We shall here pause for a few moments to give a slight sketch of the principal agent employed by Geoffery in this part of the business, and indeed in the conduct of the whole affair.

In Arden, the neighbouring county town, there lived a solicitor, who, unfortunately for the honour of humanity and his own especial calling, was without exception, the most thorough-paced villain unhanged; nay, many have been hanged who were not half as bad; for this man was not only without remorse of conscience, but also without remorse of heart. His only reason for committing more robberies than murders was, that the former crime was in general more profitable than the latter; but as to who died the lingering death of a broken heart, he cared not, so long as he gained a few pounds by the transaction.

He was known for a mean contemptible fellow, and consequently possessed but little of the confidence of the higher orders, so that when he could catch a gentleman to plunder, it was a sort of prize in the lottery to him; but unfortunate tradesmen in a little way, were his natural prey: to such, when perishing in the gulf of misery, he pretended to stretch a helping hand, but with that very hand assisted in the work of destruction, and finally possessed himself of the wreck of their fortunes. This fellow, by name Fips, had long been Geoffery Arden's right-hand man, and for all his services had invariably been one way or other payed out of Sir Willoughby's pocket. Such was the fitting coadjutor to whom Geoffery applied for that assistance which the present momentous occasion demanded, as the following interview will show without absolutely committing himself.

Fips, who had just dined, was seated in an old-fashioned black-bottomed mahogany arm-chair, which he filled, or rather over-filled, in much the same manner as a feather-bed tucked into the same piece of furniture would have done; and had there been a cord tied round the centre of the said bed as a convenient mode of carriage, it would have bisected its yielding rotundity, just as the single middle button of Mr. Fips's waistcoat did that of the wearer.

With a hand so fat that it could scarcely grasp the decanter, yet trembling from habitual excess, Fips was helping himself to the last glass of the bottle of port with which he had followed up liberal potations of brandy and water, not water and brandy, swallowed during dinner; while the flabby cheeks, double chin, and bottle-nose of the sot, his health being none of the best, partook more of the purple hue than of the lively living red. Beside him sat his only daughter and sole domestic companion, Miss Fips. She was about six-and-twenty, and but for the showy vulgarity of her dress, the unshrinking boldness of her demeanour, and the rouge with which she unnecessarily heightened her complexion, she would have been extremely handsome, her figure being well made and showy, though on rather a large scale; her hair redundant, black, and glossy, and dressed in numberless gigantic bows, which sat à merveille, the tresses of which they were formed being strong in texture as a horse's mane; her eyes were large, dark and bold; her features regular—lips full—teeth large but good—and skin, though coarse, of a snowy white.

"Ha, Fips, how are ye?" said Geoffery entering. He next made his salutations to the lady, with a marked effort of gallantry in his manner.—"So you have been making merry alone, I see, old fellow," he added, turning again to Fips; "and I am just come in time for the empty bottle."

"Never mind, we'll have it changed for a full one. Come, sit ye down. Deb, go send us in a bottle of claret. Strange news afloat, Mr. Arden!" he added, as Deborah disappeared.

"Stranger perhaps than you imagine, Fips," replied Geoffery with well affected solemnity. "Indeed, the only conclusion at which it is possible to arrive, after an impartial review of the circumstances," he pursued, lowering his voice, "is too horrible to be thought of. For myself, I am as you will allow very painfully situated. If a 'most foul and unnatural murder' has been committed, it would be dastardly and contemptible in me, the nearest in blood, to suffer the murderer to escape, merely from a want of activity and decision in seeking out and bringing together sufficient evidence. Yet on the other hand, should my cousin, as I sincerely hope he may, prove innocent, it might appear invidious in me, the next heir, to have evinced what, though but a respect for justice, might be misconstrued into a too great willingness to find him guilty." Here the entrance of the claret and the consequent discussion of its merits for a time interrupted the conversation.

"The object of my visit," said Geoffery, when the wine had been pronounced excellent, "is to crave once more that which I have so often before found useful—your friendly advice and assistance. What in fact I at present stand most in need of, is a friend whose disinterested exertions should ensure the ends of justice being answered, without my appearing to take an active part in this truly shocking affair."

"Humph," said Fips, who by all this as perfectly understood as though it had been said in as many words, that the secret service required of him, and for which, if successful, he should no doubt be munificently rewarded, was to hang Sir Alfred Arden, whether innocent or guilty; and by so doing, give Geoffery, who was the inevitable heir, by a strict male entail, possession of the title and estates.

Geoffery proceeded to give Fips an account of the circumstances connected with the melancholy event, in a manner ingeniously calculated to exhibit those features of the case most susceptible of exaggeration or misrepresentation; he also recapitulated his own examination of the several servants, thus giving Fips an opportunity of judging what witnesses might, if necessary, be found most available.

"For that matter," he added, "if you could find an opportunity yourself of conversing with these people, it might be desirable; you would understand the subject more fully."

Something was next said of the impropriety of suffering the public mind, and, through so all-pervading a medium, future judges and juries to be prejudiced by the general high character and seeming amiability of Sir Alfred, for such qualities were no palliation of the crime, if indeed, as he feared there could be no doubt, it had been committed.

There was another point of infinite importance, which was, that the business should not be allowed to pass over without any investigation, as might be the case, if, for one reason or other, every one thought it necessary to be supine. He would himself be glad, if possible, to avoid taking an active part, yet something must be done; he should never forgive himself if the time for investigation were allowed to pass by, and the waves of oblivion to close over so shocking a transaction. While, on the other hand, if Sir Alfred were perfectly innocent, which, notwithstanding appearances, he should still be too happy to find the case, it would be the most cruel injustice to him, not to wipe out this foul stain from his reputation by a full and fair inquiry. He would have little reason to thank the friends, who, from false delicacy, had suffered the proper occasion for so doing to pass over. At the same time it was very desirable that the necessary steps should be taken with the greatest possible delicacy; no one should appear to entertain a suspicion until the force of evidence should compel conviction.

"This is the line of conduct," continued Geoffery, "which I mean to observe with Sir Alfred, who, I know, has himself at present no apprehension that any suspicions are afloat. He gives out, it seems, and expects the public to believe, that his brother died of a fit of apoplexy. The Doctor, it is true, did allow that the symptoms were such as might have attended a sudden seizure of the kind."

To keep his unsuspecting kinsman as long as possible in the dark by this pretended delicacy, was, as we have said, a part of Geoffery's hellish plot. He had contrived, under the mask of sympathy, to put a few important questions to Alfred, and the answers to these had been such, as very materially to increase his hopes of ultimate success. But he knew that if Alfred were informed that such a surmise, as that of his having wilfully murdered his poor brother, had found a place in the mind of any being upon earth, he would of course immediately come forward, and court the fullest investigation. And though it did not follow that even this must clear him, his avoiding inquiry, as Geoffery knew he would continue to do, while under his present impression, would furnish, when connected with the circumstances that must come out in evidence, a strong presumption of guilt.

"Humph! humph!" uttered from time to time with the intonation of a fat pig wallowing in mud, had been the cautious comment of the sagacious Mr. Fips, during this lengthened tirade, except indeed that an involuntary exclamation of "No! That's good!" had broken from him on the mention of the piece of paper marked "Poison" having fallen from within the breast of Sir Alfred's waistcoat, and again, "That's better still," accompanied by a resounding stroke of his clenched hand on the table, when Geoffery came to his having himself seen the missing packet of arsenic in Sir Alfred's escritoire.

"I am always happy to oblige you, Mr. Arden," at length commenced Mr. Fips; "but after all, this is a kind of thing which cannot be said to be much in the way of my business; without, indeed, it could be contrived that I was to be attorney for the prosecution; for that there will be a prosecution there can be no doubt from what you tell me. I had heard all before, certainly in the way of report, but I had no idea it could be at all true;—I had no notion you had so good a case."

Geoffery undertook to arrange that Fips should be the attorney employed. "You have often, Fips," he continued, "conducted business for me in the most liberal and friendly manner, when it was not in my power to remunerate your services as they merited; should I however have the misfortune—for misfortune I must call it, taking all the circumstances into consideration—to succeed to the Arden estates on the present occasion, to repay amply all your past disinterested friendship shall be my first care. You shall not only have the agency, which is no trifle, but a handsome annuity beside; and that not only for your own life, but also secured to your daughter; unless indeed, means can be devised," he added, smiling, "of identifying her interest with those of the owner of the estates themselves. I have hitherto been deterred," he added with an affectation of great candour, "from mentioning this subject by my poverty, and consequent inability to marry; but my admiration of Miss Fips, I think you must have seen."

Fips was of course profuse in his thanks for the intended honour; not that he felt unbounded confidence in the sincerity of the soi-disant lover, of whose pride and ambition he was perfectly aware: he did not however despair, considering the present aspect of affairs of having his client in a short time so completely in his power, as to be able to enforce the fulfilment of any hopes which the latter might at present think it good policy to hold out. And having now a sufficient "spur" of self-interest "to prick the sides of his intent," he entered into the business in good earnest, took down notes of hints to be followed up, reports to be circulated, persons to be called upon, and especially an embassy of a most delicate nature to the coroner.

That functionary was to be requested on the part of Mr. Geoffery Arden, to make use of the information which he felt it his imperative duty to convey to him, without noticing Mr. Arden's interference, in consideration of the very painful situation in which the latter found himself placed; and in short, come forward in his official capacity as feeling himself called upon so to do, by the nature of the reports which had gone abroad. After this preamble, Mr. Fips was to inform the coroner at length of every suspicious circumstance; to indicate to him where the missing paper of arsenic was to be found; and to request that he would require the attendance of the medical gentlemen, and enforce the opening of the body, which had hitherto been resisted. All this was followed up with hypocritical declarations, that as nothing short of the most positive proofs could induce Mr. Geoffery Arden to believe his cousin guilty, he could not, though feeling investigation a duty, endure the idea of standing forward his accuser, while there remained a possibility of his being proved innocent.

Each time Fips had occasion to speak, whether in question or reply, while thus receiving his instructions, he would commit some seeming inadvertency of expression, almost removing the flimsy veil from the nature of the services required of him; and whenever he did this, he would look full in Geoffery's face. But that wary tactician as often dropped his eyelids, and replied, with hypocritical calmness, in the same key of caution in which he had commenced.

At length Fips pronounced it time for him to go out; and by the third effort, succeeding in disengaging himself from his arm-chair; then, with some difficulty bringing together the lower buttons and button-holes of his waistcoat, which, while in a sitting position, gaped full half a yard asunder, he departed, telling Geoffery, he might if he pleased, now that he had talked business with him over a glass of wine, take the opportunity of the hour or two he should be absent, to talk love to his daughter, over a cup of tea.

As Colonel Trump says, "There is nothing forbidding to any man, about a fine woman." Geoffery, therefore, now that he had placed more serious concerns in such excellent hands, had no objection to the recreation of a tête-a-tête on the footing of a received lover, with a young woman, whose personal attractions were above mediocrity, and whose modesty was not likely to be troublesome; while from her inferiority of station, her ideas of the high honour conferred on her by the gentleman's addresses were calculated to smooth the way to advances, which an equal might have thought impertinent, or at least premature.

When, therefore, Mr. Fips returned, after an absence of full two hours, he found the candle-wicks ominously long, and neither the tea-things nor the lover sent away.

Yet Geoffery had not the most distant thought of making Miss Fips his wife; unless, indeed, circumstances compelled him so entirely to commit himself to Mr. Fips, as to be completely in his power, and so make it a matter of prudence to secure his secrecy, by what, with too many, is the only infallible bond of good faith, identity of interest. But, if on the other hand, he should be so fortunate as not to be obliged to make use of Fips, more than as a tool, with which to work up the material in the way of extraordinary combinations of circumstances that fate seemed so liberally to have provided; and that, by the operation of those so worked, he should succeed in obtaining what had so long been the object, though for many years back the hopeless one, of his ambition—the Arden estates, Fips having nothing more to bring against him than surmises that the acquisition was not disagreeable to him—he should set at nought the tears of Miss Fips, and merely keep Fips's tongue at bay, with the agency at will: and as that was a thing which some one must have, it was an excellent way of securing the fellow's services first, and even his good behaviour afterwards, on very reasonable terms. For the present, however, while all was yet at stake; while there was no saying what villany might be necessary to carry him through; it was highly politic, to give Fips, at the outset, a motive, which would make him ready to perform any service that might be required of him.

Geoffery's calculations were perfectly just: Fips had indeed been indefatigable; and, during the two hours he had been out, had not only performed his delicate mission to the coroner, with consummate skill; but had contrived to drop in at innumerable houses, and, on pretext of asking the news, to give circulation to many evil reports and wicked surmises. He gossiped away, in particular, about there having existed but little cordiality between the brothers of late, in consequence of an unfortunate rivalship; in which, too, he said it must be confessed that Sir Alfred was very ill-treated. And the lady was an heiress too; so that Sir Alfred being a younger brother, the match was a great object to him. He had been accepted, in fact (the lawyer declared that he had it on the best authority), when Sir Willoughby, most ungenerously interfered, and by the strength of his purse, carried off the prize.

In consequence of the message of Geoffery, as conveyed by his unprincipled tool, Mr. Fips, together with the reports already in circulation, the coroner felt it his duty to visit Arden in his official capacity.

Alfred had hitherto, as we have stated, indulged his mournful feelings, by remaining entirely secluded.

He had given the necessary orders for the funeral, on that scale of magnificence, which the rank, but still more the immense fortune of the deceased called for; and was beginning to flatter himself, that his endeavours to prevent the idea of a suicide becoming prevalent had been successful, and that there would be no unpleasant interference.

On being apprized, however, of the arrival of the coroner, he again felt some uneasiness on this head.

He knew that the suspicion he had himself so long entertained, of Willoughby's liability to derangement, had been ever buried in his own bosom. He even knew, strange as it may seem that such should be the privilege granted to affection, that his brother, though he loved him better than any one else in the world, had never been half so odd and inconsistent in temper, towards any one, as towards himself; and still more, that even latterly, since the actual presence of derangement had to Alfred been clearly evident, yet, from the turn it had taken, of seemingly exuberant spirits, it had been apparent only to the anxious, watchful, constant companion, which was himself; and was not of a nature to be seen through by the careless apprehensions of servants, during merely casual attendance; but, on the contrary, was rather calculated to convey to them the idea that their master enjoyed more than his usual health and spirits. Altogether, then, it rested on his own single, unsupported evidence, to prove that his brother had been deranged, and was therefore entitled to Christian burial. He was probably not aware, how much the admission of insanity in those cases, is, in general, matter of form. And little did he think, that it was his own life and reputation which were at stake, and that the preservation of the one, and the restoration of the other, rested also on his own single, unsupported evidence: nay, that every thing he had ever generously or kindly done, to hide the infirmities, or spare the feelings of others, would now be ranged in evidence against himself.

The coroner, in consequence of the secret information with which he had been supplied, came provided with a warrant to search for the missing packet of poison. His first step was, to demand Sir Alfred's keys; his next, a request to be shown Sir Alfred's escritoire; on opening which, he drew forth, to the evident horror of all present, the paper of arsenic. He held it on the open palm of his extended hand, for some moments; looking round, as he did so, with a countenance of great solemnity, and, to do him justice, of sorrow. Then, delivering the packet into safe keeping, he proceeded, by virtue of his official authority, to require that the body of the deceased should be opened.

So slow was Alfred in suspecting the truth, that he still believed the coroner's sole view was to ascertain whether or not his brother had put a period to his own existence. He was, however, now obliged to submit to the required examination, the result of which was, a unanimous opinion on the part of the medical men present, that Sir Willoughby had died from the effects of poison, probably arsenic, but that this point might be placed beyond a doubt, the contents of the stomach were reserved to be subjected to the proper tests.

The coroner then holding his inquest in the very library in which the melancholy event had taken place, the servants, and all persons connected or supposed to be connected with the affair were severally examined. Doctor Harman, on being required so to do, produced the fatal scrap of paper which he had seen fall from within the breast of Sir Alfred's waistcoat, and the actual arsenic which, by the test of reduction he had obtained from the sediment in the glass that Sir Alfred had attempted to rinse in his presence. The packet of arsenic was examined: it was perceived that a portion of its outer envelope had been torn away, the torn part was compared with the piece so seen to fall from the breast of Sir Alfred. The fitting together of every irregularity of the sundered portions, the texture of the material, the peculiar characters, being those of print yet done with a pen, in which the two words, "Arsenic, Poison," were distinctly legible, the one on the one part, the other on the other, all clearly proved the smaller piece of paper to have once been a part of that which still contained the arsenic. The answers of the persons examined then went on to prove the various facts of the glasses having been wiped the moment before they were brought in—of the impossibility from the situation of the arsenic, of any portion of it having fallen accidentally into either of them—of Sir Alfred having been seen in the afternoon coming from the saddle-room alone—of his previous knowledge where the arsenic lay—of the brothers having supped together, and no third person having entered the room from the time the tray had been carried in, till the alarm had been given by Sir Alfred, and Sir Willoughby found in the agonies of death—of the order for antidotes—the attempt to rinse the glass, &c. &c. &c.—and, finally, of Sir Alfred's having since refused to allow the body to be opened.

Although it was easily evident to all, but Sir Alfred himself, that the tendency of this examination was to prove him the wilful murderer of his brother, so remote was the apprehension of such a suspicion from his pure, exalted, and preoccupied thoughts, that he was long, indeed, in comprehending the nature of the proceedings. When, however, it became no longer possible to avoid drawing from all that was passing, the too evident conclusion to which every question and reply directly led, his horror was little short of that with which he would have contemplated the actual commission of the crime, had some fiend possessed the power of requiring of him such a service.

We shall not make any attempt to describe the outraged feelings of our hero on this afflicting occasion; but simply state the result of the proceedings, which was, that the coroner felt it his painful duty to commit Sir Alfred.

The committal of Sir Alfred Arden for the murder of his twin brother occupied, of course, the attention of the whole country, and became for a time, almost the sole topic of conversation. The very enormity of the crime would, with many, have been a sufficient reason for disbelieving the guilt of the accused; particularly when his amiable temper, gentle manners, and honourable character were taken into consideration; but the malignity which was layed at the root of the story at its earliest promulgation, accompanied the ramifications of report in every direction. Surmises were ingeniously mingled with facts; motives confidently attributed to the simplest and most innocent actions, as well as to those which unfortunately had a suspicious appearance; and ready-made opinions, prejudging the case, were artfully scattered abroad, to be picked up by the many who wanted the power or the habit of thinking for themselves.

Thus, though the personal friends of our hero flocked around him, offering him their utmost support, and refusing to give credit to any allegations derogatory to his honour, still among the indifferent and the slightly acquainted, an almost universal cry of consternation and horror was got up. People moralized about the temptation of great riches, quoted scripture to the same effect, but said the passage ought to have been translated, "It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a man who covets riches to enter into the kingdom of God." Others, in a more sentimental strain, spoke of the parties being not only brothers, but twin brothers; and dwelt upon the great affection Sir Willoughby had always shown to Sir Alfred! recounted every exaggerated particular of the rivalship; descanted on jealousy, and repeated from history, ancient and modern, numberless instances of crimes of the blackest die, of which that passion, from the commencement of the world to the present day, had been the fruitful source.

Here the report of Sir Alfred having been very ill-treated in the business, had its effect; and was adduced, though not, of course, in extenuation of such a crime; yet, as accounting for it on principles which experience acknowledged.

What passion so savage as revenge; what revenge so dire as that which is born of jealousy!

Mr. Fips, as a perfectly disinterested person, had, on one pretext or other, contrived to have some conversation with most of Sir Willoughby's servants, and in the course of such conversation, to insinuate the suggestions, and induce the replies, that best suited his purpose; while with long words, long faces, and terrific-sounding technicalities, he managed to arouse their selfish fears, to a degree which banished all better feelings. Then he would shake his head, and allowing his double chin to hang with hypocritical despondency, most devoutly hope that poor Sir Alfred might be found innocent. "In that case," he would add, "it will go hard with some of you, for the poison did not get into the glass without hands; and more likely, I say, to be by any other hands, than those of his own brother." By arts like these, instead of the affectionate respect for our hero, the indignant rejection of the idea of its being possible that he could have committed such a crime, which had else been the spontaneous sentiments of all the household, some were unconsciously rendered almost willing to hear their once beloved young master proved guilty, as the only means of clearing and saving themselves. Such thoughts, however, naturally produced an inward discontent, that, in its turn, gave to their outward demeanour a sullenness and gloom, which had a most baneful effect on the judgments of all with whom they came in contact; for it seemed to those who knew not how it had been produced, to indicate a secret conviction of the guilt of their master.

A thousand times each day was the butler asked by some one of the party assembled in the housekeeper's room at Arden, if he were sure the glasses were quite clean when he took them into the library. Of course he always declared they were, on which, another of the conclave, in a stage whisper, and with a face of mystery, would follow it up, by saying,

"Well, and from that, till we were all called in to see him in the agonies of death, there was no one near the room but their two selves."

"And wasn't the sediment the Doctor found in the bottom of the glass, arsenic?" observed a third.

"And didn't he offer to rinse the glass?" a fourth would ask; "and what could that be for?"

"And so fond of one another as they used to be when they were boys!" ejaculated a fifth.

"It's never been for the estate," said one of the women, and the rest of the female committee agreed with her, that it was owing to both brothers fixing their fancy on the same lady, and that Sir Alfred, that was the handsomest gentleman of the two by far, could not abide being turned off for him that had the fortune. There was many a young man, they observed, that had been the death of the girl that he was fond of, sooner than she should leave him, to go with another.

"And to give it to him at supper-time, too," said the gardener, who was a great politician, "thinking it would be put into the newspaper 'found dead in his bed,' and so hear no more of it."

The old butler could not endure all this, and was so irritated by it, that he would have quitted the house, but that Lady Arden was expected. Poor Lewin, who had long been failing, was overwhelmed by the blow; he became almost childish, at least quite lost his memory, for though he wept incessantly, he scarcely seemed to know why—sometimes speaking of Sir Willoughby as still alive, and sometimes of both brothers as already dead. While at other times, he would attempt to play on the harp, as though nothing had happened, and seem to think it a great hardship, when, from respect to decorum, he was checked by the other servants.

Whenever this occurred, he would sit for hours sounding, one by one, single strings, as if by stealth, with the silent tears of wounded vanity rolling down his cheeks, fancying, poor old man, that it was his music that was despised.

Thus, ever ready to poison joy, or add bitterness to grief, Pride, that arch enemy of our peace, still survives, when the mind is else a wreck.

Pride is surely that evil spirit portrayed in scripture as "wandering to and fro, seeking whom he may devour;" that is, whom he may make wicked—whom he may make miserable; deceiving even the generous of heart, by exalting them in their own opinion, till their pride requires of others a homage which the pride of others will not yield; and so, resenting the supposed deficiency, they cease to be in charity with all men.

Lady Arden was in town, and busied in preparations for the marriage of Madeline, when Alfred's letter, announcing the sudden death of Sir Willoughby, reached her. The signs and trappings of approaching festivity were, of course, changed for those of mourning. But who shall describe the consternation of this affectionate mother, when the astounding intelligence was brought to her, that her child, her darling, her favourite, now her only son, was actually committed to a felon's prison, accused of the murder of his brother.

It was some moments before her comprehension could grasp the whole extent of the horrors connected with such an intimation. She was bewildered, she seemed to be in a trance; yet, through it all, her own perfect knowledge of the utter impossibility of such an accusation having the slightest foundation in truth, was a kind of upholding to her spirit, inasmuch as it appeared also impossible to her mind, that any being could give reception to such a thought. Unable to speak connectedly, she alternated the expressions, "No, no——Oh no," continually, while looking round her with a strange wild eye, that seemed to flash, yet saw not.

The want she felt was to be with her son; but though she moved rapidly, and often turned quite round, she was incapable, at the time, of distinguishing the door from the windows of the apartment she was in.

It was only by the kind intervention of Mrs. Dorothea, that Lady Arden's wishes were at length understood, and accomplished.

Mrs. Dorothea was in town for the purpose of being present at Madeline's wedding; which was so far fortunate, as she was, on the present occasion, a great support to her afflicted sister-in-law; and kindly accompanied her on her journey to Arden.

On entering the town. Lady Arden was asked where she would choose to go. "Where?" she repeated, "Take me where he is."

She was driven to the gates of the gaol; she looked at them, and at Mrs. Dorothea.

When last she had passed through the streets of Arden, the triumphal arches and laurel wreaths, the remnants of the previous day's rejoicings, for the coming of age of her twin sons, were not yet taken down.—Now, one son lay a quarter of a mile distant, within the stately mansion of his fathers, a yet unburied corse;—she waited at the door of a common prison for admittance to the other.

Mrs. Dorothea's eyes met hers, but neither spoke. Becoming suddenly collected, Lady Arden alighted from the carriage with a firm step, and entered the dismal precincts as proudly as though the portals of a palace had received her.

Alfred had been warned of her approach. He stood breathless, and with a beating heart. Without a word uttered on either side, they rushed into each other's arms. In continued silence the mother held the son to her bosom, as though she felt, instinctively, that it was his natural sanctuary.

Though at first melted by the tenderest sorrow, in the embraces of his parent, our hero soon assumed a noble firmness. He had already passed eight-and-forty hours in solitary reflection on his extraordinary fate.

"I do not ask you, mother," he said, "not weep, for we have a common cause of sorrow in the untimely and sudden death of my poor brother: but add not one tear for me; believe me, there is not, there cannot be, a shadow of danger in the position in which I stand; although public opinion, I am told, is against me. Is it not," he added, in an altered tone, "a degrading view of human nature, to see that so many individuals should be found ready to believe such a crime possible? As to the result of a fair and open trial, however, I repeat it, I have no fears!

"In a land professing to prefer mercy before judgment; in a land with laws so constituted, that lest an error should be committed on the side of severity, the criminal, whom all know to be guilty, is allowed to escape unpunished, if but a technicality of legal proof be wanting; in a land, one of the boasts of which is, that no man is required to prove his own innocence, but that all are by law innocent until proved guilty; in such a land it must be quite impossible that, on mere appearances, they should strip of honour and of life one whose thoughts were never visited by the conception of a crime! Nay, I speak it not in unchristian pride, but, compared with that of which they would accuse me, I feel that I am innocent indeed!"

After a long pause, during which they had gazed silently in each other's faces, Alfred, as a sort of effort to converse, said, "How much we are struck with the merest common-places, when they happen to suit our own individual case: 'innocent as the babe unborn,' now seems to me a beautiful expression."

Lady Arden felt much comforted by the firmness of her son;—his views were her own; though within the walls of a prison, and surrounded with every practical proof of the peril in which he stood, she could not look at Alfred, his lofty carriage, the nobleness of his brow, and force her imagination to associate with him the idea of a condemned criminal—it seemed a thing impossible! "No!" she haughtily exclaimed, "acquitted he must be, but how have they dared to accuse him?"

Alfred now explained the hitherto unexpressed fears, which he had so long entertained, respecting his brother's state of mind, and went into all the particulars of his late return to Arden, and subsequent death. As he drew up in array the extraordinary circumstances, inexplicable to any one but himself, on which the accusation against him was founded, Lady Arden felt a pang of terror paralyse her heart, but as his simple explanations followed, she would exclaim, "Is not that sufficient? Is not that sufficient?"

"In the mouth of an impartial witness, such explanations would be all-sufficient," he replied, "but remember I am the person accused."

"Accused!" she repeated, then gazed with a mother's rapturous love, on the guileless expression of his parted lip, as to comfort her he tried to smile, she fondly poured forth expressions of endearment.

"Alfred, my child! my mild, my innocent, my beautiful Alfred! my gentle, my affectionate, my noble Alfred!" She paused, and, by the working of her features, terrible thoughts seemed to pass in view before her.

"Oh, impossible!" she suddenly exclaimed, clasping him with convulsive agony to her breast, "quite impossible! But if they are so mad," she added, in a hurried tone of subdued agony, "they shall saw these arms asunder before they take him from me!" He was too much affected to reply. Again she looked at him in silence for a time, then added, almost fiercely,

"There must be means, and I will find them! What! allow them to murder him! No—no—I rave, my son. Dreams of horror belong to these walls——but I have no fears—no fears—no fears—I say I have no fears—it is quite, quite impossible!" Even while reiterating that she had no fears, her voice had faltered, and now she burst into a passion of tears, which the effort to brave her feelings quickly changed to an hysterical affection.

This became so serious, and lasted so long, that she was obliged to be carried home, and conveyed to bed, where the kindhearted Mrs. Dorothea, took the post of friendship beside her pillow.

Yet this was, by no means, the most agonizing period of this season of trial. The situation was too novel to be comprehended in its full extent. There was, as yet, more of incredulous amazement, and of proud defiance of the accuser, than of despair or even of apprehension in the feelings both of Lady Arden and of Alfred. They were both at present more indignant that such an outrage had been offered, and that submission to insulting and degrading forms was still necessary, than seriously alarmed as to future consequences.

In the parlour to which we have already been introduced, sat Mr. Fips—over his wine it must be confessed, yet apparently uniting the utile et dulce, for beside his bottle of port stood an ink-bottle; amid walnut-shells and remnants of biscuit lay sundry long-shaped folded papers, and though he held a glass in his hand, from which he sipped from time to time, there was a pen behind his ear; his wig was pushed on one side and Geoffery was his companion.

"Should we not subpœna Lady Arden?" asked Fips.

"By all means," replied Geoffery, "her evidence will be of great importance: we can prove by it, that Sir Alfred had actually made proposals to and been accepted by Lady Caroline, the very day before his brother came to town: and also, that he felt his disappointment much more bitterly than was generally supposed."

Here Geoffery repeated the particulars of a conversation on the subject, which it may be remembered he once overheard, between Lady Arden and her son. And Fips took down notes, for suggesting questions to counsel.

"Do you think," he said, "there would be any use in sending subpœnas to Lady Palliser and her daughter?"

"No, on the contrary, I have reason to suspect, some circumstances might come out on their examination, rather calculated to raise a doubt in the minds of jurors; I am therefore better pleased that they are on the continent."

"When did they go abroad?"

"A short time before the death of Sir Willoughby; immediately after his return to Arden."

"Are they likely to be brought forward on the other side, think you?"

"I should say not: from the conversations I have had with Sir Alfred, I should think that he was not at all aware that their evidence could be of the slightest service to him."

"You seem to have more reasons for thinking so, Mr. Arden," said Fips, "than you have been pleased to confide to me. Now 'tis well and wisely said, that a man, for his own sake, should have no secrets either from his doctor or his lawyer. That, however, is your look out; I can only serve you to the best of my ability, as far as my information goes."

"Which is quite as far as mine, I assure you Fips. It was merely my own surmise, that Sir Willoughby might not have been quite as well received latterly as his vanity had, at first, led him to believe he should be. Now, I naturally thought that such an idea being promulgated, might suggest the possibility of Sir Willoughby's having taken the poison himself; which idea, though not amounting to evidence on either side, might, as I said before, raise doubts in the minds of a jury, calculated to bias their judgments, and so defeat the ends of justice."

"I thought," observed Fips, sulkily, for he fancied he saw that Geoffery was playing an underhand game, "I understood you to have said, you had reasons for your opinion."

"Yes, so I have—those I have just stated."

He had others, however, which he had not stated, because, as we have said, he did not wish to put himself absolutely in Fips's power, unless there should be no other means of gaining his end.

"His sisters too," continued Geoffery, "and his aunt Mrs. Dorothea, can be produced to prove so far, that Sir Alfred, before the appearance of his brother on the stage, was an assiduous, and believed himself to be a favoured lover. I do not mean to say, that either this or Lady Arden's evidence would be any proof of Sir Alfred's guilt; but, by adding the incentives of jealousy and revenge to that of mere avarice, it makes his having committed the crime much less improbable, and must therefore influence, more or less, the minds of the jury."

When the various subjects under discussion were arranged and the bottle of port finished, Mr. Fips repaired to his office—for he was a labourer at his vocation, late, as well as early—while Geoffery, whom the strains of a female voice, accompanied by a pianoforte, had been long inviting to the drawing-room, repaired thither.

Miss Fips, as the only child of Mr. Fips, was destined to be the receiver of stolen goods to a large amount; or, in other words, to inherit all the money her father had scraped together. She had therefore been sent to a London boarding-school, to receive an education proportionate to her fortune. Her Italian singing-master, called her voice a made one. He had found it impossible to give her either ear or taste; while the unshrinking audacity with which she caricatured a bravura, gave to her performance the semblance of having been got up on purpose for a burlesque: a stranger would seriously have thought, that the most polite thing they could do was to stand by and laugh openly. Her shakes were shudders, and seemed to have been produced by a sort of second-sight view of some approaching horror, invisible to all beside. Her prolonged notes resembled the howls of a chained dog, on a moonlight night; while her abrupt changes, and impassioned passages, were the starts and yells of a maniac.

Without somewhat of the grace of natural timidity, the most splendid performance could scarcely please; with what feeling then, but that of unqualified disgust, could such a display as we have just described have been witnessed; while Geoffery, who had the part of a lover not only of music, but of the lady to maintain, was thereby called upon to enact raptures.

Fips's wife had died, in giving birth to this only child. Fips was then a poor clerk. When the child began to require the aid of a first school, he lodged in a garret, and dined in a cellar, that he might be able to defray the expense. Yet, strange to say, notwithstanding this seeming noble self-denial, his was not a worthy nor a genuine affection; he was incapable of such. In the first place, he was naturally a man of parsimonious habits, and imbued with a prudent sense of the necessity of giving to persons unprovided for, at least an education, that they might be able to do something for themselves. The sentiment, however, which he mistook for affection, was little better than gratified vanity. The child happened to be very beautiful; to which his attention was particularly drawn, by the circumstance of his being often obliged, for want of mother or nurse-maid, to walk out with it himself. When he did so, almost every one they met would turn to look or to make some comment as they passed. Sometimes, groups would stop and speak to the child; kiss it, ask it to shake hands, &c. On such occasions Fips would stop also, and becoming imboldened, desire his little girl to look up, and show its pretty eyes; to laugh, and show its pretty teeth; then, its pretty mouth, its rosy lips, its lovely colour, its beautiful skin, its pretty curls, its pretty foot, would each in succession form a topic for eulogy, till the poor child was hardened into little better than a hawked-about show while Fips, to whom his little girl, through the medium of gratified vanity, otherwise pride, thus became a source of pleasure, fancied himself a fond father. As the child grew, Fips having no principles himself could not impart any. Meanwhile, his fortunes also grew rapidly, not without suspicions that he had found out by-ways to the attainment of riches, which he would have been very sorry to have pointed out to a fellow-traveller. The possession of wealth, in the course of time, suggested the necessity for the fashionable finishing-school already mentioned.

The orders were given, that no pains or expense should be spared in making Miss Fips highly accomplished. These accomplishments, in all their various stages, became at each vacation the subjects of new displays; till at length the young lady came home the perfect singer of Italian bravuras, performance of which we have just witnessed; and furthermore imbued with a thorough contempt for her vulgar, and except in the chicanery of the law, ignorant father. Of this contempt she made no secret; but on the contrary, laughed at his opinions and scoffed at his authority, on the plea of being herself a much better judge of every thing, save, as she expressed it, of musty parchments.

All men, besides a natural dislike to milliners' bills, let them be ever so clumsy in every thing else, have a sort of notion of what is becoming to women in dress.

Fips, accordingly, on one occasion ventured to hint to his daughter, that she looked as handsome again when she had not half so many fine things on. She was at the moment just equipped to step forth into the streets of a country town, dressed in a bright green silk pelisse, extremely short, to display the pretty foot and ancle; her stockings were of open-work embroidery, the slippers scarlet, the hat (not bonnet) yellow crape, adorned with white blond and pink ostrich feathers tipped with scarlet. She also wore, flung across one shoulder, and hung over the contrary arm, a long flying canary-coloured scarf, and held perpendicularly above her head, that it might neither conceal nor derange its trappings, a conspicuous-sized, canopy-shaped, lilac parasol, deeply bordered with a gold-coloured net-work fringe, and tasseled at every point. Chains, ear-rings, bracelets, brooches, clasps, watch, and reticule, were of course none of them forgotten; while the very backs of the canary-coloured kid gloves were embroidered with lilac and gold.

Fips's remark was received with a sneer, and "I beg, sir, you'll mind your parchments, and give me leave to be the best judge of my dress."

"Well, well, my dear, follow your own way."

"That I shall, sir, you may rest assured."

Such a figure as we have described, walking the streets alone, with a bold erect carriage, it may be believed, drew a good deal of attention, particularly at assize-time, when there were many strangers and young barristers in the town, and such of course were the occasions on which Miss Fips was fondest of making a display. Her generally walking alone, at least until she had picked up two or three young men, proceeded from a combination of circumstances: in the first place, Fips had little time for recreation, and if he had had more, his dutiful daughter would not have been fond of appearing with so unwieldly and unsightly a companion. As to other young women, Miss Fips, proud of her beauty, and the fortune she was taught to expect, treated those in her own sphere with impertinence, while it was very improbable that ladies in a sphere above her would be induced to take by the hand an inferior, whose natural boldness rendered her vulgarity and bad taste so conspicuous. Though we have used the expression natural boldness, it is most probable that the unprepossessing quality we have thus described, was in this instance both produced and strengthened into second nature by that most baneful and unsexing of lessons to a young female, early personal display.

The remaining traits in the character of this young woman, together with what we have already said, are quite in accordance with a favourite theory of ours, that want of personal modesty is more than a presumption both of want of heart and want of taste or genius; because it is a proof of the absence of that susceptibility—that acuteness of moral perception, the presence of which is indispensable to the mental process by which both the powers of genius and the capability of loving are developed, almost, we might say, created in the human mind.

Flattery too, with the want of early control, had made the temper of Miss Fips violent and insolent in the extreme. From the time of her return from school there was no peace in the house, and little, as far as their own set went, in the town. She quarrelled with the neighbours—insulted the boarder clerks—and scolded the servants; and when Fips was too busy with his own, if not more amiable, at least more important avocations, to join her in pouring forth invectives against whoever had provoked her ire, she would stand over his desk and scold himself; or interrupted in a like tempestuous manner, the quiet enjoyment of his bottle of port, his only recreation, till his life became a perfect burden to him.

Still he toiled on—her aggrandizement being the sole object of his labours; nay, he entered eagerly into projects which he could not but be aware must condemn his soul to perdition, to secure to her a marriage above her sphere, and add wealth to wealth still for her! And why? Because his daughter, undutiful and disrespectful though she was, happened to be the part and portion of himself, in which his vanity, his ambition, his pride had centered; and his selfishness, when he remembered that he could not carry his riches with him to the grave, sought in her a sort of immortality, at least a prolongation of existence. Yet did this unprincipled being sanctify to himself, (strange sophistry) many a sin, by the belief that he was the fondest of fathers, and did every thing for the love of his only child.

The death of Sir Willoughby occurred within so short a period of the assizes, that the immediate approach of Alfred's trial gave to the whole terrific transaction the character of a sudden and awful thunder-storm.

Lady Arden and her son, desirous of supporting each other, mutually acted a part painful to both, incessantly concealing their feelings, and denying themselves the solace of unreserved intercourse: whatever their separate thoughts were, neither would confess to the other that they had any apprehensions as to the result of the approaching trial. And yet the conduct of their legal advisers was by no means calculated to inspire confidence. These gentlemen looked extremely grave, asked both Alfred and Lady Arden many questions, and seemed much disappointed at their replies. They were agreed in opinion that the chain of circumstantial evidence was unbroken—almost irresistible; and that the only defence which could be set up was the insanity, and consequently possible suicide of Sir Willoughby.

While the idea of his being insane, never having been entertained by any one but Sir Alfred, nor even by Sir Alfred himself suggested to any one, till after he, Sir Alfred, was actually accused of the murder, it was to be feared the plea would not even be listened to. And yet the idea of Sir Willoughby's having wilfully taken poison, while in possession of his right mind, was still more unlikely to be heard, from his very advantageous circumstances at all times, and the peculiarly happy prospects he at that particular crisis enjoyed. The combinations and coincidences too of trivial events were no less untoward; for all of those, and they were many, which told against our hero, could be established by a host of creditable witnesses; whilst the few which were in his favour were known to no human being but himself; nor had he even spoken of them to any one, until, as in the former plea, after he had been accused. Alfred had a faint and rather confused remembrance of having said something of his motives to Geoffery, in the first moments of affliction. He mentioned this to his lawyers. They had a conference with Mr. Arden on the subject. He replied, but without entering into any explanation, that if they chose to put him in the witness box, he should esteem himself happy, if any thing he could say with truth, should have any tendency to exculpate his cousin. He was accordingly subpœned, and was the only witness for the defence.

The plea of Sir Alfred's amiable and honourable character rendering it highly improbable that he should have committed such a crime; though it must be felt by all, and with his immediate circle of friends and intimates, was all sufficient, could not weigh one feather as evidence. We had, unhappily, instances of persons previously of unblemished character, departing from that character in practice, when strongly tempted by passion, revenge, or avarice; and in this case all these incentives seemed to have been united.

Opinions so alarming, were of course not distinctly stated by the lawyers, either to Lady Arden, or to Alfred. To have done so, would have been an unnecessary degree of cruelty. But such were the sentiments they entertained, and much of which could be implied, not only from their whole demeanor, but, as we have already said, both from the anxious questions they put, and the evasive answers they gave. All this had a fearful effect on the feelings of Lady Arden: concealed agony, and constant fever, were devouring the vital energies, while her mind laid waste, as it were, by so immeasurable, so incomprehensible a calamity, seemed defenceless against the superstitious impressions and wild images of horror which wearied her spirit and aggravated her sufferings, by the ceaseless importunity with which they blended themselves unbidden with the wretched realities of the hour.

The presence of Geoffery too, which she was occasionally compelled to endure, was terrible to her feelings. She literally shuddered as she looked on the man who was destined, should her most horrible apprehensions be realized, to fill the place of both her sons. And notwithstanding the subdued air of solemnity and sorrow he hypocritically assumed in her presence, she found it impossible to divest herself of the idea that she could detect triumph lurking in the depths of his sinister eye; and that his hard spare lips were more than usually compressed, to prevent the corners of his mouth from curling with a fiendish joy; for of such a feeling she did inwardly accuse him. With what thoughts would she have viewed him, could she have known that he was, through his secret emissaries, labouring at the very moment to fix upon the innocent Alfred that horrible accusation, of which he alone could have proved him innocent; but this was a degree of wickedness of which she was incapable of conceiving the idea. She could not suspect even Geoffery of such.

With the gentlemen of the country too, Geoffery attempted to act a part which in fact he greatly over-acted. He sought every opportunity to dwell at great length on the painful and delicate situation in which he was placed. He sincerely hoped, he said, that Sir Alfred might be fully cleared of so revolting an accusation; yet he confessed he could not himself see how the distinct chain of circumstantial evidence, which had already appeared, was to be got over. He hoped, however, that something favourable might come out on the trial, and most especially he hoped that he might not be called upon to take any part whatever. Yet, if it was indeed possible that Sir Alfred was guilty, he could not wish to see him escape the just punishment his aggravated crime would, in that case, so fully merit; nay, such he declared was his indignation when he took this view of the subject, that if it were not fortunately the duty of the crown to prosecute, he should feel himself called upon—nay, bound to do so; bound to sacrifice every private feeling towards the offender, and as the nearest male relative of poor Sir Willoughby, stand forward the avenger of his untimely end. Yet as he had, he might say, the misfortune to be the next heir to the property, he considered it a happy circumstance that he was not obliged to act, what some might consider an invidious part. He used the expression misfortune, for it certainly would be a misfortune to inherit a venerable family property through the medium of a catastrophe so awful, and what was even worse, so disgraceful; in fact, should the affair so terminate, it was more than probable that he should become almost an exile from the family mansion, at least for many years; he did not know indeed that he should ever be able to bring himself to live at Arden.

These indelicate communications, though murmured in an under tone, and given as much as possible the air of individual confidences, were, from time to time, forced on as many hearers as Geoffery could obtain; for it was not all who would listen to him—many, and those some of the leading men of the country, were indignant at the attempt to bring such an accusation against our hero.

The funeral of Sir Willoughby was naturally delayed by the committal of Alfred, under whose authority the preparations had been proceeding. No one seemed aware what was to be done, or whose orders were to be given and received. Geoffery indeed was disposed to take upon himself the command, as well as the part of chief mourner, in Alfred's place, but this Lady Arden arrived in time to prevent.

When appealed to, she clasped her hands and raised her eyes to heaven for a few moments, as if she there sought counsel, then with admirable dignity and presence of mind, she ordered that the solemn preparations should stand still till the necessary forms of law having been gone through, her son should be at liberty to take his place at the head of his brother's grave; inferring thus, by her reply, that there existed not a doubt of Alfred's innocence being established.

Accordingly, in pursuance of these commands, the remains of her eldest son still lay in state at Arden, when the anxious day arrived on which her younger son was to stand at the bar of justice, arraigned for the murder of his brother.

While thus Lady Arden proudly strove to have it thought, nay, if possible to think herself, that she had no fears for Alfred; how, but by the absorbing nature of her fears for him was the blunted state of her feelings on all other subjects to be accounted for. The death of Willoughby, had it come alone, with what deep sorrow would it have afflicted her; and how greatly would that sorrow have been aggravated, by but a suspicion that he had committed the awful act of suicide; yet to have that suspicion proved beyond a doubt, was now the only hope of her existence; while the simple fact of Willoughby's death was driven by the exigences of the hour from its natural position in her mind, and viewed as it were in the distance of memory, like a sorrow long gone by, solemnly but calmly. Were Alfred safe, his honour and his precious life rescued from the frightful peril they were in, her heart told her that all grief would be forgotten, and joy unspeakable would be her portion.