The Mysteries of London, v. 1/4

Overpowered by this idea, the unhappy woman threw herself upon the bed, and wept bitterly.

That torrent of tears relieved her; and in a few minutes she grew somewhat composed.

Then came reflections of a less painful nature.

"Still—still there was something honest in the appearance of that stock-broker: there was something feeling in his words! He was performing a task against which his soul revolted. He commiserated my condition: oh! yes—he sympathised with me! In him is my hope—my only hope! I need not quite despair!"

She thus reasoned herself into a state of comparative calmness; and then a feeling of weakness came over her. She grew faint—her head swam round.

She rose, and walked up and down the cell to dispel the sensation that thus oppressed her; and suddenly she recollected that many hours had elapsed since she had eaten any thing. Her eyes fell upon the viands which the Resurrection Man had placed on the table; and she hastened to break her long fast. When she had partaken of a morsel of food, she poured some wine into a glass and drank it.

Scarcely, however, had she swallowed the liquor, when she felt herself overpowered by a deep drowsiness; the glass dropped from her hands; she rose from the chair, advanced a few paces, and then fell upon the bed in a state of insensibility.

THE morning, which succeeded the night that witnessed the incidents just detailed, was clear, frosty, and fine. It was one of those winter mornings when the soil is as hard as iron, but on which the sun shines with gay light if not with genial heat. On such a morning we walk abroad with a consciousness that the exercise benefits us: we feel the blood acquiring a more rapid circulation in our veins; we soon experience a pleasant glow pervading the frame; our spirits become exhilarated; and we learn that even Winter has its peculiar charms.

Such was the feeling that animated Richard Markham, as, after alighting from a public vehicle at Richmond, he proceeded rapidly along a by-road that led through the fields at the back of Count Alteroni's mansion.

His cheeks were tinged with a glow that set off his handsome features to the greatest advantage: his dark eyes sparkled with an expression of joy and hope; a smile played upon his lip; and he walked with his head erect as if he felt proud of his existence—because that existence, in spite of its vicissitudes, was protected by some auspicious star.

O Love! art thou not a star full of hope and promise, like that which guided the sages of the East to the cradle of their Redeemer?—like the welcome planet which heralds the dauntless mariner over the midnight seas?—like the twinkling orb which points the right track to the Arab wanderer of the desert?

Richard Markham pursued his way—his soul full of hope, and love, and bliss.

At a distance of about a quarter of a mile on his right hand, the mansion of Count Alteroni soon met his eyes, surrounded by the evergreens that, in contrast with the withered trees elsewhere, gave to the spot where it stood the air of an oasis in the midst of a desert.

Markham's heart beat quickly when that well-known dwelling met his view; and for a moment a shade of melancholy passed over his countenance, for he recalled to mind the happy hours he had once spent within its walls.

But that transitory cloud vanished from his brow, when his eye caught a glimpse, in another instant, of a sylph-like form that was threading a leafless grove at a little distance.

Richard redoubled his steps, and was led, by the circuitous winding of the path that he was pursuing, somewhat nearer to the Count's mansion.

In a few minutes he reached the very spot where, in the preceding spring, he had accidentally encountered Isabella, and where she assured him of her unchanged and unchangeable love.

He is now on that spot once more:—he pauses—looks around—and Isabella again approaches.

Richard rushes forward, and clasps the beauteous Italian maiden in his arms.

"Isabella—dearest Isabella! What good angel prompted you to grant me this interview?" he exclaimed, when the first effusion of joy was over.

"Do you think me indiscreet, Richard?" asked the signora, taking his arm, and glancing timidly towards his countenance.

"Indiscreet, my sweet girl!" cried her lover: "Oh! how can you suppose that I would entertain a harsh feeling with regard to that goodness on your part which doubtless instigated you to afford me the happiness of this meeting?"

"But when we met here—seven or eight months ago, Richard," said Isabella, "I told you that never—never would I consent to a stolen interview. And now—you may imagine—"

"I imagine that you love me, Isabella—love me as I love you," exclaimed Markham; "and what other idea can occupy my thoughts when that one is present? Oh! you know not the ineffable joy—the unequalled pleasure which I experienced when your letter reached me yesterday. I recognised your handwriting immediately; and I seized the letter with avidity, when it was brought to me in my study. And then, Isabella—will you believe me when I tell you that I trembled to open it? I laid it upon the table—my hand refused to break the seal. Pardon me—forgive me, if for a moment I feared—"

"That I had forgotten my vows—my plighted affection," faltered Isabella, reproachfully.

"Again I say pardon—forgive me, dearest girl; but—oh! I have been so very unfortunate!"

"Think not of the past, Richard," said Isabella, tenderly.

"The past! Oh! how can I cease to ponder upon the past, when it has nearly bereaved me of all hope for the future?" exclaimed Markham, in an impassioned tone.

"Not all hope," murmured Isabella; "since hope still remains to me!"

"Angel that thou art!" cried Richard, pressing the maiden's hand fondly. "How weak I am, since it is from thee that moral courage ever is imparted."

"True! But so many emotions—joy and hope—sorrowful reminiscences and brighter prospects, bewilder me! I will, however, try to talk calmly! When your letter came, I feared to open it for some moments: I dreaded a new calamity! But at length I called all my firmness to my aid; and a terrible weight was taken from my soul, when my eye glanced at the first lines of that letter which suddenly became as dear and welcome as a reprieve to the condemned criminal. Then, when I saw that my beloved Isabella still thought of me—still loved me—-"

"Oh, I did not tell you that in my letter," exclaimed Isabella, with a smile of bewitching archness.

"No—but I divined it—I gathered it from the words in which you conveyed to me your desire to see me—from the manner in which you said that at eleven o'clock this morning you should walk in the very place where we had met accidentally once before—oh! I suddenly became a new being: never was my heart so light!"

"And yet I said in my letter, Richard, that I wished to see you upon a matter of business——"

"Ah! Isabella, destroy not the charm which makes me happy! Let no cold thought of worldly things chill the heavenly fervour of our affection. Were it not for that love which reciprocally exists between us, how should I have supported the misfortunes that have multiplied upon me?"

"Again I say, Richard, allude not to the past. Alas! bitter—bitter were the tears that I wept on that fatal night when——"

"When I was publicly disgraced at the theatre—in the midst of a triumph. Yes—Isabella, you were there—there, when my shame was consummated!"

"Accident had led us to the theatre that evening," answered Isabella. "My father had heard that a new tragedy, of which grand hopes were entertained, was to be produced; and he insisted that I should accompany him and my mother. I was compelled to assent to his desire—although I prefer retirement and tranquillity to society and gaiety. You may conceive our astonishment—you may imagine my surprise and my joy, when you came forward to acknowledge the congratulations offered for a triumph so brilliantly achieved. And then—but let us leave that subject—my blood turns cold when I think of it!"

"Oh! go on—speak of it, speak of it!" exclaimed Markham, enthusiastically; "for although the reminiscence of that fearful scene be like pouring molten lead upon an open wound, still it is sweet—it is sweet, Isabella, to receive sympathy from such lips as yours."

"Alas! I have little more to say—except that the sudden intervention of that terrible man seemed to strike me as with the arrow of death; and I became insensible. Then, Richard,—then," continued Isabella, in a low and tremulous tone, "my mother suspected my secret—or rather received a confirmation of the suspicion which she had long entertained!"

"And she shuddered at the mere idea?" exclaimed Markham, interrogatively.

"No, Richard: my mother is kind and good—and, you know, was always well disposed towards you: I have told you that much before! She said little—and of that no matter! But my father—my father——"

"He discovered our secret also!" exclaimed Richard. "Oh! did he not curse me?"

"He was cool and calm, when—on the following morning—he spoke to me upon the subject. I answered him frankly: I admitted my attachment for you."

"What did he say, Isabella! Tell me every thing—suppress not a word!"

"Oh, heavens! he made me very miserable," returned Isabella, tears trickling down her countenance. "But wherefore distress both yourself and me with a recapitulation of what ensued? Suffice it to say, that I collected all the arguments in my memory—and they were not a few;—and I presented to him that paper—the confession of Talbot, which proved your innocence!"

"Dearest girl!" exclaimed Markham, rapturously.

"He did not refuse to read it," added Isabella; "and at length, when I saw that I had made a profound impression on him, I turned the conversation upon the momentary reverse of fortune which had plunged him into a debtors' prison——"

"Isabella!" cried Markham, in surprise.

"And then I boldly declared my conviction that the unknown friend who had released him—the anonymous individual who had thrown open to him the gate leading to liberty—the nameless person, that had done so generous a deed, and accomplished it in a manner as delicate as it was noble,—was none other than Richard Markham!"

The tone of the Italian maiden had become more and more impassioned as she proceeded; and when she uttered the last words of the foregoing sentence, she turned upon him on whose arm she leant, a countenance glowing with animation, and radiant with gratitude and love.

"Oh, Isabella! you told your father that!" cried Markham. "And yet—you knew not——"

"My suspicion amounted almost to a certainty," interrupted Isabella: "and now I doubt no longer. Oh! Richard—if ever for one moment I had wavered in my love for you,—if ever an instant of coldness, arising from worldly reflections, had intervened to make me repent my solemn vows to you,—that one deed of yours—that noble sacrifice of your property, made to release my revered parent from a gaol,—that—that alone would have rendered my heart unalterably thine!"

"Beloved girl—this moment is the happiest of my life!" exclaimed Markham; and tears of joy filled his eyes, as he pressed the maiden once more to his heart.

"Yes, Richard," continued Isabella, after a long pause; and now her splendid countenance was lighted up with an expression of dignity and generous pride, and the timid, bashful maiden seemed changed into a lady whose brow was encircled with a diadem; "yes, Richard, if ever I felt that no deed nor act of mine shall separate us eternally—if ever I rejoiced in the prospect of possessing wealth, and receiving lustre from my father's princely rank——"

"Isabella!" exclaimed Richard, dropping the arm on which the Italian lady was leaning, and stepping back in the most profound astonishment: "Isabella, what mean you?"

Strange was the effect that this revelation produced upon the young man. He felt, as if, when in a burning heat, a mighty volume of icy water had suddenly been dashed over him: his head appeared to swim round—his sight grew dim—he staggered, and would have fallen had not Isabella rushed towards him, exclaiming, "Richard—dear Richard—do you not believe how much I love you?"

Those words produced an instantaneous change within him: those sweet syllables, uttered in the silvery tones of lovely woman's tenderness—recalled him to himself.

"Ah! Isabella," he exclaimed, mournfully, "how insuperable is the barrier which divides us now!"

"And—if that barrier to which you allude, ever existed, was it less formidable when you were ignorant of the secret than it is at present?" asked Isabella, tenderly.

"It seems so to me," replied Richard. "Are you not placed on an eminence to which I never can hope to reach? have I not dared to lift my ambitious eyes towards a Princess—the daughter of one who will some day wear a sovereign crown? Oh! now the delusion is gone—I am awakened from a long dream! But, say—did your highness make this revelation to-day, in order to extinguish my adventurous aspirations at once and for ever?"

"Richard, you wrong me—cruelly wrong me!" exclaimed Isabella, bursting into tears.

"Forgive me—forgive me, sweetest, dearest girl!" cried Markham. "I was mad—I raved—I knew not what I said——"

"Richard, when we met here—once before—you doubted my affection, and then you asked me to forgive you! How often will you put my feelings to so cruel a test? how often will you renew those unjust suspicions?"

"O God! what have I done, that I should thus call tears to your eyes, Isabella? Forgive me, again—I say—forgive me: on my knees I implore——"

"No—no! I think no more of what you said," exclaimed Isabella. "Calm yourself for my sake!"—and she gazed so tenderly up into his countenance, that he was reassured, and all his doubts and fears vanished in a moment.

"Yes, Isabella," he said: "I am now calm; and you—you are an angel!"

"A mere terrestrial one, Richard, I am afraid," returned the Princess, with a smile. "And now let me speak to you upon the little matter of business to which I alluded in my note. After I had informed my father that you were the generous unknown who had been the means of his release from prison, he exclaimed, 'Excellent-hearted young man! How I have wronged him by my injurious suspicions concerning that night when the burglary was attempted at our home!' You see that I tell you his very words."

"Yes—tell me every thing, dear Isabella. And, thus, your father no longer believes——"

"How can he believe that any one would attempt to rob him one day, and pay nearly two thousand pounds for him another?" exclaimed Isabella. "Oh, no—he is disabused upon that point. Would that he were unprejudiced on others!"

"I understand you," said Markham, mournfully. "The Prince cannot consent to renew his acquaintance with one who has been subjected to an infamous punishment, and who aspires to the hand of his daughter."

"Alas! you have divined but too truly," returned Isabella, wiping away a tear. "Nevertheless, may we not hope? Already is one great point gained: my father believes that you may have been unfortunate, and not guilty. Oh! that is a great obstacle removed! And in my mother, Richard, you have a warm friend—although her prejudices of rank and family——"

"I can well comprehend the sentiments of her Highness," answered Markham: "and it is all that which now makes me fear lest——"

"Fear not—but hope every thing," said Isabella, who, however, poor girl! spoke in a more flattering manner than her secret thoughts would have warranted, had she consulted them; but she saw her lover oppressed and weighed down by the revelation of that secret which she had considered it unkind to retain any longer; and she did all she could to console him.

"Yes—I will hope, for both our sakes," said Richard.

"And now let me conclude my little narrative," continued Isabella. "My father resolved to repay you the money you had so generously advanced, the moment he was enabled; and as the Grand Duke of Castelcicala has settled upon him an income of ten thousand a-year, besides an immediate grant of forty thousand pounds,—boons which my father had only accepted because no political condition was attached to them, and because they are alleged to be an indemnification for his estates which have been confiscated,—he only awaited the arrival of his first remittances to acquit himself of that debt of honour. The day before yesterday he gave this letter," added Isabella, taking a small sealed packet from her reticule, "to one of our servants to convey to the post at Richmond. I demanded it back again privately of the servant, with the view of placing it myself in your hands, and—and taking the opportunity to reveal to you a secret which I did not think it right to keep from you any longer."

"I receive this packet, then, Isabella, with its contents," said Markham, pressing her hand as he took it, "because your father is happily in a position to repay me the trifle which I was enabled to disburse for his benefit. But ten thousand times more valuable is this sum to me, since its payment prompted you to grant me this interview."

"I had so much to tell you, Richard," answered the lady, with a deep blush, "that I could not commit it all to paper. I therefore adopted this plan—which perhaps is indiscreet——"

"Use not that epithet again, dear Isabella," interrupted Markham. "You assure me that you love me: can you then regret that you have made me happy by allowing me to see you—to talk to you—to embrace you once again? And yet, in the midst of that happiness, the sad thought intrudes upon me—'When shall I see thee again?'"

"Accident may throw us together soon—as it has done ere now," murmured Isabella: "accident—or rather Providence—does so much for us poor mortals."

"But, with your mother's prejudices in favour of rank and birth, and with your father's high destinies, what hope can exist for so humble an individual as myself? How can I dare aspire to the hand of a Princess of a powerful independent state?"

"Did not Miss Eliza Sydney espouse the Grand Duke of Castelcicala? and she—she also——"

And Richard's handsome countenance was once more animated with a glow of hope and joy.

Then, in an access of enthusiasm, he exclaimed:

"Oh! if ever this fond aspiration should be realised,—if ever the humble and obscure Englishman were united to the high-born and brilliant Italian Princess, how sweet—how sweet would it be for him to owe rank and fortune to the woman whom he loved so fondly, and whom he would ever love until the hand of Death should beckon him to the tomb! For myself, I pant not for the honours and glories of this life; for hadst thou, Isabella, been the daughter of the lowest peasants, I had loved thee all the same—and had been far, far more contented, because the obstacles which now oppose our happiness might then have ceased to exist!"

"Believe me, Richard," answered Isabella, in a tone of witching tenderness, "believe me, that the happiest day of my life will be that when I can prove to you the extent of that affection with which you have inspired me;—and, again I repeat, that if ever I rejoiced in the prospect of that fortune which, whether my father eventually succeed to the ducal throne or not, he will be enabled to leave me,—and if ever I felt proud of that high station which my family enjoys, or indulged in the hope that my parents may one day attain to sovereign rank,—that joy, that pride, that hope are all experienced on account of you! For, like you, I care not for the grandeur and ostentation of palaces;—but it will be a thrice happy day for me, when I can say to thee—'Richard, my fortune is all thine, and thou shalt share my rank!' Because, in Castelcicala, unlike the usages of your native land, he who espouses a Princess becomes a Prince; and, when you shall be thus exalted, Richard, who will dare to remind you of the misfortunes of your past life? That is why I rejoice in my present rank and future prospects,—a joy that is experienced solely on account of you!"

"Noble-hearted girl! what kindness—what attention—what devoted love on my part can ever repay thee for these generous feelings—these endearing proofs of the tenderest attachment!"

"Do you think that I should love you, Richard, as I do," returned Isabella, "if I did not know the generosity of your soul—if I did not appreciate all your virtues? I am well aware that, unfortunately, you are not rich; and yet you sacrificed—nobly sacrificed your property to release my parent from a gaol! Oh! how can I ever forget that conduct of yours? You speak of repaying me for my affection: how much do I not owe to you?"

There was a pause in the conversation, during which the lovers walked up and down along the edge of the leafless grove, each enjoying reflections of a pleasurable nature. Isabella leant with charming confidence upon the arm of that handsome and generous-hearted young man, in whose love she gloried as if he were the Prince and she were the obscure individual; and he felt his heart expand with ineffable bliss, as he contemplated the brilliant prospects which that lovely girl—the proudly-born Princess spread before the eyes of him—the obscure individual.

More than an hour and a half had already passed, and Isabella at length remembered that she must return home.

She intimated to her lover the necessity of separating; and, with fond embraces and renewed vows, they parted.

Richard watched her receding form until she entered the grove of evergreens surrounding her father's mansion: he then retraced his steps towards Richmond.

And never was his heart so light as now!

ALBERTO of Castelcicala, to conceal his princely rank, when he arrived in England an exile from his native shores, had adopted the style of Count Alteroni—this title being the name of an estate which he had possessed in Italy, but which, together with the remainder of his vast property, had been confiscated by order of the Grand Duke, his uncle. The government of Castelcicala was an absolute despotism; and it was because the Prince, with a view to ameliorate the condition of the people whom he might one day be called upon to govern, had placed himself at the head, and openly avowed himself as the patron, of a political party in the state, whose object was to obtain a constitution, he had been proscribed by the Grand Duke and the old aristocracy of the country.

His party advised him to have recourse to arms; and meetings in favour of the enlightened principles which he advocated were held at the time throughout the country. But the Prince was resolved never to plunge his native land into the horrors of a civil war: he preferred exile and obscurity to such an alternative. His was, indeed, a lofty and patriotic soul, that knew how to sacrifice his dearest interests to the popular tranquillity.

Accordingly, on his arrival in London he had adopted a rank comparatively humble in respect to the exalted station which he in reality occupied; and to this mode of conduct he was instigated by the same disinterested motives that had led him to fly from his country rather than raise the standard of civil strife. He knew that if he settled in London under his proper title, he could not avoid receiving those patriotic exiles who had fled from Castelcicala to avoid the consequences of their liberal opinions. He was averse to the idea of allowing his dwelling to be made the point of réunion for those who advocated the enforcement of the popular cause by means of arms; he would not for a moment consent to permit a nucleus of open rebellion against the reigning sovereign of Castelcicala, to be formed under his auspices. He had, therefore, intimated to his friends and adherents that he intended to retire into private life, until circumstances might place him in a position to confer upon his native land the charter of liberties which he believed to be its natural right.

Nor need it now be made a matter of marvel if those letters of introduction proved such immediate passports for Eliza Sydney into the first society of Castelcicala;—but little did he who gave them or he who solicited them,—little did they think that their ulterior effect would be to open the way for that lady to such an eminence as the one which she had attained.

We have before explained,—a point, indeed, which the intelligent reader could not fail to comprehend,—that the chance of Alberto to the Castelcicalan throne now depended upon the contingency of the marriage of Angelo III. producing offspring, or not. Scarcely, however, had that marriage been consummated, when the Minister of Foreign. Affairs wrote to the Castelcicalan envoy at the court of Queen Victoria, to communicate to Prince Alberto the intention of the government, sanctioned by the Grand Duke, to allow him a handsome income, and supply him with an immediate grant, by way of indemnification for the loss of his estates. No political condition of any kind being attached to this concession, the Prince did not hesitate to accept it; and it was even mentioned in a Montoni newspaper, that the influence of the Grand Duchess, aided by the friendly feeling of some of the new Ministers towards the Prince, had procured this act of justice at the hands of Angelo III.

These few observations may not be deemed superfluous, inasmuch as they tend to explain the real position of the Prince of Castelcicala—the father of our charming heroine.

We said it was with a light heart that Richard Markham retraced his steps to Richmond, after having parted with the Princess Isabella.

He was, moreover, desirous to examine the contents of the packet which she had placed in his hands,—not because he cared for the money which was thus returned to him; but because he was anxious to ascertain whether any note from her father accompanied it.

He, however, restrained his curiosity until he reached Richmond, where he entered an hotel, ordered a private room, bespoke some refreshment, and then proceeded to break the seal of the envelope.

Yes—there was a letter, containing a cheque.

The cheque fell unheeded on the carpet: the letter was immediately perused with avidity;—

Markham picked up the cheque: it was for five thousand pounds.

We must endeavour to explain the nature of the feelings which the contents of the Prince's letter created within him.

He saw with delight that the illustrious exile once more addressed him as a friend, and that all suspicions of his guilt had been extirpated from the mind of that nobleman. But, on the other hand, the barrier between himself and Isabella seemed to be rendered insuperable by the positive terms in which the Prince bade him eradicate his passion from his bosom. That barrier was no doubt twofold: the father of Isabella never could consent to the union of his daughter with one whom the world had stamped with ignominy, although innocent:—and, chiefly, the Italian Prince—the probable heir to a throne—might aspire to a far, far higher connexion for his child. Then Richard's thoughts were directed to the handsome sum of money which the Prince had placed at his disposal; and he could not do otherwise than admire the delicate manner in which it was proffered,—a manner that scarcely admitted of a refusal. And yet Richard was resolved to return the surplus above the amount which he had disbursed to procure the Prince's liberation from prison.

Thus was it with mingled feelings of joy and melancholy that Markham reviewed the contents of that letter.

Still he clung to Hope,—for Isabella had bade him hope; and he thought that the same good Providence which had thus far reconciled him to the father of his beloved, might in time accomplish more striking miracles in his favour.

But, alas! it must indeed be a miracle that could link his fate with the high destinies of the ducal house of Castelcicala!

Isabella, instead of being the daughter of an obscure count, was the only child of one who, if he were not to become himself the sovereign of the most powerful petty state in Europe, would at all events occupy a station next only to the sovereign whenever circumstances should allow him to return to his native land.

But, on the other hand, Isabella was faithful and true; and what might not be expected from woman's love?

In a word, Markham was rather inclined to hope than to despair; and the incidents of that morning imparted to his soul a solace which was a recompense for much, very much of past suffering.

He only drew for the amount actually due to him, and desired that the surplus might be retained in behalf of Count Alteroni (under which name the Prince was known at the bankers' establishment).

On his return home, Richard addressed the following letter to the Italian nobleman:—

It will be seen that the tone of this letter was somewhat constrained; but, although Richard endeavoured to write with apparent ease, as if ignorant of his correspondent's real rank, he could not forget that he was addressing himself to the Prince of Castelcicala.

ALAS! that we should be compelled to turn from such bright scenes as woman's love and lovers' hope, to deeds of infamy and crime.

But so goes the world; and no faithful historian can venture to deviate from the rule.

Sad, and dismal, and dark, are many of the phases which this narrative has yet to show; but we can also promise our reader that there will not be wanting bright and cheering scenes to afford relief to his eye.

Chequered, indeed, are the ways of life: varied and diversified are all its paths.

And, oh! let him who is wearied with the load of existence, while wending through the rough and craggy places of the world, and when rudely jostled by the world's unfeeling crowd,—let him remember that there is another sphere beyond, where the ways are smooth and pleasant, and where the voice of lamentation is never heard,—a sphere where angels alone shall be the guides of the elect, and where the sound of grateful harmony shall never cease,—a sphere, whose name is Heaven!

Again we say, alas! that we should be compelled to divert the attention of our reader from scenes of mundane bliss and the contemplation of the purest love, to deeds of iniquity and hatred.

But to our task.

It was about five o'clock in the evening of the day that witnessed the incidents of the two preceding chapters, and that had succeeded the night on which the unhappy Viola had signed a deed surrendering up half her property to her unprincipled husband,—that the Resurrection Man returned home to his dwelling in Globe Town.

But before he ascended to the apartments inhabited by himself and his mistress with a fearful name, he entered the lower part of the building, and, having lighted a candle, descended to the subterranean vaults.

In the first place he went into a cell opposite to that which was still tenanted by Viola, who, it will be remembered, had received a solemn promise to be restored to her own abode that evening at nine o'clock.

The Resurrection Man entered the cell to which we have alluded, and which was empty.

He raised a stone from the floor, and drew from a hole of about a foot deep, a large leathern bag, the contents of which sent forth the welcome metallic sound of gold as he took it in his hand.

The miscreant seated himself upon the cold floor of the cell, and poured forth into his hat the glittering contents of the bag. His eyes sparkled with delight as he surveyed the treasure.

He took a few of the coins up in his hand, and let them drop one by one back again into his hat—his glances greedily fixed upon the gold as he thus toyed with it.

"Two hundred good sterling sovereigns here already," he mused within himself,—"two hundred pounds earned with toil, trouble, daring, and danger. Two hundred pounds are a decent provision for any man in my line of life! And now," he continued, taking a smaller canvass bag from his pocket, "there is more to add to swell the treasury. Here is a hundred pounds—my half of the sum paid by Tomlinson this afternoon for keeping the secret about his old clerk. The Buffer has got his share; but I warrant he will hoard none of it as I do! Thank my stars, within the last year I have learnt to be economical and saving. I mean to have something for my old age; unless——"

And his countenance suddenly assumed an expression perfectly hideous, as he reflected upon the probability of his career being cut short by the hand of the law.

But, in another moment, he grew composed—that is to say, desperately hardened; and he then proceeded with his occupation and his musings.

"Well, here is my share of the two hundred pounds that the chicken-hearted, contemptible, cowardly Tomlinson paid for a secret which a little calm reflection might have told him that I dared not reveal. That's a hundred pounds to add to my sinking fund;"—and here the miscreant smiled. "Now," he continued, "comes the grand swag—three hundred pounds from Chichester,—and not too much for the trouble I have had in his affair! Two hundred before—Tomlinson's hundred—and Chichester's three hundred,—that makes six hundred pounds of good sterling gold, the property of Mr. Anthony Tidkins!"

And here the Resurrection Man laughed outright:—it was a horrible chuckle—the triumph of a miscreant of a most atrocious nature.

While he was consigning his wealth to the larger bag, and gloating over the gold as he passed it through his hand, he was suddenly alarmed by a slight sound in the passage.

It seemed like a low footstep.

He listened, but it was not repeated.

For nearly a minute did he remain motionless, and almost breathless, in a state of painful attention; but not another sound met his ear.

Then, recovering from the state of uneasy suspense into which that incident had thrown him, he rose from the floor, and hurried into the passage which divided the two rows of cells.

All was quiet.

Ashamed of himself for his childish alarm, and muttering a curse at his folly for having given way to that fear, he returned into the cell, buried his treasure and covered the place with the stone. He then carefully locked the door of the dungeon.

He crossed the passage, and proceeded gently to open the door leading into the cell occupied by Viola. When he entered this vault, he found the lamp extinguished; but by the glare of his candle, he perceived the unhappy woman stretched in a profound slumber upon the bed.

"All right," he muttered to himself,—"and just as I expected. She will sleep some hours yet, for the wine was well drugged; and thus we can convey her back again to her house in a state of insensibility. When she awakes in her own bed, her servants will assure her that all she has passed through was a mere dream; and by this plan she will be so bewildered, that she will actually fancy she has been delirious, and that her brain has wandered. This was Chichester's suggestion; and I must give him credit for it. True—she will sooner or later discover that the departure of half her property is no dream; but then the first burst of passion will have gone by, and she will consider it prudent to hold her tongue. Well—let her sleep: at nine o'clock Chichester and Tomlinson will come, and then she shall be removed."

At that instant an idea struck the Resurrection Man. Hitherto he had worked as Chichester's agent, and by Chichester's directions, in this affair: what if he were to turn the business to some good account for himself? The lady had only parted with half her property: she had eight thousand pounds left. Might not all, or a decent portion of this sum thus remaining, pass into the hands of the Resurrection Man? His mode of treatment had elicited the first concession: some additional horrors might extort a further grant. The idea was excellent: fool that he was for not having thought of it before!

Thus reasoned Anthony Tidkins.

The more he thought of the new plot which had just entered his head, the more he grew enamoured of it. He was well aware that neither Chichester nor Tomlinson would dare to adopt measures to resist his will; and with a grin of savage delight, he exclaimed aloud, "By God, it shall be done!"

He then removed the bottle of wine from the cell, so that when Viola awoke she might not repeat her dose—supposing that she should be ignorant of the cause of her long lethargic slumber; for the Resurrection Man was not aware of the sudden effect which it had produced upon her, but imagined that the drugged liquid was only powerful enough to operate gradually. He next replenished the lamp with oil from a bottle which stood in one corner of the cell, and, having lighted the lamp, withdrew, carefully bolting and locking the door behind him.

He ascended from the subterranean prison, replaced the stone trap-door, and issued from the ground-floor of the house. He observed that the door leading into the alley was locked as he had left it when he entered; and this circumstance reassured him relative to the little incident which had temporarily disturbed him when counting his money in the cell.

Many circumstances combined to put the Resurrection Man into an excellent humour.

He had that day added four hundred pounds to his hidden treasure; he saw business of all kinds multiplying upon his hands, and promising a golden harvest; and he had hit upon a scheme which, he had no doubt, would produce him a larger sum than he had ever yet realised even in his dreams.

It was therefore with a smiling countenance that he entered the up-stairs room where the Rattlesnake was busily employed in spreading the contents of her cupboard upon the table.

"Well, Meg, you see I am home before my time," he exclaimed. "I don't want any dinner: I took some at a chop-house in town, as I had to wait on business. But leave the lush: I am in a humour for a glass of grog;—and you and I, Meg, will sit down and have a cozy chat together."

"So we will, Tony," returned the woman, with a manner even more wheedling and fawning than she had ever before used towards her terrible paramour. "You seem in excellent spirits, Tony."

"Yes, Meg—excellent: I have done a good day's work—and now I will enjoy myself till nine o'clock, when I have got to meet two gentlemen close by here on another little matter."

"Ah! you seldom tell me what you are doing, Tony," said the Rattlesnake.

"No—no: I don't like trusting women a bit farther than I can see them. Such things as getting up a body or so—well and good; but serious things, Meg—serious things, never!"

"Well, just as you like," returned Margaret Flathers, affecting a smile as if she were quite satisfied; but as she turned to replace the meat in the cupboard, her countenance involuntarily assumed an expression of mysterious triumph.

"Come, now—sit down," said the Resurrection Man: "give me a pipe, and brew me my lush. There—that's a good girl."

Tidkins lighted his pipe, and smoked for some moments in silence.

"I tell you what, Meg," he exclaimed, after a pause; "you shall sing me a song. I feel in such an uncommon good humour this evening—in such excellent spirits. No—I won't have a song: I tell you what you shall do."

"What?" said Margaret, as she mixed two glasses of gin and water.

"You shall tell me all about the coal-mines, you know—your own history. You told it me once before; but then I wasn't in a humour to hear you. I missed half, and have forgot t' other half. So now, come—let's have the Life and Adventures of Miss Margaret Flathers."

The Resurrection Man laughed at this joke—as he considered and meant it to be; and the Rattlesnake, who never dared to thwart him in any thing, and who apparently had some additional motive to humour him on this occasion, hastened to comply with his request—or rather command.