The Mysteries of London, v. 1/4

HERE the Rattlesnake abruptly broke off.

The Resurrection Man was asleep in his chair. It had not been without a motive that the woman so readily complied with the desire of the Resurrection Man that she should amuse him with the history of her life; and as she saw him gradually becoming more and more drowsy as her narrative progressed, an ill-concealed expression of joy animated her countenance.

At length, when the hand of the watch over the mantelpiece pointed to eight, and the Resurrection Man fell back in his chair fast asleep, she could hardly suppress an ejaculation of triumph.

She broke off abruptly in the midst of her narrative, and listened.

The nasal sounds that emanated from her companion convinced her that he slept.

Not a moment was now to be lost.

She knew full well that whenever Anthony Tidkins was overtaken by a nap in such a manner as the present, he invariably awoke a short time before the hour at which he had any business to transact; for that strange but fearful individual exercised a marvellous control over all his natural wants and propensities.

She was, however, resolved to assure herself as far as possible on that head; and she purposely agitated the fire-irons against each other.

The Resurrection Man started slightly, but did not awake.

Perfectly satisfied on this point, Margaret Flathers hastened into the adjoining room, and put on her bonnet and shawl.

Having provided herself with her skeleton keys and some lucifer matches, she descended the stairs and went out of the house.

It was not, however, without an intense apprehension of danger that she proceeded to the execution of her scheme. Were the Resurrection Man to awake suddenly, and entertain any suspicion on discovering her absence, she knew that her life would not be worth an hour's purchase.

Still the temptation that now lured her to dare this terrific chance was so great—it was irresistible!

Her hesitation, when she stood in the street, was only of a moment's existence; and, calling all her courage to her aid, she plunged into the alley.

The door in that dark passage was opened in another moment: she closed and locked it carefully, and then entered the back room on the ground floor.

Having obtained a light, she raised the mysterious trap-door, and boldly descended the steps leading into the subterranean passage.

One of her keys soon opened the door of the cell in which the Resurrection Man had buried his treasure; but her joy at this disappearance of the only difficulty which she had apprehended, was adulterated by a sentiment of invincible terror, as she still thought of the possibility of detection by him whose desperate character inspired her with this tremendous alarm.

Nevertheless, she was resolved to dare every thing in the enterprise which she had undertaken.

"Fortune seemed to favour me this afternoon when I watched him," she murmured to herself; "and surely it will not desert me at the last moment."

Then she boldly entered the cell.

To take up the stone which covered the treasure, and possess herself of the bag that contained the gold over which she had a few hours previously beheld the Resurrection Man gloating in so strange a manner,—this was the work of only a few moments.

She replaced the stone: she clutched the bag with a feeling of wild joy commingled with terrific alarm; and she was hurrying from the cell, when something at the opposite side of the passage met her view, and for a moment riveted her to the spot.

A light was streaming from beneath the door of a dungeon facing the one on the threshold of which she stood.

Circumstances, which in the excitement of her present daring proceedings she had forgotten, now rushed like an overwhelming torrent to her memory.

The mysterious visits of the Resurrection Man in a mask and dark cloak to that subterranean place,—the bread and water which she had seen in the cupboard up stairs,—and the fearful scream that on one occasion had emanated from the depths where she now found herself,—these circumstances all flashed to her mind.

There was no longer any doubt: a human being—a female, most probably, judging by the tone of that agonising shriek which now seemed to ring in her ears as if its vibration had never once ceased—was immured in that dungeon whence the light streamed!

This conviction dissipated the alarm into which the sudden glare of that light had plunged the Rattlesnake.

Urged by several motives,—curiosity, a desire to obtain the reinforcement of a companion in case of the sudden appearance of the Resurrection Man, and, to do her justice, a feeling of compassion for a victim whom she believed to be of her own sex,—urged, we say, by these motives, which all presented themselves to her mind with the rapidity of lightning, the Rattlesnake hastened to open the door of that dungeon whence the light emanated.

She boldly entered the cell; and at the same moment Viola awoke.

Starting up from the bed, that unhappy lady glanced wildly around and exclaimed, "Where am I?"

"Hush! not a word," said the Rattlesnake, advancing towards her. "I am come to save you—follow me!"

Viola did not hesitate a single moment: the manner in which the woman addressed her, and a profound sense of the certainty that no treachery was needed to draw her into any position worse than her present one, since she was so completely in the power of the terrible master of that establishment, induced her to yield instantaneous compliance with the directions of the Rattlesnake.

"Fear nothing, lady," observed the latter; "only be silent, and lose not a moment."

She then hastened from the cell followed by Viola, who did not even wait to put on her bonnet and shawl.

They ascended the steps leading to the back-room, both hearts palpitating violently.

The Rattlesnake did not stop to close the mouth of the subterranean vaults, but hastened to apply the skeleton key to the door leading into the alley.

Her hand trembled to such an extent that she could not turn the key.

"O heavens!" she exclaimed in a tone of despair, "if he should come!"

"Have you the right key?" demanded Viola in a hurried tone.

"The one that has opened it before," replied Margaret;—"but it appears that—it will not turn—and, ah! my God, I hear steps approaching!"

The affrighted woman fell upon her knees, as if already to supplicate for her life.

Viola listened during half a minute of the most agonising suspense; but no sound from without met her ears.

"It was a false alarm," she exclaimed; then applying her hand to the key, she turned it with ease, for fear alone had prevented the Rattlesnake from moving it.

In another instant the door was opened.

"Thank God!" cried Margaret Flathers, starting from her suppliant posture, and clutching the bag of gold beneath her left arm.

"Come—let us not lose a moment," said Viola; and she darted into the alley, followed by the Rattlesnake.

There was no one to oppose their egress; but they could scarcely believe that they were really safe even when they found themselves in the street.

Margaret Flathers carried her treasure as if it were a thing of no weight: Viola Chichester forgot that she had neither bonnet nor shawl to protect her against the bitter chill of that wintry evening.

And thus, together, did they pursue their way—the virtuous wife and the abandoned woman,—the former thinking not what might be the character of her companion—the latter having now no curiosity to know the circumstances that had plunged the lady by her side into the captivity from which she had just been released.

At length they reached the New Church facing the Bethnal Green Road; and there they halted, both completely out of breath and exhausted.

"We are now safe," said Margaret Flathers.

"We are now safe," echoed Viola Chichester.

"Still this place is lonely——"

"And if that dreadful man were on our track—"

"We might yet repent——"

"Yes—we might yet repent our proceeding."

The minds of those two women—so distinct in all other respects—were now entirely congenial in reference to one grand absorbing idea.

In spite of the alarm which yet filled their imaginations, they lingered against the palings surrounding the field at the back of the New Church, for they were too exhausted to continue their flight for a few moments.

That interval of rest enabled them to direct their attention to other matters besides the immense danger from which they had just escaped, and the sense of which was still uppermost in their minds.

"Which way are you going, madam?" asked the Rattlesnake, who saw by Viola's air—in spite of the disadvantages under which her outward appearance laboured—that she was not one of the poorer orders.

"My own house is close by," answered Mrs. Chichester. "But you—whither are you going? Will it not be better for you to come with me—and——"

"No, lady," replied Margaret Flathers; "you are not aware who and what I am, or you would not make me that generous offer."

"Generous!" exclaimed Viola: "have you not saved me from a fearful dungeon? It is true that my persecutors promised to release me this evening: but, alas! their word was not to be depended upon."

"Ah! madam," said Margaret, "if you trusted to Anthony Tidkins to give you your freedom, you would have been woefully disappointed—unless, indeed, he had no longer any interest in keeping you a prisoner."

"Well—well," observed Viola, "we will talk of all that hereafter. In the mean time, I insist upon your accompanying me to my home."

"I will see you safe to your own door, madam," returned Margaret; "and there I shall leave you."

"And why will you refuse an asylum at my abode?" demanded Viola.

"I dare not remain in London," answered the Rattlesnake. "Oh! you know not the perseverance, the craft, and the wickedness of the man from whose power you have just escaped. But there is one favour, madam, which you can grant me——"

"Name it," exclaimed Viola: "it is already conferred, if within my power."

"You can have no difficulty in fulfilling my request," said the Rattlesnake, "because it is simple, and consists only in forbearance. I mean, madam, that you will amply reward me for the service I have been able to render you, if you will promise not to take any measures to punish or molest Anthony Tidkins. He has been more or less good to me; and I should not like to know that he was injured through me. Besides, his revenge would only be the more terrible, if ever you or I again fell into his hands."

"I give you the promise which you require," said Viola; "although I must confess that it is somewhat repugnant to my feelings to allow such a wretch to be at large with impunity."

"But for my sake, lady——"

"For your sake, I give my most solemn pledge not to do aught that may injure that man on account of his past offences."

"A thousand thanks!" ejaculated the Rattlesnake. "Let us now proceed. But, heavens! you have got nothing on your head nor on your shoulders; and I did not notice that before! Take my bonnet and shawl, madam—I am more accustomed to the cold than you."

"No," said Viola; "in five minutes I shall be at my own house. Come—let us proceed."

Mrs. Chichester and the Rattlesnake hastened towards the Cambridge Heath gate.

On reaching the door of her abode, Viola again pressed her companion to accept of her hospitality: but the Rattlesnake firmly, though respectfully, refused the offer.

"In another hour, madam," she said, "I shall not be in London. Then only shall I consider myself safe."

"At least allow me to supply you with some money for your immediate purposes. I have none about me, and I know not whether my husband has left a single shilling in the house; but any of my tradesmen in the neighbourhood will honour my draft; and if you will walk in for a few minutes—"

"Thank you, madam—thank you for your kind consideration; but I am well supplied;" and she shook the bag that she hugged beneath her arm.

Viola heard the jingling of the gold, and ceased to press her offer.

"At all events," she observed, "should you ever require a friend, do not hesitate to apply to Mrs. Chichester."

"Mrs. Chichester!" ejaculated the Rattlesnake: "surely I have heard that name before? Oh! I recollect—I have taken to the post-office letters from Tidkins to a Mr. Chichester, who, I suppose, must be your husband."

"The same," said Viola, with a profound sigh.

"Farewell, madam," cried the Rattlesnake: "I feel that I shall not breathe with freedom until I am far beyond London. Farewell."

"Farewell," said Mrs. Chichester, extending her hand towards her deliverer.

Margaret Flathers pressed it warmly, and then hurried away.

Viola knocked at the door, and was speedily admitted once more into her own dwelling.

The servant who received her, uttered an ejaculation of surprise when she beheld the condition in which her mistress had returned.

"Mr. Chichester came this morning early, ma'am," returned the servant, "and took away every thing belonging to him."

"Heaven be thanked!" cried Viola. "Perhaps he will molest me no more? God grant that the separation may be eternal! Nevertheless, secure the door and the windows: this house is not safe! To-morrow I shall leave it, and hire lodgings in the very heart of London. There, perhaps," she murmured to herself, "no violence can be offered to me!"

ON a fine frosty morning—about ten days after the incidents just related,—two young ladies were walking together along the road in the immediate vicinity of the dwelling of Count Alteroni (for so we had better continue to call him, until he himself shall choose to throw aside his incognito).

Did an artist wish to personify the antipodes,—as the ancients did their rivers, mounts, and groves,—upon his canvass, he could not possibly have selected for his models two maidens between whom there existed so great a physical contrast as that which was afforded to the eye by the young ladies above noticed.

The one was a brunette, and seemed a child of the sunny south; the other was as fair as ever daughter of our cold northern clime could be:—the one had the rich red blood mantling beneath a delicate tinge of the purest and most transparent bistre; the other was pale and colourless as the whitest marble:—the generous mind and elevated intellect of the one shone through eyes large, black, and impassioned; the almost infantine candour and artlessness of the other were expressed by means of orbs of azure blue:—the glossy raven hair of the one was parted in two rich bands over the high and noble forehead; the flaxen tresses of the other fell in varied waves of pale auburn and gold, beneath the bonnet, over the shoulders:—the form of the one was well-rounded but sylph-like; the symmetry of the other was delicate and slight:—the appearance of the one excited the most ardent admiration tempered with respect; that of the other inspired the most lively interest:—the beauty of the one was faultless, brilliant, and dazzling; that of the other, ideal, fascinating, and bewitching:—the one, in fine, was a native of the warm Italian clime; the other, a daughter of Britain's sea-girt isle.

A shade of profound melancholy hung upon the countenance of Mary-Anne Gregory. The sprightly—gay—joyous—innocently volatile disposition had changed to sadness and gloom. Those vermilion lips, which until so lately were ever wreathed in smiles, now expressed care and sorrow. The step, though light, was no longer playfully elastic. Time had added but a few months to the sixteen years which marked the age of Mary-Anne when we first introduced her to our readers; but thought, and meditation, and grief had given to the mind the experience of maturity. She was no longer the gay, lively, flitting, bee-like being that she was when Richard Markham became her brothers' tutor: her manner was now painfully tranquil, her air profoundly pensive, her demeanour inconsistently grave when considered in relation to her years.

It seemed as if there were a canker at the heart of that fair creature; as if the hidden worm were preying upon the delicate rose-bud ere it expanded into the bloom of maturity!

And these traits and symptoms were rendered the more apparent by the contrast afforded by the rich health and youthful vigour which characterised the Signora Isabella. The hues of the rose were seen beneath the soft brunette tint of her complexion—for that complexion was clear and transparent as the stream over which the trees throw a shade beneath a summer sun.

And both those maidens loved: but the passion of the English girl was without hope; while that of the noble Italian lady was nurtured by the fondest aspirations.

But how came those charming creatures thus acquainted with each other?

Perhaps their conversation may elucidate this mystery.

"We have only known each other one short week," said Mary-Anne; "and yet I feel as if you were sent to me by heaven to become my friend and confidant—for, oh! it seems to me as if my soul nourished a secret which consumes it."

"An accident made us acquainted; and that very circumstance immediately inspired me with a deep interest in your behalf," returned the signora. "There are occasions when two persons become more intimate in a few short days, than they otherwise would in as many years."

"You echo my own feelings, signora," said Mary-Anne; "and your goodness makes me desire to deserve and gain your friendship."

"Your wish is already accomplished, my dear Miss Gregory," observed Isabella. "You have my friendship; and if you think me worthy of your confidence, I can sympathise with your sorrows, even if I cannot remove them."

"How have you divined that the confidence I would impart is associated with grief?" asked Mary-Anne, hastily.

"Signora," said Mary-Anne, with tears in her eyes, "I can never repay you for this kind interest which you manifest towards me. I feel that I should be happier were I to tell you all that grieves me; but I tremble—lest you should think me very foolish, and very indiscreet!"

"Foolish we may all be at times," said Isabella; "but indiscreet I am convinced you never were."

"Is it not indiscreet to nurse a sentiment whose hopes can never be realised? Is it not indiscreet," added Mary-Anne, hanging down her head, and speaking in a low tone, "to love one who loves another?"

"No—not indiscreet," answered Isabella, hastily: "for what mortal has power over the heart?"

"Signora, love is not then a stranger to your breast!" exclaimed Mary-Anne, glancing with tearful eyes up to the countenance of the Italian lady.

"I should be unworthy of your confidence, were I to withhold mine," said Isabella. "Yes—my troth is plighted to one than whom no living soul possesses more generous, more noble feelings: and yet," she added, with a sigh, "there are obstacles in the way of our union—obstacles which, alas! I sometimes think, can never be overcome!"

"Ah! lady, while I can now feel for you—feel most deeply," said Mary-Anne, "I am, nevertheless, rejoiced that you have thus honoured me with your confidence. It removes any hesitation—any alarm, on my part, to unburden my soul to you!"

"Speak, my dear Mary-Anne," returned Isabella: "you will at least be certain to receive sympathy and consolation from me."

"I shall then reveal my sentiments unreservedly," continued Mary-Anne. "I have before mentioned to you that I have two brothers, who are now at college. A few months ago, they were preparing for their collegiate course of study, and were residing at home in Kentish Town. My father obtained for them the assistance of a tutor—a young gentleman who had once been wealthy, but who had been reduced to comparative poverty. Oh! it was impossible to see that young man without feeling an interest in him. When I first heard that a tutor was engaged for my brothers, I immediately pictured to myself a confirmed pedagogue—shabby, dirty, dogmatic, and ugly. How greatly then was I astonished, when I was introduced to an elegant and handsome young man, of polished manners, agreeable conversation, entirely unassuming, courteous, and affable? There was a partial air of melancholy about him; but his eyes were lighted with the fire of intellect, and his noble forehead seemed to be adorned with that unartificial crown of aristocracy which nature bestows upon her elect. Alas! woe to me was the day when that young man first entered my father's dwelling. The interest I felt for him soon augmented to a degree, that I was miserable when he was away. But, when he was present, oh! then my heart seemed to bound within me like a fawn upon the hills; and my happiness was of the most ravishing description—I was gay, frolicksome, and playful: no laugh of a child was so hearty, so sincere as mine! His voice was music to my ears! He taught me drawing; but I was too happy to sit still for many minutes together—too happy to sit next to him! And yet I did not understand my own feelings: in fact, I never stopped to analyse them. I was carried along by a whirlwind that left me no leisure for self-examination. When he was absent, my only thought was upon what he had said when present, and how happy I should be when he came once more. I had no more idea of the true nature of the sentiment that animated my soul, than I have at this instant of what constitutes the happiness of heaven. I knew that I felt happy when he was there: I know that those feel happy who dwell above;—but I was as ignorant then of what formed my felicity, as I now am of the bliss experienced by those who inhabit the Almighty's kingdom. Thus a few weeks passed away; and then my father announced his intention of allowing a holiday for a short period. I remember—as well as if it were an event of yesterday—that this arrangement caused me serious displeasure; because I understood that our tutor would cease to visit us during the suspension of the studies. I expressed my annoyance in plain terms; but this ebullition on my part was most probably considered a specimen of girlish caprice, or the airs of a spoiled child. And now, signora—now——"

"Call me Isabella," said the Italian lady, affectionately.

"Now, my dear Isabella," preceded Mary-Anne, "I come to that part of my narrative which involves an indiscretion that may appear grave in your eyes—though, God knows, I was at the time entirely ignorant of the imprudence of the step which I was taking."

"I am prepared to allow every extenuation for one so young, so artless, and so inexperienced as yourself," observed Isabella.

"Ah! how kind you are," returned Mary-Anne, pressing her companion's hand. "But let me not hesitate to reveal the indiscretion into which I was hurried by feelings of a new and powerful nature, I called upon the young tutor at his own residence! And then, how nobly did he behave! how generously did he act! He explained to me—by degrees, and in the most delicate manner possible—the impropriety of the step which I had taken: he gave me an insight into those rules of feminine propriety, a breach of which can scarcely be extenuated by the plea of guilelessness;—in a word, he opened my eyes to the position in which I had placed myself! But, alas! what did I learn at the same time? He told me that he was attached to a young lady, who was very beautiful. It then struck me, with lightning rapidity, that I had no right to offer my friendship (for still I did not dream of love) to one on whom another heart had claims; and I left him with a sincere apology for my conduct."

"I admit that your indiscretion was great," said the pure-minded Isabella; "but no one possessing a generous heart could hesitate to sympathise with you, rather than blame."

"And all this time you were still unaware of the true nature of the feelings which animated you?" inquired Isabella.

"Oh! yes—I was indeed," answered Mary-Anne: "but a fearful occurrence was speedily destined to open my eyes! I remained a few days with my kind friends at Twickenham, and then returned home. I there learnt that the tutor had ceased to attend at the house, as my brothers were to proceed, at the commencement of January, to college. I know not whether my father had some motive for the conduct which he thus pursued, in abruptly dismissing the tutor and sending me away while he adopted that step; nor can I say whether any particular reason prompted him to do all that he could to amuse my mind on my return home. It is, nevertheless, certain that he exerted himself to provide amusements for me: he purchased two horses, and accompanied me in frequent equestrian exercises; he took me to concerts and the theatres; and supplied me with entertaining books of travel and adventure, music, and pictures. But my mind was intent only upon one absorbing idea; nor could it be weaned from that feeling which it nursed in favour of the young tutor. I, however, acceded to all my father's plans of diversion; and it was one evening at the theatre that the veil fell from my eyes! I accompanied my father to witness a new drama. The action of the piece was deeply interesting; the poetry was of a nature to touch the inmost soul. There was a passage in which the heroine described her hopeless love: I listened—I drank in every word—I hung upon each syllable of that fine speech as if my own destiny were intimately linked with the scene enacting before me. As she proceeded, I was painfully surprised by the similitude existing between the feelings that she described and that I felt. At length a light dawned in upon my soul;—then did I begin to comprehend the real nature of the sentiments that filled my own soul;—then could I read my own heart! I perceived that I loved tenderly, deeply, unalterably! I heard no more of the drama—I saw nothing more of its progress: I sate absorbed in deep reflection upon the conviction that had so suddenly reached me. When I awoke from my reverie, the tragedy——"

"A tragedy?" said Isabella, hastily.

"Yes—the tragedy was finished, and the author, holding the hand of the heroine of his piece, stood before the public. Merciful heavens! the great tragic writer who had thus suddenly burst upon the world, was no other than the young tutor!"

"The tutor!" exclaimed Isabella, a strange suspicion suddenly entering her mind.

"Yes—he whom I had just discovered that I loved," answered Mary-Anne.

"May I inquire his name?" said Isabella, in a tremulous tone, and with a palpitating heart.

"There can be no indiscretion in revealing it," returned Miss Gregory; "for it is not probable that you have ever heard of Mr. Richard Markham."

"Unhappy girl!" exclaimed Isabella, in a tone of deep sympathy—but without the least feeling of jealousy; "it is now my duty to return your confidence with a reciprocal frankness. But, alas! what I am about to say cannot tend to soothe your sorrows, since—as I fondly believe—it will only confirm you in the impression that the affections of him whom you love are fixed elsewhere."

"You speak mysteriously, Isabella," said Mary-Anne: "pray, explain yourself."

"I will—and without reserve," continued the signora, a blush mantling upon her beauteous countenance. "So far from Mr. Richard Markham being a stranger to me, Mary-Anne, he is——"

"He is—" repeated Miss Gregory, mechanically.

"He is the hope of my happiness—the one to whom my vow of constancy and love is pledged——"

"You the object of his attachment!" ejaculated Mary-Anne, clinging to Isabella for support: "Oh! forgive me—forgive me, that I have dared to love him also!"

"Alas! dear girl, I have nothing to forgive," said Isabella, affectionately: "I deeply—deeply compassionate your lot. And, oh! believe me," continued the generous Italian Princess,—"believe me when I say that no feeling of petty jealousy—no sentiment unworthy the honourable affection which I bear towards Richard Markham—can ever impair the friendship that has commenced, and shall continue, between you and me!"

"Oh! how noble is your disposition, Isabella!" exclaimed Mary-Anne. "But your generous assurance shall not meet with an ungrateful return. So far from feeling jealous of you,—envious I must be, to some extent,—I offer you the most sincere congratulations on your engagement to one who is so well worthy of your love—in spite of what the world may say against him;—for that he could be guilty of the deed of which that horrible man accused him——"

"He is not guilty," answered Isabella, firmly. "The story is a long one; but I will tell thee all."

The signora then related to her companion the narrative of the misfortunes and sufferings of Richard Markham.

Mary-Anne listened with profound attention, and, when Isabella terminated her history, exclaimed, "Oh! I knew that he was all of honourable, great, and generous, that human nature could be!"

A profound silence then ensued between the two young ladies, and lasted for some minutes.

At length it was broken by Mary-Anne.

"Oh! well might he have said," she exclaimed, in a sudden ebullition of feeling, as she gazed upon the countenance of the signora,—"well might he have said that his heart was devoted to a lady who was very beautiful! And he might also have observed, as good as she was lovely!"

"Nay—you must not flatter me," returned Isabella.

"You need not hesitate to hear the truth from my lips," said Mary-Anne. "God grant that I may live to see you happily united: I shall then die in peace."

"It is wrong to talk of dying at your age," observed Isabella. "Time will mitigate that passion which has made you unhappy——"

"Oh! Isabella, do you believe that true and sincere love can ever succumb to time?" exclaimed Mary-Anne, almost reproachfully.

"But time will only ripen, and not eradicate, the canker which gnaws at the heart," persisted Miss Gregory; "and mine," she added with a mournful pathos of tone that showed how deeply she felt the truth of what she said,—"mine has received a wound whose effects may be comparatively slow, but which is not the less mortal. A few years, perhaps, and my earthly career must end. I shall wither like the early flowers, that peep forth prematurely to greet a deceptive gleam of sunshine which they mistake for spring:—I shall pass away at that age when my contemporaries are in the full enjoyment of life, vigour, and happiness! Yes—I feel it here—here;"—and she pressed her hand upon her heart.

"No, my dear friend," said Isabella, affected even to tears; "your prospect is not so gloomy as you would depict it. There is one star that burns in the same heaven which is above us all;—and that star is Hope."

"Hope!" ejaculated Mary-Anne, bitterly: "ah! where does hope exist for me? Is not hope extinguished in my heart for ever?"

"In the one sense, hope is dead," answered Isabella, mildly; "but hope beams not only in one sphere. The attentions of your friends—the kindness of your relations, will combine to cheer your path; and surely this conviction must be allied to hopes of tranquillity, peace, and even happiness! Consider, Mary-Anne—you have a father who is still in the vigour of his years: you will live for him! You have brothers who must soon enter upon their respective careers in the great world: you must live for them! You have friends who are devoted to you: you will live for them also! Oh! do not speak of death with levity: do not seem to invite its presence! We do not live for ourselves only: we live for others. To yield to those feelings which facilitate the ravages of sorrow and encourage the inroads of grief, is to perpetrate a slow suicide. God and man alike require that we should war against our misfortunes!

"Alas! I have not that great moral courage which characterises your soul, Isabella," answered Mary-Anne: "I am a weak and fragile plant, that bends to the lightest gale. How, then, can I resist the terrible tempest?"

"By exerting that fortitude with which every mind is more or less endowed, but which cannot be developed without an effort," answered Isabella.

Mary-Anne sighed, but gave no answer.

The two maidens now felt wearied with the somewhat lengthy walk which they had taken; and they accordingly retraced their steps to the mansion.

IT was evening; and a cheerful fire burned in the grate of the drawing-room at Markham-Place.

Mr. Monroe and his daughter were seated in that apartment; the former dozing in an arm-chair, the latter reading a novel.

Richard was engaged in a literary pursuit in his library.

From time to time Miss Monroe laid aside her book, and fell into meditation. Not that she had any particular subject for her reflections; but the events of her life, when taken together, constituted a theme from which it was impossible to avert her attention for any lengthened period.

There was also a topic upon which she pondered more frequently as time passed on. She knew that in the course of nature,—especially after the rude shocks which his constitution had received from mental suffering and bodily privation,—her father could not live much longer. Then, she was well aware that she could not continue to dwell beneath the same roof with Richard Markham;—and her pride revolted against the idea of receiving a direct eleemosynary assistance from him in the shape of a pecuniary allowance. She had some few pounds treasured up in a savings bank, and which she had saved from her salary when engaged at the theatre; but this sum would not maintain her long. She therefore looked, with occasional anxiety, to the necessity of adopting some course that should obtain for her a livelihood. Of all the avocations in which she had been engaged, she preferred that of the stage; and there were times when she seriously thought of returning to the profession, even during her father's life-time.

In sooth, it was a pity that one of the brightest ornaments of female loveliness should have been lowered by circumstances from the pedestal of virtue and modesty which she would have so eminently adorned. Should her transcendent loveliness captivate the heart of any individual whose proposals were alike honourable and eligible, how could she accept the hand thus extended to her? She must either deceive him in respect to that wherein no man likes to be deceived; or she must decline the chance of settling herself advantageously for life. These were the alternatives;—for in no case could she reveal her shame!

Her fate was not, therefore, a happy one; and the reader need not marvel if she now and then found reflections of a disagreeable nature stealing into her soul.

She was now past twenty years of age: and in spite of the severe trials which she had endured, the sweet freshness of her youthful charms was totally unimpaired. Her faultless Grecian countenance,—her classically-shaped head,—her swan-like neck,—her symmetrical form,—her delicate hands and feet,—all those charms which had been perpetuated in the works of so many artists—these elements of an almost superhuman beauty still combined to render her passing lovely!

O Ellen! the soul of the philanthropist must mourn for thee,—for thou wast not wrongly inclined by nature. On a purer being than thou wast, ere misery drove thee in an evil moment to an evil course, the sun never shone:—and now thou hast to rue the shame which thine imperious destiny, and not thy faults, entailed upon thee!

But to our tale.

Old Mr. Monroe was dozing in the arm-chair; and Ellen had once more turned her eyes upon her book, when Marian entered the room.

She perceived at a glance that Mr. Monroe was asleep; and, placing her finger upon her lip to enjoin silence, she put a note into Ellen's hand, saying it the same time in a low whisper, "Mr. Wentworth's servant has just brought this, with a request that it should be immediately conveyed to you. Miss."

Marian then withdrew.

Ellen tore open the note, and read as follows:—

Ellen flung the note frantically upon the table, and rushed out of the room.

She hurried up stairs, put on her bonnet and cloak, and, having told Marian to sit up for her, hastened from the house—one sole idea occupying her mind,—the danger of her well-beloved child!

When she arrived at Mr. Wentworth's abode, she was received by that gentleman's wife, who immediately said, "The danger is over—the crisis is past! Do not alarm yourself—my husband no longer fears for your son's life. He, however, deemed it to be his duty to send for you."

"Oh! he did well—he acted kindly and considerately," returned Ellen. "But let me assure myself that my boy is no longer in danger."

Mrs. Wentworth led the way to the chamber where little Richard was now sleeping tranquilly, the surgeon seated by the bed-side.

From his lips Ellen gathered hope that the perilous crisis had passed: she nevertheless determined to remain for some time to assure herself that any return of the spasms might not be fraught with increased danger. All other considerations were banished from her mind; she thought not of her father—she remembered not that her absence might alarm both him and Richard Markham; and when Mr. Wentworth delicately alluded to that subject, as time slipped by, she uttered some impatient remark intimating that she should not be at a loss for an excuse to account for her protracted absence.

Thus the pure and holy maternal feeling was now uppermost in the mind of that young lady: the danger of her child was the all-absorbing subject of her thoughts.

Bent over the bed, she tenderly gazed upon the pale countenance of her child.

Oh! where can the artist find a more charming subject for his pencil, or the poet a more witching theme for his song, than the young mother watching over her sleeping infant?

Hour after hour passed; and when the babe awoke, Ellen nursed him in her arms. In spite of its illness, the little sufferer smiled; but when the pang of the malady seized upon him, it was Mrs. Wentworth—and not Ellen—who could pacify him!

Alas! galling indeed to the young mother was this conviction that her child clung to another rather than to herself.

Nevertheless Ellen watched the babe with the most heartfelt tenderness; and it was not until near midnight, when the surgeon declared that the malady had passed without the remotest fear of a relapse, that Ellen thought of returning home.

She then took her departure, with an intimation that she should call again in the morning.

She retraced her steps towards the Place, and, passing up the garden, was admitted through the back entrance by the faithful Marian.

"My child is saved," whispered Ellen to the servant. "Has my father inquired for me?"

"No, miss," was the reply. "He is still in the drawing-room; and Mr. Markham is with him."

"They are up late to-night," remarked Ellen. "But I," she continued, "am weary in mind and body, and shall at once repair to my own room."

Marian gave the young lady a candle, and wished her a good night's rest.

Ellen hastened cautiously up-stairs, and in a few minutes retired to rest.

She was fatigued, as before intimated; and yet slumber refused to visit her eyes. Nevertheless, she dozed uneasily,—in that kind of semi-sleep which weighs down the heavy lids, and yet does not completely shut out from the mind the consciousness of what is passing around.

A quarter of an hour had probably elapsed since Ellen had sought her couch, when the door slowly opened; and her father entered the room, bearing a light in his hand.

The countenance of the old man was ghastly pale; but there was a wildness in his eyes which bore testimony to the painful feelings that agitated him within.

He advanced towards the bed, and contemplated the countenance of his daughter for a few moments with an expression of profound sorrow.

Ellen opened her eyes, and started up in the bed, exclaiming, "My dear father, in the name of heaven, what is the matter?"

"O God! Ellen," cried the old man, placing the light upon a side-table, "tell me that it is not true—say but one word, to assure me that you are the pure and spotless girl I have always deemed you to be!"

"Father!" exclaimed the young lady, a horrible feeling taking possession of her, "why do you ask me that question?"

"Because a fearful suspicion racks my brain," answered the old man; "and I could not retire to rest until I knew the truth—be that truth what it may."

"My dear father—you alarm me cruelly!" said Ellen, her cheeks at one moment suffused with blushes, and then varying to ashy whiteness.

"In one word, Ellen," exclaimed the old man, "what is the meaning of that letter?"

And the almost distracted father threw the surgeon's note upon the bed.

In an instant Ellen remembered that she had left it behind her in the room where she was seated with her father when she received it.

Joining her hands in a paroxysm of the most acute mental agony, she burst into tears, crying wildly, "Forgive me! forgive me—my dear, dear father! Do not curse your wretched—wretched daughter!"

And then she bowed her head upon her bosom, and seemed to await her parent's reply in a state of mind which no pen can describe.

For some moments Mr. Monroe maintained a profound silence: but the quivering of his lip, and the working of the veins upon his forehead betrayed the terrible nature of the conflict of feelings which was taking place within his breast.

At length he also burst into tears, and covering his face with his hands, exclaimed, "My God! that I had died ere I had experienced this bitter—bitter hour!"

These words were uttered in a tone of such intense agony, that a mortal dread for her father's reason and life suddenly sprang up in Ellen's mind.

Throwing herself from the bed, she fell upon her knees, crying, "Forgive me, my dear father. Oh! if my child were here, I would hold it in my arms towards you; and, when its innocent countenance met your eyes, you would pardon me!"