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

“And you must know other places----”

“Several--several,” interrupted Green, anticipating the remainder

of the questions. “But would it not be shorter to go to the Bank of

England at once?”

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

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

“Curse upon your fears and dangers!” ejaculated the hare-lipped

villain, savagely: “there are none at all--only, as I just now said, I

can’t go myself. But if you can get ten thousand changed to-morrow, you

may have one thousand for your own purposes.”

Mr. Green could not find words to express his gratitude in return for

this assurance: he was overwhelmed with a delight which he had not

experienced for years. The thought of emancipating himself from the

thraldom of his despot-master was too brilliant--too dazzling to gaze

upon. He could not believe that there was anything beyond a mere chance

in his favour:--that the matter was a certainty, he dared not imagine.

But when Jack Rily displayed a few of the notes, and mysteriously

hinted that they were the produce of a forgery which could not possibly

be detected, Mr. Green started from his chair, and actually danced for

joy!

CHAPTER CCI.

MR. HEATHCOTE AND HIS CLERK.

It was five o’clock in the morning of the day after the interview

described in the last chapter; and Mr. Heathcote was seated at the

writing-table in his private office.

He was busily occupied with papers;--for his was a disposition that

could not endure idleness. Even when vexed and annoyed--as he was at

present--it was impossible for him to remain inactive. Had he been an

author, he would have eclipsed Walter Scott or Paul de Koek in the

number of his works.

There was a deep gloom upon his brow and a sinister light in his

restless eyes, as he bent over the parchment-deeds which he was

inspecting; and from time to time he cast an anxious glance towards the

door.

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

“Has not Mr. Green made his appearance _yet_?” demanded the lawyer,

with an emphasis on the last word.

“No, sir--he has not,” was the reply, given timidly--for the young man

beheld both the gloom on the brow and the gleaming in the eye.

[Illustration]

“Not yet!” ejaculated Heathcote, fiercely, and frowning in his own

peculiar fashion at the same time. “Nor sent either?” he added,

interrogatively.

“No, sir,” responded the junior clerk.

“This is strange--very strange,” murmured the lawyer. “He can’t be

ill--poor devils like him cannot afford to be unwell. But if he

were,--if he _did_ happen to be so indisposed that be couldn’t shut his

eyes to the fact,--he would have sent word. You know where he lives?

demanded Mr. Heathcote, abruptly addressing himself to the young man.

“Yes, sir,” was the answer.

“Then go to his lodgings directly,” exclaimed the lawyer, in an

imperious tone; “and if you find him at home, tell him that I am very

angry indeed at his absence. Should he be ill, you must desire him to

get out of bed, take a cab, and come to me at once to give an account

of his conduct. Two guineas a-week, indeed, to a fellow who takes it

into his head to be ill!”

And with this humane reflection Mr. Heathcote was about to resume his

work, while the young clerk was turning towards the door, when Mr.

Green suddenly made his appearance.

“Oh! you are come at last, sir--are you?” cried the lawyer, glancing up

at the clock. “A quarter past five--and the office hours are from nine

till six. What the deuce does this mean, sir?”

“I had a little business to transact, sir,” answered the head clerk,

closing the door by which the junior functionary had just evaporated.

“A little business!” repeated Mr. Heathcote, staring at the man in

unfeigned amazement: for he could not possibly conceive how Mr. Green

should have any affairs of his own to attend to.

“Yes, sir--a little business,” returned the head clerk, who, though now

feeling comparatively independent of his master could not shake off

an obsequiousness of manner, which had become habitual to him. “Is it

strange, sir, that for once in a way I should have taken the holiday

which was certain to be refused if solicited beforehand?”

“Have you been drinking, Mr. Green--or are you mad--to talk to me in

this style?” demanded Heathcote, surveying his clerk with more than

usual attention.

“I have had nothing to drink, sir, beyond a single glass of sherry--and

I beg to inform you that I am _not_ crazy,” answered the head clerk,

growing a trifle bolder.

“A glass of sherry!” repeated Heathcote, again evincing the most

unfeigned astonishment. “How is it possible, sir, that you can indulge

in such extravagances and pay for them honestly? A few days ago you

ventured to appear before me in a new suit of clothes, with the gloss

actually on them--whereas your regular office-suit had not been

thread-bare more than two years. Let me tell you, sir, that I take

note of these things: I observe the most minute symptoms of change

in a man’s character or habits; and no one can deceive _me_, Mr.

Green--no one can deceive _me_,” repeated the lawyer, looking hard at

the individual whom he thus addressed, as much as to say that he had

suspected something wrong and was now certain of it.

“Well, sir--and who has attempted to deceive you?” asked Green, in a

bolder tone than had ever yet characterised his language when in the

presence of his hitherto dreaded master.

“Who has attempted to deceive me!” vociferated Heathcote, his lips

becoming white and quivering with rage. “You, sir--_you_ have made the

endeavour--you are making it now! But it will not do, Mr. Green--it

will not do. Take care of yourself! New suits of clothes--sherry--a

day’s absence without leave, and even without the humble apology that

should mark your return,--all this is suspicious, sir--very suspicious,

let me tell you.”

“Suspicious of what?” demanded the head clerk, approaching Mr.

Heathcote’s desk, and looking steadily across it at that gentleman.

“That you were either bribed in my brother’s affair--or that you have

robbed me,” was the immediate answer.

“You are a liar, sir--a deliberate liar,” exclaimed Green, now

beginning to experience the first feelings of exultation at the

independence which he was enabled to assert.

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

“Yes, sir,” continued Green, his voice now losing all its

obsequiousness and his manner rising completely above servility,--“you

are a liar if you say that I robbed you! Where was the chance, even

if I had possessed the inclination, of pilfering even a single

farthing? You know that you reckon up the office-money to the very last

penny--and that if I tell you how a box of lucifers, or a piece of

tape, or any other trifling article was required, you were always sure

to say we were very extravagant in that front-office. These are truths,

sir; and therefore how dare you pretend to believe in the possibility

of my robbing you?”

“Mr. Green--Mr. Green,” exclaimed Heathcote, absolutely frightened at

his head clerk’s manner: “what is the cause of all this excitement?”

The lawyer was frightened, we say,--because his conscience told him

that something had occurred to place Mr. Green upon a more independent

footing with regard to him; and the greater became such independence

on the part of one who had long been his tool and instrument, the less

secure was the lawyer himself in his own position. In fact, when a

wretched being who had long grovelled in the dust at his feet, suddenly

started up and dared to look him in the face,--it was a sign that the

fabric of despotism was shaken and was tottering to its fall. Mr.

Heathcote felt all this--and he trembled for a moment,--trembled with

a cold and death-like shudder, as he beheld his clerk’s eyes glaring

savagely at him; and it was under the influence of this sensation that

he uttered the words which, by proving his own weakness, gave Green

additional courage.

“You ask what is the cause of all this excitement,” exclaimed the

latter: “and yet only a few minutes have elapsed since you dared to

accuse me of having robbed you.”

“A man who has committed a forgery, may very well be suspected of

theft,” returned Heathcote, who, having recovered his presence of mind,

answered with his usual brutality of manner.

“And what may you not be accused of, then?” demanded Green, scarcely

able to restrain himself from flying like a tiger-cat at his master:

“for what have you not committed?”

“By heaven, Mr. Green, this shall last no longer!” ejaculated

Heathcote, starting from his seat: “you are drunk, sir--you have been

drinking, I tell you. Come--be reasonable,” he continued, almost in a

coaxing tone: “go home quietly--and be here early in the morning to

make an apology for your present bad conduct. I promise to forgive you.”

“Forgive me!” repeated Green:--“forgive me!” he exclaimed again, with a

chuckling laugh which did Mr. Heathcote harm to hear it: “I have done

nothing, sir, that needs forgiveness--and if I was to kick you thrice

round this room where you have tyrannised over me for twelve years, it

would only be paying back a minute portion of all I owe you.”

“Mr. Green, you will provoke me to do something desperate,” retorted

Heathcote, in a low, thick tone, as he approached his head clerk to

read in that individual’s countenance the solution of his present

enigmatical conduct: “you will provoke me, I say--and then you will be

sorry for your rashness. Consider--reflect--in another month’s time the

thousand pounds must positively be forthcoming----”

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

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

“Yes--and I now know likewise what you have always _meant_,”

interrupted Green, darting a look full of malignant hate and savage

spite at the lawyer. “For twelve long years, sir, I have been your

slave--your vile and abject slave. I was a criminal, it is true, when I

first came to you--for I had committed that forgery which you detected,

and which placed me in your power. But I had still the feelings of a

man--whereas you soon imbued me with such ideas and reduced me to such

a miserable state of servitude, that I have wept bitter, bitter tears

at the thought of my own deep degradation. I could have lied for you--I

could have committed perjury for you--I could have performed all the

meannesses and condescended to do all the vile and low trickery which

form part and parcel of your business:--but when I found myself used

as a mere tool and instrument and treated like a spaniel, without

ever having a single kind word uttered to cheer me beneath a yoke of

crushing despotism----”

“You have had two guineas a week, paid with scrupulous regularity,”

interposed Heathcote, who, from the tenour of the observations which

Green had just made, began to fancy that he was only excited by liquor

to make vague and general complaints, but that he was still as much in

his power as ever.

“Two guineas a-week!” repeated the man, indignantly: “you are always

dinning that fact in my ears. But heaven knows that were my salary

six times as much, it would not repay me for all the cruelty I have

endured at your hands--nor for all that one is obliged to _see_ and

_go through_ while in your employment. I had some tender feelings

once: but they have long ago been stifled by the horrible spectacles

of woe and misery which have been forced upon my sight, and which

have sprung from your detestable covetousness. I have seen children

starving--mothers weeping over their dying babes--while the fathers

and husbands have been languishing in gaol,--yes, in the debtor’s gaol

where you have thrown them, and where some of them have died, cursing

the name of James Heathcote! Yes, sir--I have seen all this: and what

is more--aye, and worse, too--far worse--I have been an involuntary

instrument, as your clerk, in causing much of that awful misery, the

mere thought of which almost drives me mad. Talk of the black turpitude

of murdering with a dagger or a pistol!--why, it is a mercy to the

slow--lingering--piece-meal murders which you and men of your stamp

are constantly perpetrating. _For as true as there is a God in heaven,

there are more slow and cold-blooded murders committed in one year by a

certain class of attorneys, than are recorded in the annals of Newgate

for a whole century!_”

Heathcote’s fears had all returned by rapid degrees as his head clerk,

turning full upon him, levelled at his head the terrible charges summed

up in the preceding speech: but when these last words fell upon his

ear, he grew ghastly pale, and, staggering back a few paces, sank into

his chair,--_for he knew how sternly true was the appalling accusation!_

“Ah! well may your eyes glare upon me in horror,” resumed Green: “but

it is high time that you should hear a few home truths--even though

they come from such lips as mine. For you doubtless think that it is

all very fine to issue a writ--refuse delay--decline everything in the

shape of compromise--and then seize upon the goods of your victim,

or clap him into gaol:--but it is we who sit in the outer office--we

clerks, who can best penetrate into the effects of such a heartless

course. When we see the door open, and the miserable wretch come

in with _care_ as legibly written on his countenance as if it were

printed in letters on a piece of paper,--and when he comes crawling

up to our desk, as if _his_ utter self-abasement would be so pleasing

to us clerks as to induce us to say a good word in his behalf to

_you_,--then, when he asks in a tone of anguish which is ready to

burst forth into a flood of tears, ‘_Do you think it likely that Mr.

Heathcote will give me time?_’--it is _then_, I say, that the real

feelings of such poor wretches transpire, and the murderous effects

of the harsh proceedings adopted by lawyers of _your_ stamp become

painfully apparent.”

“To what is all this to lead, Mr. Green?” demanded Heathcote, in a low

and subdued tone: for it struck him that such a long address could

only be meant to herald some evil tidings, to which his clerk, in

the refinement of vindictive cruelty, sought to impart a more vivid

poignancy by prefatory delays.

“To what is all this to lead?” repeated Green: “why--to your

utter confusion, black-hearted old man that you are! Think of the

conversation that took place between us a few days ago: did I not then

tell you that there were many deaths to be laid to your door? And I was

right! You sent off Thompson to prison--his wife and child perished,

and he cut his throat:--_you_ are the murderer of those three human

beings! The man Beale, whom you likewise threw into Whitecross Street,

died in the infirmary of that gaol--died of a broken heart, sir;--and

_you_ were his murderer! Hundreds and hundreds of deaths have you

caused in the same way,--_hundreds and hundreds of legal murders!_”

“Green--Mr. Green!” gasped the lawyer, writhing as if he were a dwarf

in the grasp of a giant: then, wondering why he should thus put up

with the insolence of his clerk, and falling back upon the belief that

the man could not possibly conduct himself in such a way unless he

were under the influence of liquor, he suddenly started from his seat,

exclaiming, “By heaven! sir, you have gone so far that all hope of

forgiveness on my part is impossible.”

“I care nothing for your pardon--and shall not even condescend to

solicit it,” replied Mr. Green, in a tone of complete and unmistakeable

defiance. “I am going to leave you at once----”

“Leave me!” ejaculated Heathcote, who had hitherto believed it to be

impossible that his clerk could throw off the chains of servitude

and thraldom which had been so firmly rivetted upon him: “leave me!”

he repeated: “yes--oh! yes,” he added, his countenance assuming an

expression of the most diabolical sardonism;--“yes--you shall indeed

leave me--but it will be to change your quarters for a cell in Newgate!”

“Perhaps _you_ will be the first to repair thither,” said Green, with

a chuckle that seemed to grate upon the lawyer’s ears like the sound

emitted by the process of sharpening the teeth of a saw.

“In less than two hours, Mr. Green, Clarence Villiers shall be made

acquainted with the fact that the thousand pounds have long ceased to

be in the Bank of England,” exclaimed Heathcote.

“The thousand pounds are there, sir--yes, _there_ at this very minute,”

answered Green, in a tone of assurance which convinced Heathcote that

the man was speaking the truth. “And what is more, sir, Mr. Villiers

knows all--and has forgiven all! This morning did I replace the money;

this afternoon did I repair to Brompton to throw myself at the feet

of Mr. Villiers--confess everything--and implore his pardon. Oh! sir,

he is a generous man--and he forgave me. ‘_You have been guilty of a

terrible breach of trust--nay, a heinous crime, Mr. Green_,’ he said;

‘_but you have atoned for your turpitude. It is our duty in this world

to forgive where true contrition is manifested; and I will take care to

hold you harmless in this case, should it ever transpire that the money

had been sold out._’--I wept while I thanked him; and I said, ‘_But

I have a bitter enemy who is acquainted with the whole transaction:

what can be done to save me from disgrace, should he inform against

me?_’--‘_He cannot prove that you forged my name_,’ responded Villiers:

‘_I alone can prove that; and under present circumstances, I would not

for worlds inflict an injury upon you._’ I again thanked him, and took

my leave. You now perceive, Mr. Heathcote, that so far from being in

_your_ power, _you_ are entirely in mine. The other day you told me

that you would crush me as if I were a worm--that you would send me to

Newgate--that you would abandon me to my fate--and that you would even

_help_ to have me shipped for eternal exile. I thank you for all your

kind intentions, sir,” added Green, in a tone of bitter satire; “and

I mean to show my gratitude by exposing you and your villany to the

utmost of my ability.”

“And what injury can _you_ do me, reptile?” exclaimed Heathcote,

quivering with rage.

“What injury!” repeated Green: “I can ruin you!” he added, speaking

loudly and triumphantly. “Oh! I am acquainted with far more of your

dark transactions and nefarious schemes than you can possibly imagine.

The deeds that are contained therein,” he added, pointing to the

japanned tin-boxes, “are not sealed books to me. I have read them

all--yes, _all_--and have gleaned enough information to enable me to

bring upon you such a host of ruined and defrauded clients, that you

would never dare to face them even for a moment. Ah! you may turn

pale as death--and your eyes may glare with rage: but it is not the

less true that I hold you in my power. If you destroy those deeds,

you then annihilate the only documents which prove your title to the

vast property which you have accumulated: if you do not destroy them,

you leave in existence the damning evidences of your villany. At this

very moment there are old men and old women struggling on in the

bitterest penury, and cursing the life from which they have not the

moral courage to fly through the medium of suicide,--some of them in

the workhouse--others dependent on the bounty of relatives;--and all

these have been plunged into this appalling misery by _you_! But every

step you took to enmesh and ensnare them--every scheme you devised

to get them completely into your power, so that you might wrench

from them the last acre of their lands and the last guinea of their

fortunes,--all--all has been illegal--fraudulent--extortionate--vile!

Oh! it will alone prove a fine harvest for me, when I again take out

my certificate to practise as an attorney--which I am about to do,--it

will be a splendid commencement, I say, to take up the causes of all

those persons and compel you to render an account to your ruined

clients. This, sir, is what I am about to do: and now it shall be war

between us--war to the very knife,--and ere many months have elapsed,

you will bitterly repent your conduct to one who only asked for a

little kindness in return for his faithful--far too faithful services.”

Having thus spoken, Mr. Green abruptly quitted the office, leaving

James Heathcote in a state of mind not even to be envied by a criminal

about to ascend the steps of the scaffold.

CHAPTER CCII.

JACK RILY AND VITRIOL BOB.

Mr. Green had so well managed matters in respect to the Bank-notes,

that in the course of a few hours he had contrived to obtain cash for

about twelve thousand pounds’ worth; and the Doctor was so delighted

at his success, that he had testified his satisfaction by making him a

present of a couple of thousand for himself.

Being now a rich man, Mr. Rily resolved to quit his lodgings in

Roupel-street and take superior apartments in a better neighbourhood.

Then it struck him, as he was walking leisurely along in the City,

after having parted from Green, that it would be far more agreeable to

become the possessor of a nice little cottage in a pleasant suburb;

and, while this idea was uppermost in his mind, he happened to observe

in the window of a house-agent an announcement to the effect that

“several elegant and desirable villas were to be let on lease or sold,

in the most delightful part of Pentonville.” The Doctor entered the

office, obtained a card to view the premises thus advertised, and,

taking a cab, proceeded straight to the suburb indicated.

Having nothing particular to do, Jack Rily spent several hours in

inspecting the villas, and at length fixed upon one which he resolved

to purchase. The individual who had built the houses on speculation,

and who was compelled to dispose of one on any terms before he could

possibly finish another, resided close at hand; and a bargain being

speedily concluded, a particular hour on the following day was agreed

upon as the time for a final settlement.

Jack Rily, having proceeded thus far in his arrangements, entered

a public-house which had lately been built on an eminence within a

quarter of a mile of the New Model Prison; and there he ordered some

dinner--for it was now four o’clock in the afternoon. The repast over,

he took a seat at an open window which commanded a view of Copenhagen

Fields and all the neighbouring district; and with his pipe and some

hot brandy-and-water he was enjoying himself to his heart’s content,

when he was suddenly startled by the appearance of Vitriol Bob, who

happened to pass that way.

Though a brave, fearless, and desperate man, the Doctor nevertheless

uttered an ejaculation of mingled surprise and annoyance; and his

enemy, who would not have otherwise perceived him, instantly glanced

towards the window. Their looks met--and a diabolical scowl distorted

the countenance of Vitriol Bob,--while Jack Rily, immediately

recovering his presence of mind, surveyed the miscreant with cool

defiance.

Vitriol Bob appeared to hesitate for a moment what course to pursue:

then, suddenly making up his mind, he entered the public-room where the

Doctor was seated.

Taking a chair at another table, he rang the bell and ordered some

spirits-and-water, in payment for which he threw down a sovereign,

receiving the change.

When the waiter had disappeared, and the two villains were alone

together, Vitriol Bob looked maliciously at Jack Rily, as much as to

say, “You see I am not without money;” and then he glanced complacently

at the new suit of black which he had on.

For a change had taken place in Vitriol Bob’s appearance; and he

seemed to be “in high feather,” as well as his enemy the Doctor. His

huge black whiskers had been trimmed, oiled, and curled--a process

that did not however materially mitigate the hang-dog expression of

his countenance: for his small, reptile eyes still glared ferociously

from beneath his thick, overhanging brows,--his lips were as usual of

a livid hue,--and his broken nose positively appeared more flat on his

face than ever.

“Your health, Jack,” said the miscreant, nodding with a kind of

malignant familiarity, as he raised the steaming glass to his lips.

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

“Now that we have met at last, old feller, we won’t part again in a

hurry,” observed Vitriol Bob after a pause, during which he lighted a

cigar.

“Just as you choose, my tulip,” said Rily, calmly puffing away and

contemplating the thin blueish vapour which curled lazily from the bowl

of his pipe out of the window.

“You and I have a score to settle, you know, Jack,” continued Vitriol

Bob; “and it seems as if the Devil had thrown us in each other’s way

this evenin’ on purpose to reggilate our accounts.”

“Oh! that’s the construction you put upon it, eh?” said the Doctor.

“Well--just as you like.”

“You know that you used me shameful in that Stamford-street business

t’other day,” proceeded Vitriol Bob.

“It was only what you deserved for the trick you played me, old

fellow,” retorted the Doctor, but with amazing coolness alike of tone

and manner.

“I don’t deny that I bilked you out of a part of your reglars in the

matter alluded to,” said Bob: “but it didn’t deserve such a return as

you gived me in the Haunted House. Thank God, I had my revenge on the

old o’oman t’other night.”

“Yes--she’s disposed of,” observed Jack; “and I can’t forgive you

for it, Bob--even if you wished us to be friends. She was a fine

old creature,--and I had an affection for her, because she was the

ugliest wretch I ever saw in the shape of a woman--and her spirit was

admirable.”

“I meant the blow for _you_, Jack,” said Vitriol Bob: “but it’s just

as well now that the bottle broke over her, since you and me have met

again.”

“Have you got another bottle in your pocket, Bob?” demanded the Doctor:

“because if we are to have a tuzzle for it before we part, I may as

well put myself on as equal terms with you as possible.”

“I shan’t take no unfair advantage, Jack,” was the reply: and, as the

villain thus spoke, he slapped his hands against the skirts of his coat

his breeches’ pockets, and his breast, to convince his antagonist that

he had no bottle about his person.

“There’s nothing like fair play, Bob,” returned the Doctor; “and

therefore if you like to feel about me to convince yourself that I have

no fire-arms, you’re welcome.”

“I’ll take your word for it, Jack,” responded Vitriol Bob. “But I

suppose you have got a clasp-knife.”

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

razor.”

“So is mine,” observed the other miscreant; and then there was a long

pause, during which the two men contemplated each other with a calmness

and serenity that would have prevented even the most acute observer

from noticing the malignant light that gleamed in the depths of their

eyes.

And while the one continued to puff his pipe in a leisurely manner, the

other smoked his cigar with equal ease; so that they appeared to be

two friends enjoying themselves in a pleasant way in the cool of the

evening.

“I suppose I interrupted some sport t’other night, Jack,” said

Vitriol Bob, at length breaking the silence. “You and the old o’oman

wasn’t out together at that hour for nothink--particklerly in such a

neighbourhood.”

“Yes--we were going to do a little business together,” observed the

Doctor. “You first twigged me in Sloane Street. I saw you!”

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

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

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

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

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

There was another pause, during which the two miscreants had their

glasses replenished. The Doctor also refilled his pipe, and the other

lighted a second cigar.

“We’ll make ourselves comfortable, Jack,” said Vitriol Bob, “as long as

you like: and whenever you feel disposed to go, mind that I shall be

arter you.”

“Well--I can’t prevent _that_,” observed the Doctor, coolly. “You’ve a

right to walk which way you choose in this free country.”

“Thank’ee for giving me the information,” said Bob, in a satirical

tone. “But of course I mean to stick to you till you’re so wearied of

my company that you _must_ come to a last struggle either to shake me

off altogether, or perish yourself. For, mind, if I catch you asleep,

Jack, I shall stick my clasp-knife into you up to the haft.”

“I’m obliged to you for letting me know your kind intentions

beforehand,” observed the Doctor: “because I shall adopt precisely the

same mode of warfare.”

“Now, then, we understand each other,” said Vitriol Bob; “and that’s a

comfort. But it’s a great pity that two such fine fellers as you and

me should be at loggerheads. Howsomever, it can’t be helped--and a

reconcilement, or whatever they call it, is impossible. Your life or

mine, Jack--that’s the question to be decided now.”

“Depend upon it, old fellow, that you’ll be a croaker before morning,”

returned the Doctor, as he raised his glass to his lips.

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

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

“I should have beat you that night in the Haunted House, Jack, if the

old o’oman hadn’t come to your assistance,” observed Vitriol Bob, with

a low but diabolical chuckle.

“Yes--but it was because I slipped over something, old fellow,” was

the answer; “and I shall take care to keep more steady on my pins next

time.”

“Depend upon it that when the death-struggle _does_ come, Jack,

the fust that slips will be the dead ’un. Did you ever hear of the

Kentuckian fashion of dealing with an enemy?” demanded Vitriol Bob.

“Never,” was the reply. “But I dare say it’s something damnable--as

bad, perhaps, as breaking a vitriol-bottle over a person’s face--or

else you wouldn’t know anything about it.”

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

“And what’s gouging, pray?”

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

“One can play at that game as well as another,” observed the Doctor,

totally unmoved by the horrid nature of the conversation.

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

Another pause succeeded this last remark of Vitriol Bob; and again did

the two men sit contemplating each his enemy with a composure that was

unnatural and dreadful to a degree under the circumstances.

Time wore on in this manner: their glasses were frequently

replenished--and yet the liquor appeared not to produce the least

effect upon them; but, cool, collected, and self-possessed, they

sate measuring each other’s form and calculating its strength, until

darkness insensibly stole upon them. The waiter then entered to light

the gas; and several frequenters of the house began to drop in to take

their evening’s allowance of alcoholic drink and stupifying tobacco.

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

going _now_.”

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

There was nothing in these observations to excite either the curiosity

or the suspicions of the other persons in the public-house-parlour:

nevertheless, those words had a terrible significancy for the two men

who had exchanged them.

The Doctor walked leisurely out of the room first; and Vitriol Bob

followed him. But the instant they were outside the premises, the

former turned abruptly round upon his enemy, saying, “Come, let us

proceed abreast: I don’t mean to give you a chance of stabbing me from

behind.”

“Just as you like,” observed Vitriol Bob; and he placed himself at the

Doctor’s right hand, leaving an interval of about a couple of feet

between them.

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

peculiar reflections.

Vitriol Bob was intent only on vengeance,--dread, full, complete, and

diabolical vengeance; and, though he seemed to be looking straight

forward, he was nevertheless watching his companion with the sidelong

glances of his reptile-like eyes.

Jack Rily was calculating in his mind what course he should adopt.

He was naturally as brave as a lion: but he did not perceive any

advantage in risking his life in a struggle that, even were he

victorious, would produce neither profit nor glory. The only possible

good that could result to him from a triumphant issue of the quarrel,

would be the removal of a bitter, inveterate, and determined enemy.

Nevertheless, the Doctor had most potent reasons to induce him to avoid

this deadly encounter. He had just obtained a vast sum of money, and

had the means of realising five times as much: the world, therefore,

had suddenly assumed a smiling aspect in his eyes. He had already

resolved to abandon his nefarious pursuits, which indeed were no longer

necessary--and settle down quietly in the cottage for the purchase of

which he had that day concluded a bargain;--and all these prospects

were to be staked on the hazard of a die--risked fearfully at the

bidding of the miscreant who was walking by his side!

At one moment the Doctor seriously thought of giving his companion

into charge to the first corps of policemen whom they might encounter;

for this was the hour when the little detachments of constables went

about relieving their comrades on duty. But that idea was abandoned

almost as soon as formed: inasmuch as Jack Rily had all his money about

him, and he knew that if he handed Vitriol Bob over to the police

as the murderer of Torrens or of Mrs. Mortimer, the miscreant would

unhesitatingly turn round with some charge that would at least place

him (the Doctor) in temporary restraint, and lead to an examination of

his person.

Jack Rily therefore came to the determination of pushing on into

the heart of London, well knowing that Vitriol Bob’s object was not

to assail him in any neighbourhood where the contest was likely to

be observed and prevented, but to drive him by dint of persecution,

dogging, and a hateful companionship, into the open country, where

through very desperation the Doctor should make up his mind to settle

the matter decisively by a struggle on equal terms. Feeling convinced

that this was his enemy’s purpose, Jack Rily resolved either to

weary him out or give him the slip if possible--or else to seize an

opportunity of stabbing him suddenly in some place where an immediate

escape was practicable.

We must again observe it was through no cowardice that the Doctor was

desirous of avoiding a conflict from which only one could possibly

depart alive: but he had so many inducements to cling to existence,

that he saw no advantage in risking them all in a quarrel where the

personal animosity was entirely on the other side.

In the course of half an hour they arrived in the vicinity of the Angel

at Islington; and Jack Rily, now breaking the silence which had lasted

since they quitted the public-house at Pentonville, said, “This walking

makes one thirsty: let’s have some beer.”

“Willingly,” answered Vitriol Bob: “and we’ll drink out of the same pot

to make people believe we’re friends.”

They accordingly entered a gin-shop and shared a pot of porter at the

bar; after which they resumed their walk, passing down the City Road.

They kept abreast, and preserved a deep silence,--each watching the

movements of the other--the Doctor in the hope of being able to give

his companion a sudden thrust with his knife--and Vitriol Bob for the

purpose of preventing the escape of his enemy.

It was ten o’clock when they came within sight of the Bank of England;

and as they passed under its solid wall, Jack Rily wondered whether

he should be alive to keep an appointment which he had with Green for

eleven next morning in order to have some more of his notes changed by

that individual.

“All the money in that there place, old feller, won’t save one or

t’other of us from death before many hours is gone by,” observed

Vitriol Bob, in a low and ferocious tone.

“You must make the best use of your time, then,” returned Jack; “since

you’ve got a presentiment that it’s so near.”

“No--it’s you that had better say your prayers,” retorted the

miscreant. “But what’s the use of keeping both your hands in your

pockets? If you think you’ll be able to draw out your knife suddenly

and give me a poke under the ribs, you’re uncommonly mistaken.”

“I wasn’t dreaming of such a thing,” answered Jack Rily, for the first

time showing a slight degree of confusion in his manner.

“It’s false, old feller,” said Vitriol Bob: “you’ve got the

clasp-knife open in your pocket--I know you have. The gas-lights is

strong enough about there to enable a sharp-sighted chap, like me, to

twig all that goes on.”

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

hands in his pockets.

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

Passing in front of the Exchange, and up Cornhill, they turned into

Birchin Lane. There Jack Rily hesitated for an instant which way to

proceed: but suddenly recollecting that in a little passage to the left

there was a public-house called the Bengal Arms, he said, “There’s a

crib here where they sell capital ale.”

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

narrer for us both.”

“No--you go first,” said the Doctor.

“In this way then,” responded Vitriol Bob: and stepping nimbly in

front of his companion, he turned round and walked backwards along the

passage until it suddenly grew wider opposite the door of the Bengal

Arms.

Jack Rily laughed at this manœuvre: but he was in reality

disappointed--for had Vitriol Bob acted with less precaution, he would

have assuredly received the whole length of the Doctor’s formidable

knife in his back, ere he had proceeded half way up the passage.

“We’ll go into the parlour here,” said Jack, “and have some bread and

cheese. I’m hungry.”

“So am I,” observed Vitriol Bob, in a dry, laconic tone which

denoted the terrible determination that inspired the man’s mind,--a

determination never to part from his companion until one of them should

be no more!

There was something awful--something frightfully revolting and

hideously appalling in the circumstance of those two miscreants thus

wandering about together in a manner that appeared amicable enough to

all who beheld them,--two wretches possessing the hearts of fiends and

the external ugliness of monsters,--two incarnate demons capable of any

turpitude, however black the dye!

CHAPTER CCIII.

THE BENGAL ARMS.--RENEWED WANDERINGS.

The parlour at the Bengal Arms is--or at least was at the time whereof

we are writing--a long, low, dingy room, very dark in the day-time and

indifferently lighted in the evening. It is always filled with a motley

assembly of guests; and ale is the beverage most in request--while to

one who indulges in a cigar, at least ten patronise the unaffected

enjoyment of the clay-pipe.

On the present occasion the company was numerous: the tobacco-smoke

hung like a dense mist in the place, the gas-burners showing dimly

through the pestiferous haze;--and the heat was intense.

Jack Rily and Vitriol Bob contrived to find room at one of the tables;

and a slip-shod waiter supplied them in due time with a pot of ale and

bread and cheese, to the discussion of which they addressed themselves

in a manner affording not the slightest suspicion of the deadly enmity

which existed between them.

While they were thus engaged they had an opportunity of listening to

the conversation that was taking place amongst the other guests.

“Well, for my part,” said a little, stout, podgy individual, with a

bald head and a round, red, good-humoured countenance, “I have always

been taught to look on the City institootions as the blessedest things

ever inwented.”

“And I maintain that they’re the foulest abuses in the universe,”

exclaimed a tall, thin, sallow-faced individual, striking the table

with his clenched fist as he spoke. “Why should everything east of

Temple Bar be different from everything west?” he demanded, looking

sternly round upon the company as if to defy any one to answer

his questions. “Why should it be necessary to have barristers as

magistrates in Westminster, and fat stupid old Aldermen in the

City?--why should the ridiculous ostentation, useless trappings,

and preposterous display of the Mayoralty be maintained for so

miserably small a fraction of the great metropolis? Talk of your City

Institutions, indeed!--they are either the most awful nonsense that

ever made grown up persons look more absurd than little boys playing

with paper cocked-hats and wooden swords--or else they are rottenness

and corruption. When the Municipal Corporations were reformed in 1835,

why was the City of London omitted! Did not Lord John Russell then

pledge himself _most solemnly and sacredly_ to bring in a separate bill

for the London Corporation?--and has this promise, almost amounting to

a vow, ever been fulfilled? No: and why? Because every Government, one

after another, is afraid to lose the political support of this precious

Corporation. And to these selfish considerations is sacrificed every

principle of justice, propriety, and common sense. Look at the rascally

extravagance and vile profusion which characterise the Corporation.

The parish of St. Marylebone, with its hundred and forty thousand

inhabitants, only expends _a hundred and twenty-eight thousand pounds_

for those parochial purposes which cost the City, with a population of

ten thousand less than the other, nearly _a million_! The difference is

that Marylebone is governed by an intelligent vestry--whereas London is

under a stupid Corporation! Look, again, at the iniquities perpetrated

by the Aldermen in their capacity as licensing magistrates--the gross

partiality that they show towards some publicans, and the inveterate

hostility they manifest towards others. The _rights of the freemen_

are a scandal and a shame--many able mechanics and other operatives

being frequently driven from the City on account of their inability

to pay the money for taking up their freedom.[32] Then again, look at

the preposterous power which the Lord Mayor enjoys of stopping up all

the thoroughfares and impeding business in every shape and way, on any

occasion when it may suit him and his bloated, guzzling, purse-proud

adherents to pass in their gingerbread coaches through the City. Is

this consistent with British freedom?--is it compatible with the rights

or interests of the citizens? Faugh!”

And the speaker resumed his pipe, in deep disgust at the abuses which

he had thus succinctly, but most truly enumerated.

“Well, I don’t know--but I like all our old institutions,” said

the bald-headed man, with the stolid obstinacy and contemptible

narrow-mindedness which so frequently characterise the John Bullism of

a certain class. “The wisdom of our ancestors----”

“The wisdom of the devil!” ejaculated the tall, sallow-faced individual

who had held forth on the City abuses. “That is a fool’s reason for

admiring established and inveterate corruption. The wisdom of our

ancestors, indeed! Why--those ancestors believed in the divine right of

Kings, and were sincere in praying on the 30th of January as if Charles

the First was really a Martyr instead of a Traitor. Our ancestors, too,

put faith in witches--aye, and burnt them also! It was our ancestors

who kindled the fires in Smithfield where persons suffered at the

stake; and our ancestors advocated the most blood-thirsty code of

laws in Europe, in virtue of which men were strung up by dozens at a

time at the Old Bailey. Our ancestors prosecuted writers for their

political and religious opinions, and seemed to take a delight in

everything that gratified the inhuman ambition of Kings and Queens, to

the prejudice of real freedom. Our ancestors, in fact, were the most

ignorant--besotted--bloody-minded miscreants that ever disgraced God’s

earth; and any man who turns an adoring glance upon the deeds of those

ruffians, deserves to be hooted out of all decent society.”

Having thus delivered his sentiments on the subject, the sallow-faced

individual was about to resume his pipe, when, another idea occurring

to him, he suddenly burst forth again in the following terms:--

“But who are those people that generalise so inanely when they speak

of the wisdom of our ancestors? They are persons who inherit all

the old, wretched, and worn-out prejudices of their forefathers,

without having the intellect or the courage to think for themselves.

They are the statesmen who gladly fall back upon any argument in

order to defend the monstrous abuses of our institutions against the

enlightening influence of reform. They are the churchmen who are

deeply interested in preserving the loaves and fishes of which their

ancestors in the hierarchy plundered the nation. They are, in fact, all

those individuals who have anything to lose by wholesome innovation,

and everything to gain by the maintenance of a system so thoroughly

rotten, corrupt, and loathsome that it infects and demoralizes every

grade of society. The Peer eulogises the wisdom of his ancestors,

because they handed down to him usurped privileges and an hereditary

rank the principle of which is a crying shame. The Member of the House

of Commons speaks of the wisdom of his ancestors, because he holds

his seat through the frightful corruption introduced by them into the

electoral system. The placeman talks of the wisdom of his ancestors,

because they invented sinecures and distributed with the lavish hand

of robbers the gold which they wrung from the marrow and the sinew

of the industrious millions. The parson praises the wisdom of his

ancestors, because they invented the atrocious system of allowing a

rector to enjoy five thousand a-year for doing nothing, and paying his

curate ninety pounds a-year for doing everything. The lawyer praises

the wisdom of his ancestors, because they devised such myriads of

insane, stupid, unjust, rascally, and contradictory enactments, that a

man cannot move hand or foot even in the most trivial and common sense

affairs, without the intervention of an attorney: and wherever that

common sense does exist on one side, law is almost sure to be on the

other; in the same way that wherever justice _is_, there law _is not_.

For my part, I do firmly believe that there is not a more wretched and

oppressed country in all the world than England--nor a more duped,

deceived, gulled, and humbugged people on the face of the earth than

the English. Talk of freedom, indeed: why, almost every institution you

have is in favour of the rich and against the poor!”

“I can’t say that I see it,” observed the bald-pated man, in the

usually dogmatic tone of confirmed obstinacy and unmitigated ignorance.

“Then you must be blind!” ejaculated the other, his emphasis indicating

sovereign contempt for the individual whom he addressed. “Look at

the Game Laws: are they made for the rich or for the poor? Are not

thousands of miserable creatures thrown into gaols for daring to kill

a hare or a pheasant, because, forsooth! it interferes with the sport

of the ‘squire? Do not the rich ride when out hunting through the

corn-fields of their tenants?--and what redress can the latter obtain?

Then, again, look at the state of the law generally. What chance has

a poor man of bringing a wealthy oppressor to justice?--who can go to

Westminster Hall without a pocket full of gold? Why, the very Railway

Companies make it a boast that by means of capital they can ruin--aye,

and break the heart of any poor antagonist in a law-court, let his

cause be ever so just! Look, too, at the privileges enjoyed by the

landowners: what proportion of the taxes do they bear in comparison

with the industrious, toiling, starving peasantry or mechanics on

those estates? Look at the condition of our taxation: are not all the

necessaries of life subjected to frightful imposts, while the luxuries

are comparatively cheap to the favoured few who can obtain them? What

is the proportion between the duty on a poor man’s horse and cart and

a rich man’s carriage and four?--what the proportion between the poor

man’s beer and spirits and the rich man’s foreign wines? Again, if

a scion of the aristocracy wants money, he is provided with a good

place if not an absolute sinecure; whereas the poor man is sent to

die a lingering and degraded death in that awful gaol denominated a

work-house. Look at the combination of capital against labour. If

capitalists and monopolists lower wages, there is no redress save by

means of _a strike_ on the part of the workmen; and _a strike_ is

looked upon as something akin to rebellion against the Sovereign. In

every way is the law in favour of the rich--in every way is it grinding

and oppressive to the poor.”

A profound silence followed these observations: for every one present,

save the bald-pated man, perceived their truth and recognized their

justice,--and even _he_ had not impudence enough to venture a denial

which he could not sustain by argument.

“What we require, then,” resumed the sallow-faced individual, at length

breaking the long pause, “is an entire reform,--a radical reform, and

not a measure bearing the name without any of the reality. I love

my country and my countrymen as well as any British subject: but it

makes my heart bleed to witness the misery which exists throughout the

sphere of our industrious population;--and it makes my blood boil to

think that nothing is done to remedy the crying evils and reform the

tremendous abuses which I have this night enumerated.”

[Illustration]

The discourse was now taken up by several other individuals present,

the bald-headed gentleman declining to pursue it farther; and the

sallow-faced guest fearlessly and ably dissected the whole social and

governmental system, concluding with an emphatic declaration that the

community should agitate morally, but unweariedly, for those reforms

which were so much needed.

It was twelve o’clock when Jack Rily and Vitriol Bob issued from the

Bengal Arms; and passing through George Yard, they entered Lombard

Street.

Thence they proceeded towards London Bridge, over which they walked in

a leisurely manner--side by side--watching each other--and maintaining

a profound silence.

Down the Blackfriars’ Road they went; and on reaching the obelisk in

St. George’s Fields, the Doctor paused for a few minutes to make up his

mind what course to pursue.

He was already wearied--and a mental irritation was growing upon him in

spite of his characteristic recklessness and indifference: he required

rest--and he knew that he could obtain none so long as his terrible

enemy was by his side.

“Perhaps I may weary him out,” thought the Doctor to himself: “or

if I lead him into the open country I shall perhaps be able to give

him the slip. Otherwise we must fight it out in some place where no

interruption need be dreaded.”

Influenced by these ideas, Jack Rily resumed his wanderings, Vitriol

Bob still remaining by his side like the ghost of some murdered victim.

They proceeded towards the Elephant and Castle; and on reaching that

celebrated tavern, they once more refreshed themselves with beer, as

the establishment was still open in consequence of some parochial

entertainment that was given there on that particular evening.

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

Nearly an hour had now elapsed since they had last exchanged a word;

for the feeling of desperate irritation was growing stronger and

stronger on the part of Jack Rily--while Vitriol Bob was becoming

impatient of this delay in the gratification of his implacable

vengeance.

But delight filled the soul of the latter when he found that his

companion was taking a direction that led into the open country; and,

breaking the long silence which had prevailed, he said tauntingly, “You

are getting tired, Jack.”

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

“Oh! yes--you are, old feller,” exclaimed Vitriol Bob: “you drag your

feet along as if you was.”

“I could walk all night without being wearied so much as you are now,”

returned the Doctor: and, thus speaking, he mended his pace.

“I never felt less tired than I am at present, Jack,” said Vitriol Bob:

“but you are failing in spite of this pretended briskness. You can’t

keep it up.”

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

fearfully.

Vitriol Bob made no further observation upon the subject; and the two

miscreants walked on, side by side, until they reached the Green Man at

Blackheath.

There was no tavern--no beer-shop open; and both were thirsty, alike

with fatigue and the workings of evil passions.

Seating himself upon a bench fixed against the wall of a public-house,

Jack Rily could not help gnashing his teeth with rage; and as he

maintained his looks fixed upon the countenance of his enemy, his eyes

glared with a savage and ferocious malignity. The moon-light enabled

Vitriol Bob to catch the full significancy of that expression which

distorted the Doctor’s features; and, sitting down close by his side,

he said, “You are growing desperate now, Jack: I knowed I should

disturb your coolness and composure before long.”

“By God! you’re right, my man!” ejaculated the Doctor, unable to

restrain his irritation. “I had no enmity against you at first--I would

have shaken hands with you and been as good friends as ever--aye,

and have given you more money than you’ve ever yet seen in all your

life,--given it to you as a present! But now I hate and detest you--I

loathe and abhor you! Damnation! I could stick my knife into you this

very minute!”

“Two can play at that game,” returned Vitriol Bob, savagely. “But

remember that we’re talking tolerably loud just underneath the windows

of this ’ere public; and I don’t feel at all inclined to be baulked of

the satisfaction----”

“Of a last and desperate struggle, eh?” exclaimed the Doctor, starting

up. “Well--we will not delay it much longer. Come along:--it is pretty

near time that this child’s play was put an end to--I am getting sick

of it.”

“Bless ye, I’ve no such excitement,” said Vitriol Bob, rising from

the bench and again placing himself by the side of his companion: “I

rayther like it than anythink else. We’ve had a nice walk--plenty of

refreshments--and now and then a cozie little bit of chat--besides the

advantage of hearing them political sermons in at the Bengal Arms: and

so I don’t think you can say we’ve spent the time wery disagreeably.”

All this was said to irritate the Doctor still more; for Vitriol Bob,

well acquainted with the disposition of his enemy, knew that when once

he was thus excited it was impossible for him to regain his composure.

Jack Rily made no answer--but continued his way in silence, weariness

gaining upon his body as rapidly as bitter ferocity was acquiring a

more potent influence over his mind.

CHAPTER CCIV.

THE CATASTROPHE.

It was two o’clock in the morning when the Doctor and Vitriol Bob

ascended Shooter’s Hill.

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

The moon rode high in the heavens, which were spangled with thousands

of stars; and every feature of the scene was brought out into strong

relief by the pure silvery light that filled the air.

The countenance of Jack Rily was ghastly pale and hideous to gaze

upon--his large teeth gleaming through the opening in his upper lip,

and his eyes glaring like those of a wild beast about to spring

upon its prey;--whereas the features of Vitriol Bob denoted a

stern--dogged--ferocious determination.

Having reached the top of the hill, the two men paused as if by mutual

though tacit consent; and glancing rapidly along the road in each

direction, they neither saw nor heard anything that threatened to

interfere with the deadly purpose on which they were now both intent.

No sound of vehicles met their ears--no human forms dotted the long

highway which, with its white dust, had the appearance of a river

traversing the dark plains.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No--it’s you that tells the lie, Jack. I’ve watched you narrerly--and

I could see all that was a-passing in your mind as plain as if it was a

book.”

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

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

“And a pretty use you’ve made of it! But I don’t see any use in our

standing palavering here: I want to get back to London--and so the

sooner you let me polish you off, the better.”

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

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

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

“Never mind. We’ll make as sure as possible,” observed the Doctor, who

throughout this rapid and laconic colloquy had endeavoured to appear as

collected and as composed as possible: but his words had hissed through

his teeth--for his mouth was as parched as if he had been swallowing

the dry dust of the road.

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

The two men accordingly made their way into the adjoining field; and

having proceeded to a short distance down the sloping meadow, they

suddenly stopped short and confronted each other.

“Shall it be here?” demanded Vitriol Bob.

“Yes,” responded Jack Rily; and drawing his clasp-knife, which was

already open, from his pocket, he sprang with a savage howl upon his

enemy.

But Vitriol Bob was also prepared with his sharp weapon; and catching

the Doctor’s right arm with his left hand, he inflicted a wound upon

the shoulder upon his foe. Then the two men closed completely upon each

other--and the death-struggle commenced!

It was an appalling spectacle,--the knives flashing in the pure

moon-light--and the eyes of the miscreants glaring savagely, while they

writhed in each other’s embrace, savage howls bursting from them at

short intervals.

In less than a minute they were covered with blood: but the nature

of the contest only permitted them to inflict hideous gashes and not

decisive wounds upon each other. But suddenly Jack Rily’s foot slipped,

and he fell backward--bringing however his adversary down upon him: for

the left hand of each held a firm grasp upon the collar of the other.

As they thus tumbled, Vitriol Bob endeavoured to plant his knife in the

breast of his antagonist--but the spring of the weapon broke, and the

blade suddenly closing as it glanced over the Doctor’s shoulder, cut

through its owner’s fingers to the very bone. A yell of mingled rage

and pain escaped him; but the chances were at the same moment equalised

by the fact of Rily’s clasp-knife escaping from his hand.

The death-struggle was now continued by mere brute force; and the

Doctor succeeded in getting uppermost. At the same time he seized upon

Vitriol Bob’s nose with his large sharp teeth and bit it completely

off--in spite of the almost superhuman efforts of the other to resist

this savage attack.

Yelling horribly with the pain, and with his countenance bathed

in blood, Vitriol Bob once more got his foe beneath him; and

the Doctor echoed those appalling cries of agony as he felt the

fore-finger of his adversary’s left hand thrust into one of his eyes.

Frightful--terrific--revolting was the contest at this crisis,--the two

miscreants writhing, struggling, convulsing like snakes in each other’s

grasp,--and the ferocious process of gouging inflicting the agonies of

hell upon the maddened Jack Rily.

’Twas done: the eye was literally torn out of its socket; but the

pain excited the Doctor to the most tremendous efforts in order to

wreak a deadly vengeance upon his foe. And as they rolled over on the

blood-stained sward, Rily’s hand came in contact with the knife which

he had ere now lost; and clutching it with a savage yell of triumph, he

plunged it into Vitriol Bob’s throat.

The miscreant, mortally wounded, rolled over on the grass with a

gurgling sound coming from between his lips; and Jack Rily was

immediately upon him, brandishing the fatal weapon.

Then, at that moment, as the moon-light fell fully upon the countenance

of Vitriol Bob, as he gazed up at his victorious enemy, what fiendish

hate--what impotent rage--what diabolical malignity were depicted upon

those distorted features and expressed in every lineament of that

blood-smeared face,--a face rendered the more frightful by the loss of

the nose.

“Who will return to London this morning, Bob?” demanded Jack Rily,

scarcely able to articulate, so parched was his throat--so agonising

was the pain in the socket whence the eye had been torn out. “Ah! you

can’t answer--but you know well enough what the reply should be!”

Vitriol Bob made a sudden and desperate effort to throw his enemy off

him: but he was easily overpowered--and in another moment the Doctor

drove the sharp blade of the knife through the man’s right eye, deep

into the brain.

So strong was the convulsive spasm which shot through the form of

Vitriol Bob, that the Doctor was hurled completely off him: but all

danger of a renewal of the contest was past--Jack Rily’s enemy was no

more!

The conqueror lay for some minutes upon the sward, so exhausted that it

almost seemed possible to give up the ghost at a gasp: it appeared, in

fact, as if he retained a spark of life within himself by his own free

will--but that were he to breathe even too hard, existence would become

extinct that moment.

A sensation of numbness came over him, deadening the pain which his

eyeless socket occasioned him; and for nearly ten minutes a sort of

dreamy repose stole upon the man, the incidents of the night becoming

confused and all his ideas jumbling together pell-mell.

But suddenly--swift as the lightning darts forth from the thunder-cloud

upon the obscurity of a stormy sky--a feeling of all that had happened

and where he was sprang up in the Doctor’s soul; and half rising from

his recumbent posture, he gazed wildly around with the visual organ

that was still left.

The motionless corpse of his slaughtered enemy lay near;--and the

moon-light rendered the ghastly countenance fearfully visible.

The pain in the socket now returned with renewed force; and the Doctor,

raising himself up with difficulty, began to drag his heavy limbs

slowly away from the scene of a horrible contest and a dreadful death.

He was wounded in many places; and the anguish which he now again

endured through the loss of his eye, was maddening him.

At the bottom of the field there was a pond; and Jack Rily, on reaching

the bank of the stagnant pool, felt that he could at that moment give

all the money he possessed for a single glass of pure water. A draught

from that pond would be delicious: but how was he to obtain it? He

might stoop down, and endeavour to raise it with his hand--or he might

even fill his hat: but the bank was steep all round--and the wretched

man was so exhausted and enfeebled that he knew he should fall in and

most likely be suffocated.

Seating himself upon the bank, he maintained his one eye fixed upon

the pond in which the moonbeams were reflected; and at the expiration

of a few minutes he resolved to make an attempt to assuage his burning

thirst, even though the consequences should be fatal.

Stooping cautiously down, he succeeded in filling his hat; but as he

was drawing it up, he overbalanced himself, and fell headlong into the

water.

The pond was deep: but Jack Rily managed to drag himself out;--and on

gaining the bank he fainted.

How long he remained in a senseless state, he knew not: or whether a

deep sleep had succeeded the fit, he was likewise unable to conjecture.

Certain it was, however, that on awaking slowly from what appeared to

have been a profound trance, a stronger light than that which he had

last seen fell upon his view--for the sun had just risen.

Then all the horrors of the past night came back to the wretch’s

memory; and, though the pain in his eyeless socket was much mitigated,

it was still poignant enough to wring bitter imprecations from his lips.

He endeavoured to rise: but he was as stiff all over as if he had been

beaten soundly with a thick stick wielded by a strong hand--and he was

also weakened by loss of blood and the fatigues which he had undergone.

He longed to get back to London, not only in order to have surgical

assistance to assuage the pain consequent on the frightful injury he

had sustained by the loss of his eye; but also because he was fearful

that the body of his murdered enemy would be shortly discovered and his

own arrest follow as a matter of course.

Therefore, although he would have given worlds to be enabled to lie on

the grass for hours longer, he raised himself up, and moved slowly away

across the fields.

But how could he enter London in the broad day-light--covered with

blood and maimed as he was? One course only appeared open to him:

namely, to remain concealed somewhere until night, and then return to

his lodgings. Accordingly, he lay down under a hedge at the distance of

about a mile from the scene of the previous night’s deadly contest; and

again did he sink into a deep trance.

From this he was awakened by the sounds of voices; and starting up,

he heard people talking on the other side of the hedge. They were

labourers--and having discovered the corpse of Vitriol Bob in the field

adjoining Shooter’s Hill, they were hurrying back to the farm to which

they belonged, in order to give an alarm. Their pace was rapid--their

remarks denoted indescribable horror--and Jack Rily remained a

breathless listener until they were out of sight and hearing.

He then rose and moved off across the fields as quickly as he could

drag himself along.

The sun was now high in the heavens; and he thereby knew that it was

nearly mid-day. Not a breath of wind stirred the air; and the heat was

stifling.

He had bandaged his head in such a way with his handkerchief as to

conceal the frightful injury which he had received by the loss of his

eye: but the pain he experienced was excruciating.

In a short time he reached a rivulet, where he washed himself; and he

was likewise enabled to slake his thirst. A turnip plucked from a field

afforded him a sorry meal;--and thus was a man having thousands of

pounds secured about his person, reduced to the most miserable shifts

and compelled to wander about in the most deplorable condition that it

is possible to conceive.

Never had the time appeared to pass with such leaden wings;--and, oh!

how the man longed for night to fall. Not more ardently did Wellington

at Waterloo crave for the coming of the obscurity of evening, when,

beaten and hopeless, he was in full retreat ere the Prussians made

their appearance to change the fortune of the day and win the victory

which England so arrogantly claims, not more earnestly did the Iron

Duke desire the presence of the darkness on that occasion, than Jack

Rily in the present instance.

At last the sun was sinking in the western horizon; and the Doctor bent

his steps towards the metropolis which lay at a distance of about seven

miles.

It was nine o’clock in the evening, when Jack Rily entered the southern

suburbs; and he succeeded in gaining his lodgings in Roupel Street

without attracting any particular observation. A surgeon with whom

he was acquainted, and who did not ask any questions so long as he

was well paid, dressed his wounds: and the Doctor began to think the

victory over his mortal enemy cheaply bought by the loss of an eye.

The black patch which he was compelled to wear, certainly increased

the hideousness of his countenance: but as vanity was not one of

his failings, this circumstance did not so much trouble him as the

inconvenience and the pain attendant upon the loss of the optic.

In the course of the ensuing day, the report spread all over London

that the body of a man, frightfully mutilated, had been discovered

in a field near Shooter’s Hill; and that it had been removed to a

public-house at Blackheath, in order to lie there for recognition.

A minute description of the clothing which the corpse had on, was

given in the newspapers and also in placards posted in the principal

thoroughfares of the metropolis; and it was likewise stated that the

clasp-knife, with which the mortal blow was struck, had been left by

the murderer sticking in the victim’s head.

Now it happened that Mary Calvert--_alias_ Pig-faced Moll--and whom

the reader will recollect to have been already represented as Vitriol

Bob’s paramour, was alarmed by the protracted absence of her fancy-man;

and while wandering about in search of him at his usual haunts, she

observed one of the placards.

The attire therein specified exactly corresponded with the dress which

Vitriol Bob wore when he quitted her two days previously; and she at

once went to the public-house where the body was lying. A glance was

sufficient to convince her that her suspicions were well founded; and

on examining the clasp-knife, she instantly recognised it as one which

she had frequently seen in the possession of Jack Rily.

Everything was now clearly apparent to Molly Calvert. She knew the

deadly animosity that Vitriol Bob had nourished against the Doctor: she

was likewise acquainted with the intention of her paramour to wreak his

vengeance upon that individual on the first suitable occasion;--and

she therefore concluded that a deadly conflict had taken place between

them, ending in the murder of her fancy-man.

From the public-house where the body lay, she proceeded straight to a

police-station, where she gave such information as led to an immediate

search after the Doctor. In the course of the next day a member of

the Detectives ascertained that Jack Rily had recently been living in

Roupel Street, and that he had only quitted his lodgings there the

preceding evening. For the Doctor, alarmed by the publicity given to

the discovery of Vitriol Bob’s body, had deemed it prudent to flit.

Several days elapsed without affording the police any clue to his

whereabouts: but at the expiration of a week Molly Calvert herself one

evening traced him to an obscure pot-house in one of the vilest parts

of Bethnal Green; and he was immediately arrested.

Upon his person was found a vast sum in gold and bank-notes--but

chiefly consisting of the latter; and this amount was accordingly

seized by the officers. Jack Rily was then locked up for the night, and

on the following morning he was taken before a magistrate.

When charged with the murder of Vitriol Bob, he at once admitted that

he had been the cause of that individual’s death, but declared that it

was in self-defence. His story was corroborated by many circumstances,

amongst which the loss of his eye was not the least; for the organ had

been found, as it was torn out of its socket, close by the corpse.

The gashes which the man had received--Vitriol Bob’s own clasp-knife,

discovered on the fatal spot--and the evident marks of a fearful

struggle having taken place,--all proved that the deed was neither

cold-blooded nor accomplished by surprise. On the other hand, might not

Jack Rily have himself provoked the contest which terminated so fatally

to his opponent? This point the magistrate left to a jury to decide;

and the Doctor was ordered to be committed for trial. Relative to the

money found upon his person, he persisted in declaring that it was his

own, and that he had come by it honestly,--but from what source he

refused to state.

CHAPTER CCV.

THE CASTELCICALAN REPUBLIC.

Castelcicala became a Republic; and Richard Markham had the immortal

honour of founding a purely democratic government in the finest State

belonging to the Italian Peninsula.

The Chamber of Senators voted by an immense majority the very measure

which deprived them of their rank of Peers, and abolished titles of

nobility altogether. This species of suicidal process, adopted in

obedience to the popular will, the interests of the community at large,

and the dictates of a consummate civilisation, presented a glorious

spectacle to the eyes of all the world. And these good men who thus

sacrificed their own family interests to those of their country,

experienced a rich reward in the enthusiasm with which they were

received by the people when the result of the division on the third

reading of the Bill was made known. For no empty honours could outvie

that applause which grateful myriads thus poured forth; and if Dukes,

Marquises, Counts, Viscounts, and Barons went home that day denuded of

those titles, they had the proud recompense of a conviction that their

names would shine all the more resplendently in history through their

own unartificial light. Their’s was now the aristocracy of VIRTUE and

INTELLIGENCE!

The Chamber of Peers was abolished; but all those who had voted in

favour of the Government measures were returned by a grateful people as

members of the National Assembly which was now convoked--the new system

admitting of only one House of Parliament. The moment that august body

met, one of its earliest duties was to frame the new Constitution;

and this was done on the broadest and most liberal principles. It

was resolved, amongst other matters thus definitively settled, that

the President of the Republic should be elected on the principle of

universal suffrage, and for three years; and we need scarcely inform

our readers that there was not even any opposition attempted against

General Markham.

But in the meantime--for these proceedings occupied upwards of two

months--the other Italian States had become seriously alarmed at the

establishment of Democracy in Castelcicala; and the diplomatic agents

of Naples, Rome, Tuscany, and Sardinia were ordered by their respective

Governments to demand their passports. These were instantaneously

granted; and shortly after the departure of the envoys, a league was

formed by the Sovereigns of the States which we have named for the

purpose of compelling Castelcicala to return into the sisterhood of

monarchical countries. Protocols first poured into the Foreign Office

at Montoni; and these were logically answered by the Minister presiding

over that department. Menaces followed;--and these were treated with a

firmness proving how confidently General Markham and his Cabinet relied

upon the Castelcicalans to defend the institutions which they had

consecrated. An ultimatum, threatening immediate hostilities, was now

signed by that blood-thirsty miscreant the King of Naples--by the weak,

timid, and vacillating Pope Pius IX.--by the Grand Duke of Tuscany--and

by Charles Albert, King of Sardinia. To this document Richard Markham

replied, through the Minister of Foreign Affairs, insisting upon the

right of the Castelcicalans, as a free people, to choose their own

form of Government; and the argument was so well sustained by a mass

of reasoning, that the King of Sardinia and the Grand-Duke of Tuscany

withdrew from the league, re-accrediting their diplomatic agents

to the Castelcicalan Republic. The timid Pope was frightened by a

knowledge of Markham’s military prowess into a similar course; and the

tyrant Ferdinand of Naples was left alone in hostility against the

newly-established Democracy.

This monarch--obstinate, self-willed, and blood-thirsty, like all

the Bourbons--was not disheartened by what he called the “defection”

of the Pontiff, the Grand Duke of Tuscany, and the King of Piedmont;

but he immediately declared war against the Castelcicalan Republic.

Thereupon General Markham commenced the most active preparations,

not only to prevent an invasion, but to carry hostilities into the

enemy’s country. In a short time an army of twenty-six thousand men was

collected in the south of the State; and Richard, having taken leave

of his family, proceeded to join it, attended by a numerous staff, of

which Charles Hatfield was a member. The executive power was in the

meantime delegated to Signor Bassano, the General’s brother-in-law; and

the utmost enthusiasm pervaded the entire Castelcicalan population, so

great was the confidence entertained in the valour of the army and the

skill of its commander.

It was in the first week of December, 1846, that the Castelcicalan

forces commenced their march towards the Neapolitan frontier.

Intelligence had already arrived to the effect that the Neapolitans,

to the number of forty thousand men, were advancing under the command

of General Avellino; but Markham, well knowing that the spirit of

a republican army was far greater than that which animates troops

belonging to a monarchy, was not daunted by this immense numerical

superiority on the part of the enemy. He was deeply impressed with the

opinion that Napoleon Bonaparte had damped the ardour of his soldiers

by exchanging the consular cap for the imperial crown: his knowledge

of French history told him that Bonaparte’s grandest victories were

gained with a republican army;--and he was likewise well aware that

the Neapolitan troops loathed and abhorred the monarch who had sent

them out to fight against liberal institutions. He therefore resolved

to push on and meet the enemy; for his generous nature contemplated

with horror the prospect of an invasion of the fertile plains of

Castelcicala by an army which even in its own country acted the lawless

and ferocious part of a horde of plunderers and ravagers.

On the 7th of December, General Markham entered the Neapolitan

territory at the head of his troops; and on the same evening he

encamped beneath the walls of Casino, which surrendered without the

least attempt at resistance. Here he waited four days in the hope that

the Neapolitans would advance to the attack: but hearing that they had

halted to rest awhile at Sabino--a place about sixty miles distant--he

determined to continue his march. Accordingly, in the afternoon of the

13th, he came within sight of General Avellino’s army, which he found

to be occupying a strong position at a short distance from Sabino.

General Markham ascended an elevated flat to reconnoitre the precise

distribution of the Neapolitans, and he was speedily convinced that

an immense advantage might be gained by placing the artillery upon

that height. The task was a difficult one to accomplish: but nothing

was impossible to an active commander and enthusiastic troops;--and

thus in a few hours, hollows were filled up, projections levelled,

and a pathway cleared for the ascent of the cannon. Meantime General

Avellino had made no movement on his side; and ere sunset the work of

establishing the artillery on the eminence was complete.

The inactivity of the enemy during the entire afternoon led Markham

to believe that Avellino meditated an attack in the course of the

night; and the Castelcicalans were therefore fully prepared to give the

Neapolitans a warm reception. But hour after hour passed without any

indication of the approach of the enemy; and General Markham resolved

to take the initiative at day-break.

Scarcely had the sun risen on the morning of the 14th of December, when

the action commenced by a smart fire on the part of the Castelcicalan

light troops, commanded by an active and gallant officer in whom the

General had full confidence. The Neapolitans were thereby dislodged

from an apparently inaccessible position near Sabino; and the result

was that the Castelcicalans were enabled to stretch out upon the plains

so as to threaten the enemy’s flanks. Both armies were soon within

cannon shot; and by nine o’clock in the forenoon the action became

general.

The manœuvres on the Castelcicalan side were performed with a

marvellous precision, fully compensating for the numerical inferiority

of Markham’s troops; and by mid-day they had succeeded in gaining

possession of a wood which covered one of the enemy’s corps. At the

same time the cannon upon the height were scattering death throughout

the Neapolitan ranks; and General Avellino ordered up his reserve of

cavalry to take a share in the conflict. Markham was well prepared for

this proceeding; and at the head of his cuirassiers he dashed against

the new-comers. This charge was made with an impetuosity altogether

irresistible; and the Neapolitans were thrown into disorder in that

part of the field. The Castelcicalans pursued their advantage; and by

four o’clock in the afternoon the enemy were completely overwhelmed.

The Neapolitan loss was immense: upwards of twelve thousand men of

that army lay dead upon the field--while an equal number had been made

prisoners. On Markham’s side the number of killed did not exceed two

thousand; but the generous-hearted young man considered his splendid

victory to be dearly bought even by means of that sacrifice--and the

eyes which flashed with the fires of heroism on the battle-field, now

melted into tears at the evidences of the sanguinary fight.

We should observe that the conduct of Charles Hatfield was admirable

throughout this memorable day. In the charge upon the Neapolitan

cavalry, he comported himself in a manner that more than once gained

for him the approval of his commander; and when the strife was over and

the victory was won, Markham complimented him on his prowess in the

presence of the officers gathered about him at the time.

The booty acquired by this great battle was immense; for the

Neapolitans who survived the conflict were compelled to retreat with

such precipitation as to leave all their baggage and artillery in the

hands of their enemy.

On the following day Markham set his army in motion towards the

capital, at the gates of which he was determined to force the King to

acknowledge the Castelcicalan Republic. But in his progress through

the Neapolitan dominions, he adopted the most rigorous measures to

protect the innocent inhabitants from plunder or wrong at the hands of

his victorious troops; and he issued a proclamation to the effect that

any soldier found guilty of an act of oppression or outrage, should be

expelled the army and deprived of his civil rights as a Castelcicalan

citizen.

It was at about mid-day on the 17th of December that Markham came

within sight of Naples; and he was then met by plenipotentiaries

sent by King Ferdinand to treat for an armistice, preparatory to

negociations for peace. The victorious General received the deputies

with the utmost courtesy; he however bade them observe that it was

not for him to _treat_--but to _dictate_. Thereupon he drew up the

conditions on which he would spare the capital and retire from the

kingdom,--those terms being the acknowledgment of the Castelcicalan

Republic, the payment of all the expenses incurred by Castelcicala

in consequence of this war, and a guarantee against the renewal of

hostilities on the same pretence.

To these conditions Ferdinand refused to accede; and the citizens of

Naples were called upon to arm in defence of the capital. But the

people rose up as one man within the walls of the city, and threatened

to dethrone the King unless he accepted the terms set forth by General

Markham. The blood-thirsty Ferdinand was accordingly compelled to

submit to the demands of the Castelcicalan General; and the conditions

being fulfilled in the course of a few days, Markham began to retrace

his way to the State which he had thus a second time saved from

destruction.

It would be impossible to describe the enthusiasm with which the

victorious General and his army were received on their return to

Castelcicala. The roads were lined with a grateful population,

anxious to catch a glimpse of the hero and to testify their joy

at the conquest which he had achieved over the enemy. Triumphal

arches were raised--flags were waving in all directions--towns were

illuminated--municipal corporations appeared with congratulatory

addresses--and the peasantry made bonfires on the hills as proofs of

their delight.

When the army approached Montoni, the General’s family came out to meet

him: and Isabella experienced more sincere pride in embracing a husband

whose citizen name it was an honour to bear, than if he still wore a

princely title and held a sovereign rank.

Peace was thus ensured to Castelcicala; and the Republic was firmly

established, not only by the will of the people, but likewise by the

prowess of the army.

Charles Hatfield, who, as one of the General’s aides-de-camp, already

held the rank of lieutenant, was now invested with a captaincy; and

one of the members of the National Assembly happening to die at the

time, the constituency thus left temporarily unrepresented, offered to

elect him as their deputy. But he felt anxious to return to England;

for letters reached him about this period, informing him that Mr.

Hatfield’s health had latterly caused serious apprehensions to his

relatives and friends;--and the young man accordingly demanded leave of

absence for a period. This was granted without hesitation; and Charles

Hatfield took his departure, laden with presents from Markham and his

family, and attended with their sincerest wishes for his prosperity.

CHAPTER CCVI.

CHARLES HATFIELD IN LONDON AGAIN.

The information which Charles Hatfield had received respecting his

father’s health, was too true. Indeed, the accounts were purposely

mitigated in order to alarm him as little as possible; and on his

arrival at Lord Ellingham’s mansion in Pall Mall, he found Mr. Hatfield

confined to his bed.

Charles was greatly shocked at this circumstance: for he could not

help fancying that his conduct had contributed mainly to undermine

his father’s health; but Mr. Hatfield reassured him on that head by

declaring that a severe cold was the commencement of his illness.

“Were I thrown upon this bed of sickness by any fault of yours,

Charles,” he said, pressing his son’s hand affectionately in both his

own, “your behaviour during your short sojourn in Italy would speedily

raise me from it. Not only have the newspapers mentioned your name in

a manner highly creditable to you: but General Markham has sent us

accounts of the most satisfactory nature concerning you.”

These words were gratifying indeed to the young man.

“I can assure you, my revered parent,” he said, “that I am indeed

fully and completely changed. The image of that vile woman whom we

will not name, is loathsome and abhorrent to me--and I would as

readily come in contact with a serpent, as meet her again. Respecting

that insane ambition which animated me at the same time I formed that

disastrous attachment,--an ambition which prompted me to aspire to

a noble title,--it has all vanished as if it had never been. I have

contemplated Republican institutions--I have seen a mighty Prince and

all his family lay aside their high rank without regret and abandon

their titles with cheerfulness and at their own free will,--I have

likewise beheld the magnates of the land following the same example,

so that the equality of citizenship may be fully established;--and

I am now astonished that I could ever have aspired to mere titular

distinction. My eyes have been opened to the fact that men may be great

and rise to fame, without those adventitious aids which savour of

feudal barbarism;--and I am prouder of that rank of _Captain_ which the

battle of Sabino gave me in the army of Republican Castelcicala, than

I could possibly be were the coronet of Ellingham placed upon my brow.

Oh! how happy should I feel, could we all proceed to Castelcicala and

settle for life in that beautiful city of Montoni which I love so well:

yes--all of us to fix our habitation there,” continued Charles, with

the enthusiasm that was characteristic of his nature,--“you--my dear

mother, who received me so kindly--the excellent Earl and his amiable

Countess--myself--”

“And what is to become of poor Lady Frances?” asked Mr. Hatfield, with

a smile in spite of his severe indisposition. “Wherefore is she not

included in your list? Do you think that the Earl and the Countess

would leave their amiable and lovely daughter behind them?”

Charles Hatfield blushed deeply as his father thus addressed him.

“Well, my dear boy--you make no reply,” resumed Mr. Hatfield, with the

smile--and a smile of ineffable satisfaction it was--still playing

upon his pale countenance: “has Lady Frances offended you? Did she not

receive you on your arrival ere now with as much kindness as the rest?”

“Oh! yes--yes,” exclaimed Charles; “and she appeared to me more

exquisitely beautiful than ever! Fool that I was--insensate

dolt--idiot--madman, ever to place myself in a position which----”

“Do not excite yourself thus, my dear boy,” interrupted Mr. Hatfield.

“You admire Lady Frances?” he observed, after a short pause, and now

attentively watching his son’s countenance.

“My God! do not ask me that question, my dear father!” ejaculated

Charles, with an expression of deep anguish on his features. “I love

my beautiful cousin--I love her--and she cannot be mine! Oh! since I

have been absent I have pondered on her image--I have cherished it as

if it were that of a guardian angel! I have compared the amiability and

excellence of Frances with the character of _that woman_--and you may

judge how resplendently the charming girl shines by means of such a

contrast!”

“And you may hope--yes, you may hope, Charles,” said Mr. Hatfield,

raising himself partially up in the bed. “Happiness yet awaits you.”

“Happiness--hope--my dear father!” ejaculated Charles; “you speak in

enigmas--you----”

“Nay--I speak only what I mean; and all I say is intelligible,”

interrupted Mr. Hatfield. “I tell you that you may hope for

happiness--that Lady Frances may yet become your wife!”

“Is it possible?” cried the young man, clasping his hands in the

wildness of his joy. “But how? Is that woman dead?” he demanded,

speaking with strange rapidity of utterance.

“No--she is not dead,” responded his father: “but she has married

again!”

“Married!” ejaculated Charles. “And yet I do not see how that

circumstance will alter my position,” he added, in a desponding tone.

“Listen attentively--and do not excite yourself at one moment, and in

the next give way to despair,” said Mr. Hatfield.

Charles seated himself at his father’s bed-side, and prepared to hear

with attention the words that were about to be addressed to him.

“Some time ago--when it was first resolved that you should proceed to

Italy for a short time,” said Mr. Hatfield, “the Earl of Ellingham

communicated to me the generous views which he entertained with regard

to you. He observed that, as you had already discarded the woman who

had ensnared you, and as she had agreed never more to molest you, you

were morally severed in respect to the matrimonial bond. He moreover

declared that should this woman contract another marriage and thereby

prove that such severance was complete, it would be a despicable

fastidiousness and a contemptible affectation to tell you _that you

must never know matrimonial happiness, but that you must remain in your

present false position, a husband without a wife, for the remainder of

your days_. Those were the very words which his lordship used, Charles,

on the occasion to which I am alluding.”

“Oh! am I to understand--” exclaimed the young man.

“Silence!” interrupted Mr. Hatfield: “be not impatient nor

impetuous--but hear me out. Lord Ellingham continued to observe that

if the woman should contract a new marriage, and if _you_, Charles,

manifested contrition for the past,--if your conduct were such as to

afford sure guarantees for the future,--and if your attachment for

Lady Frances should revive,--under all those circumstances the Earl

declared that he should not consider himself justified in stamping the

unhappiness alike of yourself and his daughter by refusing his consent

to your union.”

“Do I hear aright?” exclaimed Charles, a giddiness coming over him

through excessive joy. “Oh! what generosity on the part of the Earl!”

“Yes--his sentiments on this subject were fraught with liberality,”

returned Mr. Hatfield. “He argued in the following manner:--A young man

is ensnared into an alliance with a woman whom he believed to be pure,

but whom in a few hours he discovered to be a demon of pollution. They

separate upon written conditions of the most positive character,--a

private arrangement being deemed preferable to the public scandal of an

appeal to the tribunals. This woman marries again--and every remnant

of a claim which she might have had upon the individual whom she had

ensnared and deluded, ceases at once. There is a complete snapping of

the bond--a total severance of the tie; and her conduct by the fact

of the second marriage proves that she so understands it. The law may

certainly proclaim the first marriage to be the only legal one: but

morality, which holds marriage to be a covenant between two parties,

revolts against the principle which the code establishes. It is upon

these grounds that the Earl of Ellingham will give you the hand of his

lovely and amiable daughter.”

It were useless to attempt to describe the joy which filled the soul

of Charles Hatfield when these tidings met his ears. He seized his

father’s hand and pressed it to his lips with grateful fervour: then,

promising to return in a few minutes, he flew to the library where he

understood the Earl to be at the moment; and casting himself at the

feet of that good nobleman, he implored pardon for his past conduct,

declaring that nothing should induce him to swerve from the path of

rectitude in future.

The Earl of Ellingham raised the contrite young man--embraced him

affectionately--and bade him throw a complete veil over all that

related to his unfortunate marriage. His lordship then repeated, but

more concisely, the observations which Mr. Hatfield had already made

to his son; and at the conclusion of the interview he said, “And now,

Charles, if your inclinations really and truly prompt you to take the

step, you have my permission to solicit Lady Frances to allow you to

become the suitor for her hand.”

Captain Hatfield expressed his liveliest gratitude in suitable terms;

and hastening back to his father, he narrated all that had just

occurred between himself and the Earl. Mr. Hatfield was cheered and

delighted by the spectacle of his son’s happiness, and bade him repair

to the drawing-room to pass an hour with the ladies.

We need scarcely state that Lady Georgiana was much pleased by

the return of Charles to England, especially as he had so highly

distinguished himself in the Neapolitan campaign. Nor less was the

Countess of Ellingham--the amiable Esther--gratified by an event which

restored the missing one to the family circle: while Lady Frances

attempted not to conceal the joy that the young soldier’s presence

afforded her.

It is not, however, our purpose to dwell upon this subject:--for we

have now to relate an incident which led to consequences of great

importance to several persons who have figured in our narrative.

The day after Charles Hatfield’s arrival in London, he was proceeding

on foot up Regent Street, in order to pay a visit to his tailor for

the purpose of making some additions to his wardrobe, when he met

Captain Barthelma: for Laura’s husband had lost his title of Count

of Carignano, in consequence of the establishment of the Republic in

Castelcicala.

The young Italian was alone; and the meeting between the two was

most friendly and cordial,--for during the short time that they were

acquainted, Charles had observed many excellent qualities on the part

of Barthelma, who on his side was enraptured with the heroic conduct

that Captain Hatfield had displayed at the battle of Sabino, a full

narrative of which had duly appeared in the English newspapers.

Taking the arm of Charles, Captain Barthelma walked with him up Regent

Street; and for some time they conversed upon the late Neapolitan

campaign--the glorious destinies of Republican Castelcicala--the noble

conduct of President Markham--and various other matters connected with

the Italian’s native land.

“It has grieved me greatly in one sense,” observed Barthelma, “that

I should have been absent from my post about the person of General

Markham at a time when such momentous incidents were taking place. But

on the other hand I rejoice in my withdrawal from that hero’s service,

inasmuch as I thereby secured the hand of one of the most lovely--nay,

_the_ most lovely woman in the world.”

[Illustration]

“I congratulate you most sincerely upon having formed an alliance which

appears to afford you so much happiness,” answered Charles; “and I hope

to have the honour of being presented to the signora--for I presume you

have espoused a lady belonging to your own country.”

“No--she is an Englishwoman,” returned Captain Barthelma; “and you have

seen her.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Charles.

“Yes--you have seen her,” repeated the Italian. “But tell me--do you

recollect that day when you, Lieutenant Di Ponta, and myself walked

together in the Champs Elysées in consequence of a mysterious note

which we received from a pretended Spanish refugee----”

“Oh! yes--yes--I well remember that day!” exclaimed Captain Hatfield.

“Indeed, how could I ever forget it?”

“You speak with excitement, my dear friend,” said Barthelma, surprised

at his companion’s manner, but entertaining not the slightest suspicion

of the real cause of his agitation.

“Ah! if you only knew all!” observed the young man. “But I will tell

you enough to warn you against falling into the power of the vilest

woman that ever wore an angel shape to conceal a demon heart: I will

reveal to you sufficient to place you on your guard against that syren,

should you ever happen to encounter her. For her disposition is such

that, to gratify her wantonness, her caprice, or her avarice, she would

as readily prey upon a married as on an unmarried man.”

“Indeed! you interest me,” said the Castelcicalan, still altogether

unsuspicious of the real meaning of the allusion.

“Yes--but the interest will soon become of an appalling character,”

resumed Charles, speaking in a tone of deep solemnity. “For there is in

the world a woman whose loveliness is so superhuman and whose witchery

is so irresistible that she would move the heart of an anchorite.

This woman was born in Newgate, where her mother was incarcerated on

a charge of forgery, and whence she was soon afterwards transported

to Australia. The child was called _Perdita_, or ‘The Lost One;’ and

the mother took the babe with her to her place of exile. Years passed

away--and Perdita had grown up to a lovely girl. But the natural

wantonness of her disposition manifested itself at a very early age;

and her profligacy soon became notorious at Sydney. Well, in due time

the mother returned to England, Perdita accompanying her; and in London

did those women commence their grand scheme of preying upon the public.

Alas! shall I confess how weak--how mad--how insensate I was? But the

delirium has passed away--and I now look back upon it with a loathing

which prevents me from contemplating it coolly. For I was ensnared by

that vile Perdita--and I became her victim. I proceeded with her to

Paris; and my father followed to rescue me from ruin. He discovered the

place of our abode, and painted the character of that woman in such

frightful--such appalling colours, without the least exaggeration,

that I was reduced to despair on account of the conduct which I had

pursued. I quitted Paris--returned to London--and was then received

into the service of General Markham. But you ere now asked me if I

remembered the day when yourself Di Ponta and I walked together in the

Champs Elysées. You shall now judge whether I have reason to retain

the incident in my memory. For you, Barthelma, cannot have forgotten

that lady who so much attracted your notice, and who purposely let fall

her parasol----But, heavens! what is the matter with you?” ejaculated

Captain Hatfield, perceiving that his companion started as if a ghastly

spectre had suddenly sprang up before him.

“My God! is it possible?--that woman--in the Champs Elysées--” gasped

the young Italian, a deadly pallor overspreading his countenance, while

he staggered backward and would have fallen had not Charles sustained

him by the arm.

“That woman--for a lady I can scarcely call her--was Perdita Mortimer,”

said Hatfield, emphatically.

“Oh! malediction upon the hateful syren!” exclaimed Barthelma, terribly

excited.

“Compose yourself!--what is the matter?” cried Charles. “You will

attract observation--the people will notice you----”

“I am composed--yes, I am cool and collected now,” murmured the

unhappy young Italian, all his tremendous imprudence bursting upon

his comprehension like a thunder-storm. “Here--let us pass up this

street--it is comparatively deserted--and we can converse more at

our ease,” he faltered painfully, as he dragged his companion up New

Burlington Street.

A suspicion had in the meantime flashed to the imagination of Charles

Hatfield. Was it possible that Barthelma could have married the

profligate Perdita, or Laura? He himself had not learnt from his father

how he knew that the syren-demoness was married again, or whom she

had thus ensnared;--and the Italian’s sudden excitement could not be

accounted for otherwise than by the fact that he had made her his wife.

“My God! this intelligence is overwhelming!” murmured Captain

Barthelma. “Oh! my dear friend,” he exclaimed, turning with the

abruptness of an almost maddening excitement towards Hatfield, “pity

me--pity me; that woman of whom you have spoken is----”

“Is what?” demanded Charles impatiently.

“My wife!” responded Barthelma;--and the moment the words were uttered

his excitement gave way to a blank despair.

“Malediction upon my communicativeness--my insane garrulity!”

ejaculated Charles. “I shall never--never forgive myself for having

made these most uncalled-for revelations!”

“Do not blame yourself, my dear friend,” returned the young Italian,

in a tone of the deepest melancholy: “you knew not how painfully your

words would affect me--you could not anticipate that the warning which

you generously intended to convey would come far too late!”

“And, after all, there may be some error--some mistake,” cried Charles,

catching at a straw on behalf of his afflicted companion: “the woman

whom I mean may not be the same as the lady whom you have espoused----”

“Yes--yes: ’tis the same!” ejaculated the Italian, impatiently: “Laura

Mortimer--the beauteous creature whom we saw in the Champs Elysées, and

whose mother met with a horrible death some months ago.”

“Ah! that old woman is no more!” exclaimed Charles. “But of what nature

was the death of which you speak so shudderingly?”

“The frightful incident occurred when you were in Italy,” answered

Barthelma. “Some villain broke a bottle of aqua-fortis or vitriol over

her head--and she died in fearful agonies. But I must leave you now, my

dear friend,” said the Castelcicalan, with wild abruptness of manner;

and hastily wringing both of Hatfield’s hands, he darted away and was

out of sight in a few moments.

CHAPTER CCVII.

MR. GREEN’S OFFICE.

On the same morning, and at about the same time that Charles Hatfield

and Captain Barthelma thus encountered each other in Regent Street,

certain incidents of importance to the thread of our narrative occurred

elsewhere.

We must request the reader to accompany us to a newly fitted up suite

of offices in Warwick Court, Holborn; and in the private room we shall

find Mr. Green seated at a desk covered with papers.

A material alteration had taken place in the external appearance of

this individual. He was well dressed--looked clean and neat--and wore

an air of assurance instead of the downcast, obsequious, grovelling

demeanour that had characterised him when in the service of Mr.

Heathcote.

His private room was neatly furnished and had a business-like aspect:

in the front office two clerks were busily employed in drawing up

statements to be laid before counsel in several heavy suits; and in the

passage outside a process-server was waiting for instructions.

Mr. Green had drawn his table near the fire that blazed in the

grate--for the reader must remember that several months had elapsed

since the adventures of this individual with Jack Rily, and it was now

the commencement of February, 1847.

The cheerful flames roared half-way up the chimney;--and as Green

felt the genial heat diffusing a glow throughout his frame, he

smiled triumphantly as he contrasted his present position with what

it was in those times when he was compelled to sit without a fire,

from nine in the morning till six in the evening, on the hard high

stool in Heathcote’s front office. Now he was a solicitor on his own

account--had his name once more in the Law List--could look with

complacency into his banker’s book--and, when business was over for the

day, had nothing to do but to step into an omnibus and ride as far as

the door of his neat little dwelling at Bayswater.

No wonder, then, that Mr. Green’s countenance had lost its downcast

look and its haggard, broken-hearted expression: no wonder that hope

beamed in his eyes, and that his tone and manner had recovered the

assurance, if not the actual dignity, of former days.

On the particular morning of which we are writing, Mr. Green was more

than usually elate; and as he looked over the papers that lay before

him, the inward exultation which he experienced imparted the glow of

animation to his features.

Presently the door opened and his junior clerk appeared, saying, “Mr.

Heathcote, sir.”

“Let him walk in,” returned Green, assuming a cold tone: but his heart

was palpitating violently with mingled feelings of joy, triumph, and

insatiate revenge.

In a few moments James Heathcote entered the room.

But, oh! how changed was that man, not only in countenance but also in

deportment! His face was thin--haggard--care-worn: his eyes, sunken

in their sockets, were dim and glazed;--his form was bowed;--and in

the course of a few months his hair had turned from an iron grey to

a stainless white. His aspect was deplorable; and his manner was

indicative of deep mental distress--anxiety--suffering--and humiliation.

“Sit down, sir,” said Green, in a patronising tone.

Heathcote placed his hat upon the floor and took a chair: then,

fixing his hollow eyes upon his ex-clerk, he was about to open his

business--but, unable to bear up against the tide of reminiscences that

rushed to his soul, he burst into tears.