him.

“The doctors examined him and tore open his clothes.

“Tom Templeton proved to be a girl.

“The astonishment that was now depicted on every countenance was great indeed.

“This girl had passed through college, and was first and most expert in everything, and for years lived undetected.”

“But why should a girl have played the part of a lover?” said Captain Jack.

“She did not play the part of a lover, as you will perceive.

“Some time after this, my old flame was addressed by the son of the chief die-sinker at the mint.

“I had suspicions for thinking that Tom Templeton (the girl) had a brother, who personified Miss Templeton.

“This I proved.

“They were used as spies by a band of coiners, and so well could these two children of the chief coiner counterfeit either male or female sex, that for years they carried on their traffic in base coin undetected; for, indeed, my father and many other merchants had often and often given notes for gold, and it was not until the gold was tried at the mint that any deception was discovered; but then it was too late to trace it back through the various merchants’ offices to the proper persons.

“The reason Tom and her brother were sent to different schools was, that, they being so highly educated, they might afterwards prove all the more expert, and less likely to be detected.”

“But what revenge had you?” asked Captain Jack.

“I revealed what I had discovered to the chief of the coiners, and my silence was bought.”

“And afterwards?”

“Because I did not receive another consideration from them, I informed.”

“I know you did. But you were too late; the birds had flown.”

“How know you that?” asked Phillip.

“Because I was one of the coiners myself then.”

“You?”

“Yes, me.”

“I am astonished.”

“You will be more so when you hear that the coiners not only now exist in the south of England, but that through them I heard of Farmer Bertram’s murder, and tracked you.”

“Impossible!”

“No, it isn’t. Here is a person who will explain all things,” said Captain Jack, rising and bowing to a thick-set, military-looking man, who entered.

“Mr. Phillip Redgill, allow me to introduce you to a friend of mine,”

“What name?” asked Phillip, colouring.

“Colonel Blood!” said Captain Jack, with a demon-like sneer.

“Betrayed!” sighed Phillip.

“Yes; why not, you had no more money?” whispered Captain Jack, “so therefore I have no further use for you. It’s quite a common plan with detectives.”

Then, addressing Colonel Blood in a different tone, he said,

“I have fulfilled my part of the bargain, Colonel, about the thirteen gibbets, and I hope—”

“That I will do mine, eh, Captain Jack? Well, you need not fear; your death warrant shall not be signed yet at all events. But,” casting his eyes on Phillip, he said, “we have been a long, long time in tracing out your villanies, young man, for you are very old in crime. Captain Jack,” he said, pointing to Phillip, “follow me.”

Captain Jack whistled, and, in a moment, three others of his men came in and escorted Phillip to prison.

As he was going out of the tavern door, who should he see standing by, but—

Sir Andrew, who grinned like a fiend, and threw up his hands in Christian horror.

He had not gone far down the street, ere he saw Augustus Fumbleton and Fanny riding out together.

“This is worse than death,” he thought, and struggled hard to get free.

But Captain Jack’s hand, like the grip of a vice, was upon his throat.

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Chapter XXX

THE COINERS’ CAVERN—SUBTERRANEAN ABODES—THE OATH—THE RELEASE—THE PROMISE.

“I don’t much like this, Master Ned,” exclaimed Tim, shivering, “where can we be going to?”

“Hold your tongue, you prating fool,” replied Ned, angrily, “your idle words will do more harm than good; do you hear me say anything?”

“All right, Master, but I ain’t Wildfire Ned, you know; I ain’t made of cast-iron.”

Tim would have added something else, but a violent jerking of the machine under his feet convinced him that they had reached the bottom.

Before he had time to recover from the shock, he was seized by two or three powerful men, who bound his arms behind him, and led him away.

They also blindfolded him, in spite of his groans for mercy, and, after dragging him along for about a hundred yards, they stopped, and, loosening the bandage from his eyes, thrust him under a vaulted arch.

He was evidently far under ground, and the soil on which he stood was of a whitish colour, similar to that in a lead mine.

The water was trickling down through the fissures of the rocks, and formed all around a stagnant pool.

But what struck Ned most forcibly was the singular appearance of his assassins, for as such he deemed them now to be.

They were all dressed in coarse baize coats, which reached to their knees, and were fastened in front by a huge clasp.

They wore leather breeches, covered by large top boots, which confined the greatest part of their legs.

Each of them had a couple of double-barrelled pistols stuck in his belt, and a rough beard flowed upon their breasts.

“I say, Nat!” cried one of the ruffians, “what shall we do with this black-looking scoundrel, the servant?”

“Why, leave him here, to be sure,” replied the tallest of the three, “and you shall guard him, it’s your turn to be on duty to-night, and you may as well take it here, as stand at the tower; and to keep you from the cold, here’s my cloak, which will keep out the shivers, I’ll warrant ye.”

This said he took the arm of his companion, and left Tim, with his guard, who began to pace up and down, without exchanging a single word with the prisoner.

But to return to Ned.

He shared no better fate than his servant, and before he had time to use his good sword, he was bound, and ordered to march forward.

He was led through the midst of five, and then into a sixth spacious apartment, dug in the earth, and lighted by a dim lamp, hanging in the centre.

He was requested by one of his conductors to sit on a bench.

Two of the band left the room, and the others sat near the entrance, and engaged in a whispering conversation.

Ned was then left to his own reflections, which were not of a tranquillising nature.

Nearly half an hour had elapsed when the two men mentioned above reappeared bearing lighted torches and an order from the captain to see the prisoner.

Young Ned Warbeck was now fully aware that he was in a cave of robbers, and he made up his mind for the worst, and marched boldly at the summons of one who seemed to be the leader of the band.

They proceeded, at a quick pace, through numerous vaulted arches, similar to which Ned had been confined in, and they were soon in the presence of the captain.

He was seated at a table with a bundle of papers in his left hand, and a sword in his right.

His dress was the same as that of his followers.

What distinguished him from the rest was a pair of long moustachios in addition to the beard, and a yellow band round his waist

His dark glaring eyes were fixed for a moment on the countenance of the young and handsome prisoner, who was leisurely surveying all around him.

“Unloose this young man,” said the captain, “and stand aside.”

Ned was immediately released from his bonds, and his guards took their places silently behind him.

The captain spent a few minutes in conference with some of his associates.

During this time young Ned had the leisure to perceive that he was mistaken in his conjectures respecting those whom he had taken for robbers; though not of a very different avocation, they could not literally be entitled to that appellation.

They were (as he plainly saw by the dye, which at first had escaped his enquiring eyes, and by the heaps of blanks all ready for impression), a set of men who defraud the revenue by circulating, to the detriment of the Mint, immense quantities of base coin—in fact, they were Coiners.

He knew not whether he had any right to be satisfied with the change; for, thought he, a robber will take your life rather than be detected, so would a coiner, rather than have his lawless proceedings come to light, have recourse to any means; but then, would they have forced him, as it were, to be an eye-witness of their crimes for the sole purpose of murdering him in cold blood?

These were his thoughts, which were diverted by an appeal from the captain—to answer his purposes.

“Who are you? What are you? and whence do you come?” asked the captain.

“My name is Warbeck. I am an officer in the king’s navy, and have come from Plymouth.”

“Well answered. Now, what brought you here?”

Ned Warbeck, in a few words, stated the circumstances above mentioned.

“Young man,” resumed the captain, “you stand charged with having fired at one of my men; of this I will keep little or no account, it was, as you might rightly observe, in self-defence. You have proved yourself bold and worthy of your profession. Many others have been driven from the landlord’s house by the same means.

“Though under very little fear of detection, as the entrance to our subterranean dwellings is known to no others but to ourselves, we have, nevertheless, thought it advisable to adopt some method of screening ourselves more effectually.

“We resolved to render that house uninhabitable.

“We bought it, but not being known in the neighbourhood, and never going out by night, and that only once a month to buy provisions, we deemed it useless, and therefore concocted the plan which you have witnessed, and which you must own requires as stout a heart as your own to withstand.

“The man whom you fired at, unaccustomed to such resistance, against which, however, he was well provided, having upon him a thick steel armour and fire-arms, thought it necessary to entice you to the trap-door, and bring you among us with your servant you may think his conduct impudent, such is also our opinion of it.

“At the first notice of your arrest, we were both surprised and astounded.

“We took council together; you were at first doomed to perpetual imprisonment in one of the vaults, or to be immediately put to death.

“At length your youth and courage prevailed, and it was resolved that you should be set at liberty, if you agree to the following conditions.

“First, you must swear by what is most sacred to a sailor, your honour, never to mention to any one what you have seen here this night, not even to give the slightest hint about it.

“Second, At your return to the landlord, you must tell him that you were dreadfully frightened and alarmed at the apparition you saw in his house, and engage him to pull it down, and make the best of the materials, as nobody will ever live among spectres who have sworn vengeance to him and his family if the house be inhabited.

“Should you consent to these conditions, you shall be set free, and your servant also.

“But mind, if you ever break the oath that is required of you, on the least danger threatening us, the next day shall not see you alive.

“We have confederates in all parts of the country, who will avenge us, and strike the fatal blow your wild will would have deserved.

“Your servant has seen nothing since he has been among us.

“Should he attempt to speak of being let down a trap, and seeing strange men, contradict him flatly, and treat his speech as the wanderings of an imagination deceived by terror, or the effect of liquor.

“I leave you now to your reflections, and give you an hour to make up your mind.”

The captain then rose, and walked to and fro with hurried steps, and then left the vaulted chamber.

Young Warbeck requested pen, ink, and paper, and wrote as follows:—

“Captain, I have had for a few moments a most terrible struggle in my mind.

“Honour and duty have alternately presented themselves to my imagination, but I have at last concluded that I can, by fulfilling what you require of me, keep the one unspotted without departing from the other.

“I will take the oath demanded.

“Your humanity and sense of honour have brought me to this determination, which fear or threats could not have extorted from me.”

He awaited with impatience the captain’s return, who in about an hour re-entered and took his seat at table.

Ned then handed him the letter he had just written.

The captain cast a rapid glance over the contents, and rising bade Ned Warbeck lift up his hand, and solemnly take the oath.

This done, he stepped towards him, and restored to him his sword, in token of freedom.

He gave him also two guides, who led him quickly for about six or seven hundred yards, under immense arches formed by nature, and brought him out near a torrent bordered by a thicket of brushwood.

Two horses were here in readiness for Ned Warbeck and Tim.

As they mounted to ride away, their conductors said, in solemn, warning tones,

“Remember your oath!”

“I will,” said Ned, in an undertone.

He and Tim rode rapidly away.

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Chapter XXXI

SIR ANDREW APPEARS IN A NEW CHARACTER—HIS DESIGNS ON DAME WORTHINGTON’S PROPERTY—HE CLAIMS RELATIONSHIP—THE POISONED DRAUGHTS—THE OLD DAME’S SAD EXPERIENCE IN THE WORLD—A STRANGER COMES UPON THE SCENE—NEWS FROM NED WARBECK.

There was some mystery attached to old Dame Worthington, Sir Richard Warbeck, and his two adopted nephews, Charley and Wildfire Ned.

What this mystery was, no one could find out; but Mistress Haylark swore in her own heart that there must be one, and she would have given her finger-ends to have found it out.

All that we can say at present is that, in her youth and prime, good Dame Worthington must have been a great beauty, for even now she bore traces of it.

All we know for a positive fact is that, when rather over thirty, she condescended to marry a sea captain, who, through Sir Richard Warbeck’s influence at the India House, had the command of a brig.

There were no children from the marriage and old Worthington proved a worthless drunken fellow, and, when in his cups, gave way to all manner of extravagances.

His jealous, uproarious disposition was fully manifested upon every possible occasion when ashore.

When drunk he would lie on the sofa and sing uproarious songs all night, to the infinite disgust of fellow lodgers.

When, perhaps, only half inebriated, and tempted as usual by jealousy, he would toss the furniture about and break all the crockery.

So that, everything considered, his absence was far more preferable than his presence.

Hence, when the news arrived that the barque “Columbo” had grounded in a gale, on the Florida Reefs, with the loss of all hands, Dame Worthington gave vent to her feelings in a few sobs and a fainting fit, but more than this she betrayed little of that grief which might have been expected from a loved and cherished wife.

Her only true and fast friend through life was, as he always had been, old Sir Richard Warbeck.

He furnished a private hotel for her, the management of which fully occupied her time and brought in much money.

But now that Charley Warbeck was married and settled, she seemed in part satisfied, and looked even younger than ever.

But still she fretted much for Ned Warbeck, who was at sea, for of the two youths she loved him much the best.

He was younger, bolder, and far more handsome than Charley, but he was always a wild, harum-scarum youth; and, since he had run away to sea the old dame fretted much, wept in secret, and would have given the world to have seen her darling boy once more.

But everybody said that, since he had gone out in search of the Skeleton Crew, he would never return alive.

“Don’t believe such idle tales,” said Sir Richard, often. “Young Ned has got as many lives as a cat. Put him where you will, he is sure to fall on his feet.”

But now a stranger made Dame Worthington’s acquaintance.

This was no other than old Sir Andrew!

He had got tired of country life, and determined to start again in the city.

He had heard and knew that old Sir Richard was not only very wealthy and powerful, but that he constantly visited good Dame Worthington.

“She is a silly, soft-hearted woman,” thought Sir Andrew. “By going to live there, I shall fall across Sir Richard, and it may be that by-and-bye we may get better acquainted, and he may assist me in re-establishing myself in business.”

“If any one wants to get favours out of a man, let him flatter the woman that man most respects,” thought Sir Andrew.

He was a “canny Scot,” and, like all his nation, had a long, calculating head.

He had not been residing long at Dame Worthington’s, therefore—his wife was always in the country—when he and she became remarkably chatty together, and communicative.

Sir Andrew passed himself off as a widower, and told such a pitiful tale how he had been wronged and dishonoured by Phillip and his own daughter, that the good dame listened attentively to all the old hypocrite had to say, and not only sympathised with him, but even went so far as to plead his cause to Sir Richard, who, she thought, from his power and position, might help Sir Andrew on to the path of fortune once more.

The cunning Scot knew that nothing pleases a woman more than flattery, particularly in one who is a “good listener,” and can hear out the many long stories which widows always have to tell.

Every one have their trials and troubles, as we have seen in this tale, besides Sir Andrew, hence it need not surprise any one to be informed that good Dame Worthington had a very long list of grievances to complain of in her dealings with the world.

It was her settled conviction that old widows were the most oppressed class in existence, and herself the most deeply wronged of them all.

Butchers, bakers, milkmen, and tax-collectors were her abomination, and she often sighed that boarding houses could not be carried on without them.

“For, my dear,” she would say, “one has scarcely got a few pounds in hand, before down come the bills upon you, first for one thing, and then for another, so that we never have a penny to call our own. And then, there’s our losses; ah, my dear, you haven’t the slightest notion of what I have to suffer; poor folks like me have occasion to be ‘smart,’ these times, I can assure you, for we see a deal of this wicked world in a very short time.

“Just fancy, my dear; little more than two years ago, a very respectable-looking, genteel young man, calls on me.

“‘Good morning, Dame Worthington,’ says he.

“‘Good morning, sir,’ says I, ‘and what do you please to want?’

“‘I have been in search of hotel accommodation, ma’am,’ says he, ‘for several days; respectable apartments in a respectable neighbourhood, and hearing yours highly spoken of, I have called.’

“Well, my dear, he was the nicest young man you ever see; so mild and quiet, and honest looking, very much like my brother was before he was killed, and I thought that he certainly must be a very genteel, amiable young man, and I let him have the lodgings.

“After a few nights he got more and more at home with the lodgers, and even played the harp and guitar in the parlour; and Mistress Haylark said, and the other ladies also, that he was the nicest young man, that ever lived in my house.

“He dressed very stylish, my dear, and would have his apartments arranged, and swept, and dusted oftener than anybody else, for which he was willing to pay ‘extra,’ he said, if required.

“The number of wax candles that young man had, and the coals, and odds and ends of different kinds, were considerable, my dear, but he said he had never denied himself in anything, being rich, and, therefore, couldn’t do without them.

“The number of things which shopmen sent in, was wonderful; new boots and shoes, new coats and waistcoats, and fine linen, until we all began to think, at one time, he was going to make a runaway match with Mistress Haylark’s daughter Fanny.

“For he seemed very sweet in that quarter, and Mistress Haylark was very fond of him also; too fond of him, I think, between ourselves, considering she’s a widow just as old as me almost, except she primps and paints, and wears false back hair.

“Oh, bless you, we all liked him amazing, and he was so nicely dressed and well behaved, and had so many ways of entertaining a room full of company, that the first month passed like a single week.

“Although my rule is ‘weekly payments,’ he was so polite, and offered me so many references that I felt I could trust my whole house in his hands.

“I loaned him several sums on different occasions, as he was out of ‘small change,’ he said, and after he had been two months in the house—oh! that I’m obliged to confess it—he, one night, suddenly disappeared, trunks and all! without paying any one a single penny, my dear!

“Oh, I was never taken aback so much in my whole life!

“Not that I cared for what he owed me, you know, although I am a poor lone widow without any natural protector, and earn every penny by the sweat of my brow.

“Oh, it hurt Miss Josephine Smith, next door, very much, my dear; she has never been the same girl since, for she was ‘dead on’ to him.

“Mistress Haylark was frantic almost; she had loaned him £10, and he walked off with her best diamond ring; think o’ that.

“How that diamond ring (‘paste,’ my dear, between ourselves) should have come into his hands is a mystery to me, without she gave it to him, which shows how some people can lower themselves when they are manœuvring to marry off a daughter.

“But between you and me, although everybody knows that I am not given to backbiting or detracting, which I consider mean in anybody, but specially in a landlady talking of her own lodgers, who pay regular, and give little trouble, I must say, my dear, that I think at that time she was trying to get the young man herself!

“Because, although my eyes are not the best in the world, on account of the troubles I have gone through, and the many briny tears I have shed, I can see as far as most folks, and when I hear silk rustling on a dark landing, and hear a scuffling going on, it don’t take long for me to guess which way the wind is blowing in certain quarters that I know of, my dear.”

“You see there are so many different kinds of people, that it takes great experience and the patience of Job, to keep a respectable boarding house the way it should be.

“Now, there’s Mistress Tiffler, my dear, who keeps a house just round the corner—why bless you, I wouldn’t have a place like hers for all the world—I can’t go by the house without turning up my nose, for really it seems to smell of nothing else but grease and dirt.

“Nobody looks clean at that house; and, as to feeding, good gracious! you should only see what half-starved wretches they are. Well, how can it be otherwise, my dear?

“She goes off to market, and buys up all kinds of rubbish, which I wouldn’t touch. She boards ’em cheap, and is a regular vixen, my dear; a perfect ‘hurricane’ as my poor, lost sailor husband used to say.

“But then, of course, there is no comparison between me and such a woman as that. How she gets along with the Germans, and French, and others who live in her place, I can’t see.

“They are always having rows there, but no one can even whisper, and say that anything of the kind ever happened to my house, except once, when two of the lodgers, young city clerks, fell out about a servant girl, who was rather good-looking, and knocked each other down stairs.

“You have no notion, my dear, of my troubles.

“If I have mutton as the principal dish some one grumbles, if I have beef another sniffs and says he’s dined already.

“Then Mistress this is too lazy to come down to breakfast, and almost pulls the bell down for Sarah to take it up to her.

“Then Miss the other, her daughter, don’t like tea nor coffee and must have chocolate and toast; while two or three others eat hot cakes faster than we can make ’em; and then there’s more grumbling and threatening to leave, until it worries my very life out almost.

“I don’t care much about how the men talk, you know, because I can manage them.

“If their boots and hot water aren’t ready I can plead an excuse of some kind, and even if they do ‘burst out’ like, and tell you what they think, and threaten to go, I don’t dislike ’em, because, as my poor husband used to say, ‘after the storm there’s always a calm,’ and then my turn comes.

“If they owe anything I talks like a sensible woman to ’em, and ‘rides a high horse,’ but if they don’t I only smiles, and takes no notice.

“Oh, I can get along with the men, my dear, I always could. I would rather have to do with ten men than one woman; and wouldn’t have one in the house at all if I could help it.

“But, then, you see, my dear, men will have women in the house; I don’t blame ’em a bit, it looks natural like.

“A house don’t look right without a woman or two but; heaven keep me from having a houseful of young women and young men!

“I tried it once, but it wouldn’t answer, my dear.

“Oh, the sorrow and vexation I had with ’em. I had my hands full, and soon gave it up.

“Young widows in the house are just as bad.

“I abominate widows in the house from my heart, particularly when young and handsome, although I am a widow myself.

“There’s always trouble about ’em, and they are always flirting with some one, and getting the men into fusses.

“But what can you do, my dear? You must have some one that’s attractive to keep the men together, otherwise the place would be as cold and cheerless to ’em as an ice-house.

“But, then, my dear, they talk so much, there’s no end to their chatter.

“You can’t keep ’em from it, and the older they get the more they have to say about their neighbours.

“Not that I care, you know, my dear; they can talk as much as they like for all me, so they pays their bills, and don’t actually insult me to my face.

“But it is very aggravating, my dear, to see ’em chatting and whispering in each other’s rooms, passing unkind remarks behind one’s back, and appearing all smiles and friendly like before your face.

“It don’t matter what you do for ’em, my dear, they will talk about you; and, although I’m no eavesdropper, and wouldn’t listen at any one’s door for all the world, I do know certain things of certain parties, which would surprise certain quarters, if it was only whispered in their ear confidentially, my dear.

“But I’m not one of that kind; I know my position too well for that, my dear, and wouldn’t lower my dignity by peeping into their rooms when they are out, not me! or prying into boxes and drawers, and rummaging about with their work-boxes and private notes. No indeed, nothing of that kind in my house, my dear.

“If they meets me on the landing and says,

“‘Dame Worthington, will you come in for a few moments?’

“I always says,

“‘Certainly, with pleasure, Mistress Perkins; how do you do this morning ma’am? you are looking very well, I never saw you look so young and captivating, indeed I didn’t. Come in! of course I will, for a few minutes, to have a friendly chat, like, about old times.’

“But I always says,

“‘Please don’t offer me any refreshment, Mistress Perkins,’ I says, ‘because my stomach is weak, and I can’t stand it; a thimbleful of brandy would knock me over, my dear, in a minute.’

“Because a glass of ginger wine don’t cost much, you know, my dear; and if you accepts their little deceitful offers, they always takes advantage of it to wear the very legs off the poor servant girl, and me too, if I’d let ’em.

“But I lets ’em ring away till tired, and takes no notice, until they comes down stairs themselves, and then when they knocks at my door, I seems surprised not to hear the bell, and then they gets what they want.

“Bless you, my dear, if something wasn’t done, we should wear the stairs out.

“First there’s old Mr. Brown upstairs, he wants hot water half-a-dozen times a day and can’t hear the dinner bell without it is rung outside his door.

“Mistress Perkins is always in want of something, and that wretched pet dog of hers is always causing trouble.

“It was only the other day I missed a beefsteak off the kitchen table, and at last I traced it upstairs to Mistress Perkins,’ door, where the dog stood growling and showing his teeth, until in fright I upset the servant maid and her pail of water, and fell headlong down stairs.”

The smiling old scoundrel, Sir Andrew, would sit and listen to the good old dame, as she recounted her trials and troubles, and would nod in approval as meekly as a lamb.

But he was a deep designing old villain, as we shall see.

It is true that the old dame had fallen downstairs and seriously hurt herself and was then very ill.

He also had learned that, in some way, she was a very distant relation of his, and the only one then living.

This discovery greatly surprised old Dame Worthington, and Sir Richard Warbeck also; but the cunning scoundrel supported his statement to relationship with so much plausible, but fictitious, evidence that both Sir Richard and Dame Worthington took the cunning Scotchman into their confidence.

Sir Andrew had now “the game in his own hands,” he thought, and he also came by the information, that should Sir Richard die first, all his property, if Phillip Redgill was proved guilty of the crimes of which Captain Jack accused him, would all go to Charley, Ned Warbeck, and Dame Worthington.

“As she has made her will already,” thought Sir Andrew, “and left me a small sum, and the rest to the Warbecks, it would not be very difficult to get the will altered altogether in my favour,

“And poison her!”

This devilish design he resolved to put into execution.

He was very attentive to old Dame Worthington, and would suffer no one, as a “relation,” in the absence of Sir Richard, to administer to her any medicine, however simple.

With these opportunities in his hand, Sir Andrew made good use of his time.

He never allowed a chance to pass him, but, day by day, was gradually poisoning her.

The old dame got weaker and weaker every day.

The doctors could not make it out.

Yet the sole object of her thoughts was the adventurous stray one, Ned Warbeck, “her favourite boy.”

While propped up in her chair, one day in the parlour, and surrounded by her friends, she was continually speaking of her “poor sailor boy,” Ned, when a gentleman, who was present, said,

“Well, madam, I know not who your young favourite is, but I am a sailor myself and love the profession.”

“It is a compliment to me to hear you speak in such glowing terms of our gallant tars.

“And the bravest of them all is Ned Warbeck, I know,” said the old dame with a flushed cheek.

“Of course he is,” said old Sir Andrew, trying to smile, but at the same time, congratulating himself at the potent power of the secret poison he was daily administering for the sake of the good old dame’s money. “Ned Warbeck, of course he is the bravest of the brave,” he muttered, “there isn’t a lad in all the king’s navy like to him.”

“Ned Warbeck?” said the stranger, in astonishment.

“Yes, do you know him?” asked the good dame, in great curiosity.

The stranger did not answer, but said, “If you will only listen, I’ll tell you something that will gratify you.”

So saying, he lit his pipe again, and commenced his story round the crackling winter fire.

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Chapter XXXII

A LEAP FOR LIFE—THE BRAVERY OF A YOUNG MIDDY—THE TALE STARTLES ALL PRESENT—WHO IS HE?

“The last cruise I made in the Channel was in search of the Skeleton Crew, in the ‘Diamond’ frigate, ‘Trumps,’ as we sometimes used to call our gallant ship.

“We had been tacking and filling for several weeks on the western coast in search of Death-wing’s phantom ship of smugglers, and, during that time, we had had some pretty heavy weather.

“When we reached Flamborough Head, there was a spanking wind blowing from west-south-west; so we squared away, and without coming to at the Head made straight for old Hull, the general rendezvous and place of refitting for our squadrons in the German Ocean, because smugglers are plentiful there.

“Immediately on arriving there, we warped in alongside the quay, where we stripped ship to a girt line, and gave her a regular-built overhauling from stem to stern.

“Many hands, however, make light work.

“In a very few days all was accomplished.

“The stays and shrouds were set up, and new rattled down; the yards crossed, the running rigging rose, and sails bent.

“And the old craft, fresh painted and all a-taunto looked as fine as a midshipman on liberty.

“In place of the storm stumps which had been stowed away among the booms and other spare spars amidships, we had sent up top-gallant masts and royal poles, with a sheave for sky-sails and houst enough for sky-scrapers among them.

“So you may judge the old frigate looked pretty taunt.

“There was a Dutch line ship in the harbour, but though we carried only thirty to her forty guns, her main-truck would hardly have reached to our royal mast-head.

“When we had got everything ship-shape and man-of-war fashion, we hauled out again, and took berth about half a mile from the quay.

“What little wind we had had in the fore part of the day, died away at noon, and though the first dog-watch was almost out, and the sun was near the horizon, not a breath of air had risen to disturb the deep serenity of the scene.

“Even on board our vessel a degree of stillness unusual for a man-of-war prevailed among the crew.

“It was the hour of the evening meal, and the low hum that came from the gun-deck had an indistinct and buzzing sound.

“On the top of the boom cover, and in the full glare of the sun, lay a tall negro, ‘Black Jake’ the jig-maker of the ship, and a striking specimen of African peculiarities, in whose single person they were all strongly developed.

“His flat nose was dilated to unusual width, and his ebony cheeks fairly glistened with delight, as he looked up at the gambols of a huge ape, which had been entrusted to our care to take to Plymouth, and which, clinging to the main-stay just above Jake’s, the big negro’s, woolly head, was chattering and grinning back at the ‘Darkie’ as if there existed some mutual intelligence between them.

“I was on watch on deck, and standing amusing myself by observing the antics of the black and his congenial playmate the ape, but at length tiring of the rude mirth, had turned towards the taffrail to gaze on the more agreeable features of that scene.

“Just at that moment, a shout and a curse burst upon my ear.

“Looking quickly round to ascertain the cause of the unusual sound on a frigate ship, I was horrified at what I saw.

“The commodore was on board that day with his wife, child and nurse.

“The nurse and child had just come out of the Captain’s state cabin, when Jacko the ape, being teazed by the negro, plunged wildly towards the nurse, broke his chain, seized the commodore’s infant boy, and with a terrific scream rushed up the rigging with it!

“This was a most horrible predicament, for the ape was only half tamed!

“A single glance to the main-yard explained the occasion of Jake the negro’s shout and curse.

“The nurse had been coming up from the cabin when Jacko perceiving her near him, broke his thin chain, dropped suddenly down from the main-mast and running along the boom cover seized the nurse’s cap from her head, frightened her into a fit, and seizing the child, immediately darted up the main-topsail sheet, and thence to the bunt of the main-yard, where he now sat grinning and screeching most horribly, tossing the child about and each moment threatening to kill it.

“But one of our young midshipmen, a great favourite on board, who was a sprightly active fellow, and called Ned, though he could not climb so nimbly as an ape, yet had no mind to let the child suffer or be strangled without an effort to regain it, and kill the monster.

“Perhaps he was the more strongly excited to make chase after Jacko and the child, from noticing how much the commodore had praised him for former acts of bravery, and by the loud curses of the nigger Jake, who seemed suddenly horror-stricken at what had happened, because it might have been thought that he had been the main cause of the sad occurrence by teasing Jacko.

“‘Ha, you rascal Jacko, hab you no more respect for de commodore den to steal his child? We bring you to de gangway, you black nigger, and get you a dozen on de bare back for a tief, and afterwards skin you alive.’

“The ape looked down from his perch, as if he understood the threat of the negro, and chattered a sort of defiance, showing his teeth, and each instant seemed as if he would bite the crying infant.

“‘Ha, ha! Massa Ned, he say you must ketch him ’fore you flog him, and it’s no so easy for a midshipman in boots to ketch a big ape barefoot.’

“A red spot mounted to the cheeks of Ned, as he cast a glance of offended pride and contempt at Jake, and then sprung across the deck to Jacob’s ladder.

“In an instant he was half-way up the rigging, running over the ratlines as lightly as if they were an easy flight of stairs.

“The shrouds scarcely quivered beneath his elastic motion.

“In a second more his hand was on the futtocks.

“‘Massa Ned,’ cried Jake, who sometimes, from being a favorite, ventured to take liberties with the younger officers.

“‘Massa Ned, you best crawl through the ‘lubber’s hole;’ it take a sailor-man to climb de futtock shroud.’

“But he had scarcely time to utter his pretended caution before Ned was in the top.

“The infuriated ape, in the meantime, had awaited the gallant middy’s approach, until perceiving he held a glittering dirk between his teeth, he began to chatter and scream, and toss and twirl the screaming infant about, until each moment seemed to be its last.

“The sight was sickening, for no one knew how to catch the ape.

“He might at any moment, in his fury, have dashed the infant’s brains out against the mast.

“No one dared to fire, for the same shot might have killed the child.

“Besides, if the ape had been wounded, he would then have surely killed the babe for revenge.

“Gallant Ned had nearly got up the rigging, when the ape clasped the baby more firmly, and, running along the yard to the opposite side of the top, sprang up a rope, and thence to the topmast back-stay.

“Up this it ran to the topmast cross-trees, where it again quietly seated itself and resumed its work of scratching the baby’s head, and pulling its clothes to pieces.

“The cries of the child were now ear-piercing and heartrending.

“For several minutes I stood watching the gallant young middy follow Jacko the ape from one piece of rigging to another, the ape all the while seeming only to exert such speed as was necessary to elude its pursuer, and pausing whenever the latter appeared to be weary of the exciting chase.

“All on deck were breathless with excitement.

“At last, by manœuvring thus, the mischievous animal, which looked now more ferocious than ever, succeeded in enticing the gallant young middy as high as the royal mast-head.

“Springing suddenly from place to place, the chattering ape climbed the sky-sail pole, and, to the horror of every one, was actually tying, and did tie, the child on the main truck, a small circular piece of wood on the loftiest mast, and at a height from the deck so great that it made one dizzy to think of it.

“A shout of horror ran through all the crew.

“The ape had succeeded in tying the child with its own clothes on to the highest point of the tallest mast, and there it was, swaying to and fro, and in danger each second of falling off and being crushed to atoms.

“The cries of the mother were heartrending.

“Having done this amount of mischief, Jacko ran nimbly down to the fore-top gallant mast-head, thence down the rigging to the fore-top, when, leaping on the fore-yard, it ran out to the yard-arm, and there began capering about, chattering, screeching, and making the most hideous noises.

“The young middy was completely tired out with chasing Jacko, to save the child; but, unwilling to return to the deck while the child was in such unearthly danger, he took deliberate aim at the ape, and shot it in the head.

“The infuriated monster was only wounded, but with a scream it rushed at the brave middy, and there, in the rigging, took place one of the most awful fights man ever witnessed!

“The excitement on board was now something awful and intense.

“Every moment it was thought that the gallant lad would be killed or crushed to death by the infuriated monster.

“Men on all sides rushed to his assistance.

“But before they climbed half-way up, the gallant middy stabbed the ape and ran it through and through with his sword.

GIVEN AWAY!!

SCENES, SHEETS OF CHARACTERS, AND A LARGE STAGE FRONT FOR A NEW PLAY, CALLED “ALONE IN THE PIRATES’ LAIR.”

READ THE “BOYS OF ENGLAND,” AND SECURE THE ABOVE MAGNIFICENT GIFTS.

ONE PENNY WEEKLY.

“Dark gore stained the snow-white decks.

“The next moment, with a loud scream, Jacko fell a lifeless, mangled mass upon the deck.

“Loud shouts recognised the middy’s victory.

“But his most dangerous task was yet before him.

“None of us expected he had the strength to reach the main truck and rescue the child, but while I turned my head in sickened horror, I was suddenly startled by a cry from Black Jake—

“‘Oh! massa, massa! Massa Ned, the middy, is on de main truck!’

“A cold shudder ran through my veins as the words reached me.

“I cast my eyes upwards to the dizzy height.

“It was too true.

“There, up aloft, and looking like a speck, the gallant lad climbed and held on to the main truck.

“There was nothing above nor around him but the empty air.

“But still he climbed.

“One moment more, and he has saved the child!

“A loud cheer greets him as he unties the little thing, and he waves his cap.

“But why doesn’t he come down with the baby?

“He cannot!

“He is too weak to attempt it!

“What must he do?

“He climbs on to the top of the main truck.

“He sits on the round piece of wood, which, from the deck, looks no bigger than a button.

“Dreadful daring!

“If he should attempt to stoop, he has nothing to take hold on.

“Nothing was within reach beneath him but a long, smooth, naked spar, which even then bent with his weight.

“Any attempt to get down with the child would be almost certain death.

“He would lose his balance and be dashed to pieces!

“Such was the nature of the thoughts of everyone on board, as they gazed at the adventurous youth up aloft.

“The parents of the child were now almost frantic.

“They had to be led into the cabin, for they were well-nigh crazed with fear.

“What was to be done?

“No one dared to go up after him, for the spar even now bent under his weight.

“I looked up, and half thought I could see the brave lad’s limbs tremble and his cheeks all red with excitement.

“Each second I thought would be his last.

“I could not bear to look at him, and yet could not withdraw my gaze.

“I myself had the sensation of one about to fall from a great height.

“Making a strong effort to recover myself, like a dreamer who fancies he is shoved from a precipice, I staggered up against the bulwarks.

“When my eyes turned from the dizzy height to which they had been riveted, sense and consciousness came back.

“I looked around: the deck was crowded with every man and boy in the ship.

“All the officers had now heard of the young midshipman, and hurried from their berths below to witness the appalling sight.

“Every one, as he looked up and beheld the perilous, hopeless condition of the gallant midshipman and child, turned pale.

“Once a lieutenant seized a trumpet, as if to hail the middy up in the clouds, but, he had scarcely raised it to his lips, when his arm dropped again, and sank beside him, as if from sad consciousness of the perfect uselessness of what he had been going to say.

“Every eye was now turned upward.

“All was dead silence.

“‘What is he doing?’ said one.

“‘He is tying the child firmly on his back.’

“‘He is strapping it tightly with his belt.’

“‘Well done.’

“‘Gallant lad.’

“‘See how he rocks.’

“‘What will he do next?’

“‘Death is certain for both, or it is a miracle.’

“Thus whispered one to another, as they watched the brave youth now more intently than ever.

“At this moment there was a stir among the crew about the decks.

“Directly after another face was added to those on the quarter-deck, it was that of the infant’s father, the appalled commodore.

“He had come from the cabin in great haste, and without having been noticed by a single one of the crew, so intense and universal was the interest that had fastened every gaze upon the spot where the intrepid Ned now stood, trembling on the awful verge of fate!

“The commodore was a dark, austere man; and it was thought by some of the midshipmen that he entertained but little affection for the gallant Ned.

“However that might have been, it was certain he treated him with precisely the same courtesy and discipline that he would any other of the young officers.

“If there was any difference at all, it was not the least in favour of Ned, for young Warbeck, if anything, was ‘too fast.’

“Some who studied his character closely, affirmed that he admired young Ned as he might have done his own son, but not too well to spoil him. For Ned intending himself for the arduous profession in which the commodore had himself risen to fame and eminence, the old sailor thought it would be of service to him to experience some of its privations and hardships at the very outset.

“The arrival of the commodore upon the scene now changed the direction of several eyes, which now turned on him to trace what emotions the danger of his infant son would occasion.

“But there scrutiny was foiled.

“By no outward sign did he show what passed within.

“Immediately on reaching the deck, he had ordered a marine to hand him a musket.

“With this, stepping aft, and getting on the look-out block, he raised it to his shoulder, and took a deliberate aim at his infant son and Ned, at the same time hailing him without a trumpet, in a voice of thunder.

“‘Ned,’ cried he, ‘jump! jump overboard! or I’ll fire at you!’

“The gallant lad did not hear what was said, and seemed to hesitate!

“It was plain that he was tottering from intense weakness, for his arms were thrown out like one scarcely able to retain his balance.

“The old commodore raised his voice again, and, in a quicker and more emphatic tone, cried out,

“‘Jump! ’tis your only chance for life!’

“The words were scarcely out of his mouth before the gallant boy seemed to leave the truck and spring out into the air!

“A sound between a shriek and a groan burst from many lips.

“The father spoke not—sighed not.

“Indeed he did not seem to breathe.

“With a rush like that of a cannon-ball, the middy and his precious burden descended to the water.

“Before the waves closed over them, twenty stout fellows, among them several officers, had dived from the bulwarks.

“Another short period of bitter suspense ensued.

“He rose.

“He was alive!

“His arms are seen to move!

“He struck out towards the ship!

“And despite of the discipline of a man-of-war three loud huzzas, an outburst of unfeigned and unrestrainable joy from the hearts of our numerous crew, pealed through the air and made the welkin ring.

“Till this moment the old commodore stood unmoved.

“The gallant middy and the child were safe!

“The eyes that, glistening with pleasure, now sought his face, saw that it was ashy pale.

“He attempted to descend the horse-block, but his knees bent under him.

“He seemed to gasp for breath, and put up his hand, as if to tear open his vest, but, before he could accomplish his object, he staggered forward, and would have fallen on deck had he not been caught by old Black Jake.

“He was borne into his cabin, where the surgeon attended him, whose utmost skill was required to restore his mind to its usual equability and self-command, in which he at last happily succeeded.

“As soon as he had recovered from the dreadful shock, he sent for the gallant Ned and had a long confidential chat, but so overpowered was he, that he could only grasp Ned’s hand, as he said in a faint voice,

“‘Heaven bless you, my lad; you have proved yourself a hero, and worthy of the profession you have chosen. I shall write to the Admiralty directly and inform them of your grand feat, and I have no doubt promotion will attend it. At all events, Ned, accept my heartfelt thanks.’”

“‘You have made an old man happy and young again.’”

* * * * *

“A most gallant deed,” said the old dame.

“Yes, worthy of the Spartans,” chuckled Sir Andrew.

“You said the name of the ship was—”

“The ‘Diamond.’”

“Why, that was the vessel in which young Warbeck sailed with Lieutenant Garnet.”

“I know it was,” said the stranger. “She has had a most successful cruise against the Skeleton Crew and the smugglers, and chief among those who distinguished themselves, both afloat and ashore, was the same gallant young middy I have been speaking to you about.”

“He must be an heroic boy, whoever he is, and he is called Ned, too, eh?”

“We used to call him Wildfire Ned,” said the stranger, laughing; “he is a lieutenant now, and on his way to London.”

“It must be Ned Warbeck, then,” said several.

“It was none other,” said the stranger, laughing; “and I commanded the ship; my name is—

“Captain, late Lieutenant, Garnet.”

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