"_PROLOGUE OF THE CIGAR DIVAN_\n\n\nIn the city of encounters, the Bagdad of the West, and, to be more\nprecise, on the broad northern pavement of Leicester Square, two young\nmen of five- or six-and-twenty met after years of separation.  The first,\nwho was of a very smooth address and clothed in the best fashion,\nhesitated to recognise the pinched and shabby air of his companion.\n\n'What!' he cried, 'Paul Somerset!'\n\n'I am indeed Paul Somerset,' returned the other, 'or what remains of him\nafter a well-deserved experience of poverty and law.  But in you,\nChalloner, I can perceive no change; and time may be said, without\nhyperbole, to write no wrinkle on your azure brow.'\n\n'All,' replied Challoner, 'is not gold that glitters.  But we are here in\nan ill posture for confidences, and interrupt the movement of these\nladies.  Let us, if you please, find a more private corner.'\n\n'If you will allow me to guide you,' replied Somerset, 'I will offer you\nthe best cigar in London.'\n\nAnd taking the arm of his companion, he led him in silence and at a brisk\npace to the door of a quiet establishment in Rupert Street, Soho.  The\nentrance was adorned with one of those gigantic Highlanders of wood which\nhave almost risen to the standing of antiquities; and across the\nwindow-glass, which sheltered the usual display of pipes, tobacco, and\ncigars, there ran the gilded legend: 'Bohemian Cigar Divan, by T.\nGodall.'  The interior of the shop was small, but commodious and ornate;\nthe salesman grave, smiling, and urbane; and the two young men, each\npuffing a select regalia, had soon taken their places on a sofa of\nmouse-coloured plush and proceeded to exchange their stories.\n\n'I am now,' said Somerset, 'a barrister; but Providence and the attorneys\nhave hitherto denied me the opportunity to shine.  A select society at\nthe Cheshire Cheese engaged my evenings; my afternoons, as Mr. Godall\ncould testify, have been generally passed in this divan; and my mornings,\nI have taken the precaution to abbreviate by not rising before twelve.\nAt this rate, my little patrimony was very rapidly, and I am proud to\nremember, most agreeably expended.  Since then a gentleman, who has\nreally nothing else to recommend him beyond the fact of being my maternal\nuncle, deals me the small sum of ten shillings a week; and if you behold\nme once more revisiting the glimpses of the street lamps in my favourite\nquarter, you will readily divine that I have come into a fortune.'\n\n'I should not have supposed so,' replied Challoner.  'But doubtless I met\nyou on the way to your tailors.'\n\n'It is a visit that I purpose to delay,' returned Somerset, with a smile.\n'My fortune has definite limits.  It consists, or rather this morning it\nconsisted, of one hundred pounds.'\n\n'That is certainly odd,' said Challoner; 'yes, certainly the coincidence\nis strange.  I am myself reduced to the same margin.'\n\n'You!' cried Somerset.  'And yet Solomon in all his glory--'\n\n'Such is the fact.  I am, dear boy, on my last legs,' said Challoner.\n'Besides the clothes in which you see me, I have scarcely a decent\ntrouser in my wardrobe; and if I knew how, I would this instant set about\nsome sort of work or commerce.  With a hundred pounds for capital, a man\nshould push his way.'\n\n'It may be,' returned Somerset; 'but what to do with mine is more than I\ncan fancy.  Mr. Godall,' he added, addressing the salesman, 'you are a\nman who knows the world: what can a young fellow of reasonable education\ndo with a hundred pounds?'\n\n'It depends,' replied the salesman, withdrawing his cheroot.  'The power\nof money is an article of faith in which I profess myself a sceptic.  A\nhundred pounds will with difficulty support you for a year; with somewhat\nmore difficulty you may spend it in a night; and without any difficulty\nat all you may lose it in five minutes on the Stock Exchange.  If you are\nof that stamp of man that rises, a penny would be as useful; if you\nbelong to those that fall, a penny would be no more useless.  When I was\nmyself thrown unexpectedly upon the world, it was my fortune to possess\nan art: I knew a good cigar.  Do you know nothing, Mr. Somerset?'\n\n'Not even law,' was the reply.\n\n'The answer is worthy of a sage,' returned Mr. Godall.  'And you, sir,'\nhe continued, turning to Challoner, 'as the friend of Mr. Somerset, may I\nbe allowed to address you the same question?'\n\n'Well,' replied Challoner, 'I play a fair hand at whist.'\n\n'How many persons are there in London,' returned the salesman, 'who have\ntwo-and-thirty teeth?  Believe me, young gentleman, there are more still\nwho play a fair hand at whist.  Whist, sir, is wide as the world; 'tis an\naccomplishment like breathing.  I once knew a youth who announced that he\nwas studying to be Chancellor of England; the design was certainly\nambitious; but I find it less excessive than that of the man who aspires\nto make a livelihood by whist.'\n\n'Dear me,' said Challoner, 'I am afraid I shall have to fall to be a\nworking man.'\n\n'Fall to be a working man?' echoed Mr. Godall.  'Suppose a rural dean to\nbe unfrocked, does he fall to be a major? suppose a captain were\ncashiered, would he fall to be a puisne judge?  The ignorance of your\nmiddle class surprises me.  Outside itself, it thinks the world to lie\nquite ignorant and equal, sunk in a common degradation; but to the eye of\nthe observer, all ranks are seen to stand in ordered hierarchies, and\neach adorned with its particular aptitudes and knowledge.  By the defects\nof your education you are more disqualified to be a working man than to\nbe the ruler of an empire.  The gulf, sir, is below; and the true learned\narts--those which alone are safe from the competition of insurgent\nlaymen--are those which give his title to the artisan.'\n\n'This is a very pompous fellow,' said Challoner, in the ear of his\ncompanion.\n\n'He is immense,' said Somerset.\n\nJust then the door of the divan was opened, and a third young fellow made\nhis appearance, and rather bashfully requested some tobacco.  He was\nyounger than the others; and, in a somewhat meaningless and altogether\nEnglish way, he was a handsome lad.  When he had been served, and had\nlighted his pipe and taken his place upon the sofa, he recalled himself\nto Challoner by the name of Desborough.\n\n'Desborough, to be sure,' cried Challoner.  'Well, Desborough, and what\ndo you do?'\n\n'The fact is,' said Desborough, 'that I am doing nothing.'\n\n'A private fortune possibly?' inquired the other.\n\n'Well, no,' replied Desborough, rather sulkily.  'The fact is that I am\nwaiting for something to turn up.'\n\n'All in the same boat!' cried Somerset.  'And have you, too, one hundred\npounds?'\n\n'Worse luck,' said Mr. Desborough.\n\n'This is a very pathetic sight, Mr. Godall,' said Somerset: 'Three\nfutiles.'\n\n'A character of this crowded age,' returned the salesman.\n\n'Sir,' said Somerset, 'I deny that the age is crowded; I will admit one\nfact, and one fact only: that I am futile, that he is futile, and that we\nare all three as futile as the devil.  What am I?  I have smattered law,\nsmattered letters, smattered geography, smattered mathematics; I have\neven a working knowledge of judicial astrology; and here I stand, all\nLondon roaring by at the street's end, as impotent as any baby.  I have a\nprodigious contempt for my maternal uncle; but without him, it is idle to\ndeny it, I should simply resolve into my elements like an unstable\nmixture.  I begin to perceive that it is necessary to know some one thing\nto the bottom--were it only literature.  And yet, sir, the man of the\nworld is a great feature of this age; he is possessed of an extraordinary\nmass and variety of knowledge; he is everywhere at home; he has seen life\nin all its phases; and it is impossible but that this great habit of\nexistence should bear fruit.  I count myself a man of the world,\naccomplished, _cap-a-pie_.  So do you, Challoner.  And you, Mr.\nDesborough?'\n\n'Oh yes,' returned the young man.\n\n'Well then, Mr. Godall, here we stand, three men of the world, without a\ntrade to cover us, but planted at the strategic centre of the universe\n(for so you will allow me to call Rupert Street), in the midst of the\nchief mass of people, and within ear-shot of the most continuous chink of\nmoney on the surface of the globe.  Sir, as civilised men, what do we do?\nI will show you.  You take in a paper?'\n\n'I take,' said Mr. Godall solemnly, 'the best paper in the world, the\n_Standard_.'\n\n'Good,' resumed Somerset.  'I now hold it in my hand, the voice of the\nworld, a telephone repeating all men's wants.  I open it, and where my\neye first falls--well, no, not Morrison's Pills--but here, sure enough,\nand but a little above, I find the joint that I was seeking; here is the\nweak spot in the armour of society.  Here is a want, a plaint, an offer\nof substantial gratitude: \"_Two hundred Pounds Reward_.--The above reward\nwill be paid to any person giving information as to the identity and\nwhereabouts of a man observed yesterday in the neighbourhood of the Green\nPark.  He was over six feet in height, with shoulders disproportionately\nbroad, close shaved, with black moustaches, and wearing a sealskin\ngreat-coat.\"  There, gentlemen, our fortune, if not made, is founded.'\n\n'Do you then propose, dear boy, that we should turn detectives?' inquired\nChalloner.\n\n'Do I propose it?  No, sir,' cried Somerset.  'It is reason, destiny, the\nplain face of the world, that commands and imposes it.  Here all our\nmerits tell; our manners, habit of the world, powers of conversation,\nvast stores of unconnected knowledge, all that we are and have builds up\nthe character of the complete detective.  It is, in short, the only\nprofession for a gentleman.'\n\n'The proposition is perhaps excessive,' replied Challoner; 'for hitherto\nI own I have regarded it as of all dirty, sneaking, and ungentlemanly\ntrades, the least and lowest.'\n\n'To defend society?' asked Somerset; 'to stake one's life for others? to\nderacinate occult and powerful evil?  I appeal to Mr. Godall.  He, at\nleast, as a philosophic looker-on at life, will spit upon such philistine\nopinions.  He knows that the policeman, as he is called upon continually\nto face greater odds, and that both worse equipped and for a better\ncause, is in form and essence a more noble hero than the soldier.  Do\nyou, by any chance, deceive yourself into supposing that a general would\neither ask or expect, from the best army ever marshalled, and on the most\nmomentous battle-field, the conduct of a common constable at Peckham\nRye?' {9}\n\n'I did not understand we were to join the force,' said Challoner.\n\n'Nor shall we.  These are the hands; but here--here, sir, is the head,'\ncried Somerset.  'Enough; it is decreed.  We shall hunt down this\nmiscreant in the sealskin coat.'\n\n'Suppose that we agreed,' retorted Challoner, 'you have no plan, no\nknowledge; you know not where to seek for a beginning.'\n\n'Challoner!' cried Somerset, 'is it possible that you hold the doctrine\nof Free Will?  And are you devoid of any tincture of philosophy, that you\nshould harp on such exploded fallacies?  Chance, the blind Madonna of the\nPagan, rules this terrestrial bustle; and in Chance I place my sole\nreliance.  Chance has brought us three together; when we next separate\nand go forth our several ways, Chance will continually drag before our\ncareless eyes a thousand eloquent clues, not to this mystery only, but to\nthe countless mysteries by which we live surrounded.  Then comes the part\nof the man of the world, of the detective born and bred.  This clue,\nwhich the whole town beholds without comprehension, swift as a cat, he\nleaps upon it, makes it his, follows it with craft and passion, and from\none trifling circumstance divines a world.'\n\n'Just so,' said Challoner; 'and I am delighted that you should recognise\nthese virtues in yourself.  But in the meanwhile, dear boy, I own myself\nincapable of joining.  I was neither born nor bred as a detective, but as\na placable and very thirsty gentleman; and, for my part, I begin to weary\nfor a drink.  As for clues and adventures, the only adventure that is\never likely to occur to me will be an adventure with a bailiff.'\n\n'Now there is the fallacy,' cried Somerset.  'There I catch the secret of\nyour futility in life.  The world teems and bubbles with adventure; it\nbesieges you along the street: hands waving out of windows, swindlers\ncoming up and swearing they knew you when you were abroad, affable and\ndoubtful people of all sorts and conditions begging and truckling for\nyour notice.  But not you: you turn away, you walk your seedy mill round,\nyou must go the dullest way.  Now here, I beg of you, the next adventure\nthat offers itself, embrace it in with both your arms; whatever it looks,\ngrimy or romantic, grasp it.  I will do the like; the devil is in it, but\nat least we shall have fun; and each in turn we shall narrate the story\nof our fortunes to my philosophic friend of the divan, the great Godall,\nnow hearing me with inward joy.  Come, is it a bargain?  Will you,\nindeed, both promise to welcome every chance that offers, to plunge\nboldly into every opening, and, keeping the eye wary and the head\ncomposed, to study and piece together all that happens?  Come, promise:\nlet me open to you the doors of the great profession of intrigue.'\n\n'It is not much in my way,' said Challoner, 'but, since you make a point\nof it, amen.'\n\n'I don't mind promising,' said Desborough, 'but nothing will happen to\nme.'\n\n'O faithless ones!' cried Somerset.  'But at least I have your promises;\nand Godall, I perceive, is transported with delight.'\n\n'I promise myself at least much pleasure from your various narratives,'\nsaid the salesman, with the customary calm polish of his manner.\n\n'And now, gentlemen,' concluded Somerset, 'let us separate.  I hasten to\nput myself in fortune's way.  Hark how, in this quiet corner, London\nroars like the noise of battle; four million destinies are here\nconcentred; and in the strong panoply of one hundred pounds, payable to\nthe bearer, I am about to plunge into that web.'\n\n\n\n\nCHALLONER'S ADVENTURE\n\n\n_THE SQUIRE OF DAMES_\n\n\nMr. Edward Challoner had set up lodgings in the suburb of Putney, where\nhe enjoyed a parlour and bedroom and the sincere esteem of the people of\nthe house.  To this remote home he found himself, at a very early hour in\nthe morning of the next day, condemned to set forth on foot.  He was a\nyoung man of a portly habit; no lover of the exercises of the body;\nbland, sedentary, patient of delay, a prop of omnibuses.  In happier days\nhe would have chartered a cab; but these luxuries were now denied him;\nand with what courage he could muster he addressed himself to walk.\n\nIt was then the height of the season and the summer; the weather was\nserene and cloudless; and as he paced under the blinded houses and along\nthe vacant streets, the chill of the dawn had fled, and some of the\nwarmth and all the brightness of the July day already shone upon the\ncity.  He walked at first in a profound abstraction, bitterly reviewing\nand repenting his performances at whist; but as he advanced into the\nlabyrinth of the south-west, his ear was gradually mastered by the\nsilence.  Street after street looked down upon his solitary figure, house\nafter house echoed upon his passage with a ghostly jar, shop after shop\ndisplayed its shuttered front and its commercial legend; and meanwhile he\nsteered his course, under day's effulgent dome and through this\nencampment of diurnal sleepers, lonely as a ship.\n\n'Here,' he reflected, 'if I were like my scatter-brained companion, here\nwere indeed the scene where I might look for an adventure.  Here, in\nbroad day, the streets are secret as in the blackest night of January,\nand in the midst of some four million sleepers, solitary as the woods of\nYucatan.  If I but raise my voice I could summon up the number of an\narmy, and yet the grave is not more silent than this city of sleep.'\n\nHe was still following these quaint and serious musings when he came into\na street of more mingled ingredients than was common in the quarter.\nHere, on the one hand, framed in walls and the green tops of trees, were\nseveral of those discreet, _bijou_ residences on which propriety is apt\nto look askance.  Here, too, were many of the brick-fronted barracks of\nthe poor; a plaster cow, perhaps, serving as ensign to a dairy, or a\nticket announcing the business of the mangler.  Before one such house,\nthat stood a little separate among walled gardens, a cat was playing with\na straw, and Challoner paused a moment, looking on this sleek and\nsolitary creature, who seemed an emblem of the neighbouring peace.  With\nthe cessation of the sound of his own steps the silence fell dead; the\nhouse stood smokeless: the blinds down, the whole machinery of life\narrested; and it seemed to Challoner that he should hear the breathing of\nthe sleepers.\n\nAs he so stood, he was startled by a dull and jarring detonation from\nwithin.  This was followed by a monstrous hissing and simmering as from a\nkettle of the bigness of St. Paul's; and at the same time from every\nchink of door and window spirted an ill-smelling vapour.  The cat\ndisappeared with a cry.  Within the lodging-house feet pounded on the\nstairs; the door flew back, emitting clouds of smoke; and two men and an\nelegantly dressed young lady tumbled forth into the street and fled\nwithout a word.  The hissing had already ceased, the smoke was melting in\nthe air, the whole event had come and gone as in a dream, and still\nChalloner was rooted to the spot.  At last his reason and his fear awoke\ntogether, and with the most unwonted energy he fell to running.\n\nLittle by little this first dash relaxed, and presently he had resumed\nhis sober gait and begun to piece together, out of the confused report of\nhis senses, some theory of the occurrence.  But the occasion of the\nsounds and stench that had so suddenly assailed him, and the strange\nconjunction of fugitives whom he had seen to issue from the house, were\nmysteries beyond his plummet.  With an obscure awe he considered them in\nhis mind, continuing, meanwhile, to thread the web of streets, and once\nmore alone in morning sunshine.\n\nIn his first retreat he had entirely wandered; and now, steering vaguely\nwest, it was his luck to light upon an unpretending street, which\npresently widened so as to admit a strip of gardens in the midst.  Here\nwas quite a stir of birds; even at that hour, the shadow of the leaves\nwas grateful; instead of the burnt atmosphere of cities, there was\nsomething brisk and rural in the air; and Challoner paced forward, his\neyes upon the pavement and his mind running upon distant scenes, till he\nwas recalled, upon a sudden, by a wall that blocked his further progress.\nThis street, whose name I have forgotten, is no thoroughfare.\n\nHe was not the first who had wandered there that morning; for as he\nraised his eyes with an agreeable deliberation, they alighted on the\nfigure of a girl, in whom he was struck to recognise the third of the\nincongruous fugitives.  She had run there, seemingly, blindfold; the wall\nhad checked her career: and being entirely wearied, she had sunk upon the\nground beside the garden railings, soiling her dress among the summer\ndust.  Each saw the other in the same instant of time; and she, with one\nwild look, sprang to her feet and began to hurry from the scene.\n\nChalloner was doubly startled to meet once more the heroine of his\nadventure, and to observe the fear with which she shunned him.  Pity and\nalarm, in nearly equal forces, contested the possession of his mind; and\nyet, in spite of both, he saw himself condemned to follow in the lady's\nwake.  He did so gingerly, as fearing to increase her terrors; but, tread\nas lightly as he might, his footfalls eloquently echoed in the empty\nstreet.  Their sound appeared to strike in her some strong emotion; for\nscarce had he begun to follow ere she paused.  A second time she\naddressed herself to flight; and a second time she paused.  Then she\nturned about, and with doubtful steps and the most attractive appearance\nof timidity, drew near to the young man.  He on his side continued to\nadvance with similar signals of distress and bashfulness.  At length,\nwhen they were but some steps apart, he saw her eyes brim over, and she\nreached out both her hands in eloquent appeal.\n\n'Are you an English gentleman?' she cried.\n\nThe unhappy Challoner regarded her with consternation.  He was the spirit\nof fine courtesy, and would have blushed to fail in his devoirs to any\nlady; but, in the other scale, he was a man averse from amorous\nadventures.  He looked east and west; but the houses that looked down\nupon this interview remained inexorably shut; and he saw himself, though\nin the full glare of the day's eye, cut off from any human intervention.\nHis looks returned at last upon the suppliant.  He remarked with\nirritation that she was charming both in face and figure, elegantly\ndressed and gloved; a lady undeniable; the picture of distress and\ninnocence; weeping and lost in the city of diurnal sleep.\n\n'Madam,' he said, 'I protest you have no cause to fear intrusion; and if\nI have appeared to follow you, the fault is in this street, which has\ndeceived us both.'  An unmistakable relief appeared upon the lady's face.\n'I might have guessed it!' she exclaimed.  'Thank you a thousand times!\nBut at this hour, in this appalling silence, and among all these staring\nwindows, I am lost in terrors--oh, lost in them!' she cried, her face\nblanching at the words.  'I beg you to lend me your arm,' she added with\nthe loveliest, suppliant inflection.  'I dare not go alone; my nerve is\ngone--I had a shock, oh, what a shock!  I beg of you to be my escort.'\n\n'My dear madam,' responded Challoner heavily, 'my arm is at your\nservice.'\n\n'She took it and clung to it for a moment, struggling with her sobs; and\nthe next, with feverish hurry, began to lead him in the direction of the\ncity.  One thing was plain, among so much that was obscure: it was plain\nher fears were genuine.  Still, as she went, she spied around as if for\ndangers; and now she would shiver like a person in a chill, and now\nclutch his arm in hers.  To Challoner her terror was at once repugnant\nand infectious; it gained and mastered, while it still offended him; and\nhe wailed in spirit and longed for release.\n\n'Madam,' he said at last, 'I am, of course, charmed to be of use to any\nlady; but I confess I was bound in a direction opposite to that you\nfollow, and a word of explanation--'\n\n'Hush!' she sobbed, 'not here--not here!'\n\nThe blood of Challoner ran cold.  He might have thought the lady mad; but\nhis memory was charged with more perilous stuff; and in view of the\ndetonation, the smoke and the flight of the ill-assorted trio, his mind\nwas lost among mysteries.  So they continued to thread the maze of\nstreets in silence, with the speed of a guilty flight, and both thrilling\nwith incommunicable terrors.  In time, however, and above all by their\nquick pace of walking, the pair began to rise to firmer spirits; the lady\nceased to peer about the corners; and Challoner, emboldened by the\nresonant tread and distant figure of a constable, returned to the charge\nwith more of spirit and directness.\n\n'I thought,' said he, in the tone of conversation, 'that I had\nindistinctly perceived you leaving a villa in the company of two\ngentlemen.'\n\n'Oh!' she said, 'you need not fear to wound me by the truth.  You saw me\nflee from a common lodging-house, and my companions were not gentlemen.\nIn such a case, the best of compliments is to be frank.'\n\n'I thought,' resumed Challoner, encouraged as much as he was surprised by\nthe spirit of her reply, 'to have perceived, besides, a certain odour.  A\nnoise, too--I do not know to what I should compare it--'\n\n'Silence!' she cried.  'You do not know the danger you invoke.  Wait,\nonly wait; and as soon as we have left those streets, and got beyond the\nreach of listeners, all shall be explained.  Meanwhile, avoid the topic.\nWhat a sight is this sleeping city!' she exclaimed; and then, with a most\nthrilling voice, '\"Dear God,\" she quoted, \"the very houses seem asleep,\nand all that mighty heart is lying still.\"'\n\n'I perceive, madam,' said he, 'you are a reader.'\n\n'I am more than that,' she answered, with a sigh.  'I am a girl condemned\nto thoughts beyond her age; and so untoward is my fate, that this walk\nupon the arm of a stranger is like an interlude of peace.'\n\nThey had come by this time to the neighbourhood of the Victoria Station\nand here, at a street corner, the young lady paused, withdrew her arm\nfrom Challoner's, and looked up and down as though in pain or indecision.\nThen, with a lovely change of countenance, and laying her gloved hand\nupon his arm--\n\n'What you already think of me,' she said, 'I tremble to conceive; yet I\nmust here condemn myself still further.  Here I must leave you, and here\nI beseech you to wait for my return.  Do not attempt to follow me or spy\nupon my actions.  Suspend yet awhile your judgment of a girl as innocent\nas your own sister; and do not, above all, desert me.  Stranger as you\nare, I have none else to look to.  You see me in sorrow and great fear;\nyou are a gentleman, courteous and kind: and when I beg for a few\nminutes' patience, I make sure beforehand you will not deny me.'\n\nChalloner grudgingly promised; and the young lady, with a grateful\neye-shot, vanished round the corner.  But the force of her appeal had\nbeen a little blunted; for the young man was not only destitute of\nsisters, but of any female relative nearer than a great-aunt in Wales.\nNow he was alone, besides, the spell that he had hitherto obeyed began to\nweaken; he considered his behaviour with a sneer; and plucking up the\nspirit of revolt, he started in pursuit.  The reader, if he has ever\nplied the fascinating trade of the noctambulist, will not be unaware\nthat, in the neighbourhood of the great railway centres, certain early\ntaverns inaugurate the business of the day.  It was into one of these\nthat Challoner, coming round the corner of the block, beheld his charming\ncompanion disappear.  To say he was surprised were inexact, for he had\nlong since left that sentiment behind him.  Acute disgust and\ndisappointment seized upon his soul; and with silent oaths, he damned\nthis commonplace enchantress.  She had scarce been gone a second, ere the\nswing-doors reopened, and she appeared again in company with a young man\nof mean and slouching attire.  For some five or six exchanges they\nconversed together with an animated air; then the fellow shouldered again\ninto the tap; and the young lady, with something swifter than a walk,\nretraced her steps towards Challoner.  He saw her coming, a miracle of\ngrace; her ankle, as she hurried, flashing from her dress; her movements\neloquent of speed and youth; and though he still entertained some\nthoughts of flight, they grew miserably fainter as the distance lessened.\nAgainst mere beauty he was proof: it was her unmistakable gentility that\nnow robbed him of the courage of his cowardice.  With a proved\nadventuress he had acted strictly on his right; with one who, in spite of\nall, he could not quite deny to be a lady, he found himself disarmed.  At\nthe very corner from whence he had spied upon her interview, she came\nupon him, still transfixed, and--'Ah!' she cried, with a bright flush of\ncolour.  'Ah!  Ungenerous!'\n\nThe sharpness of the attack somewhat restored the Squire of Dames to the\npossession of himself.\n\n'Madam,' he returned, with a fair show of stoutness, 'I do not think that\nhitherto you can complain of any lack of generosity; I have suffered\nmyself to be led over a considerable portion of the metropolis; and if I\nnow request you to discharge me of my office of protector, you have\nfriends at hand who will be glad of the succession.'\n\nShe stood a moment dumb.\n\n'It is well,' she said.  'Go! go, and may God help me!  You have seen\nme--me, an innocent girl! fleeing from a dire catastrophe and haunted by\nsinister men; and neither pity, curiosity, nor honour move you to await\nmy explanation or to help in my distress.  Go!' she repeated.  'I am lost\nindeed.'  And with a passionate gesture she turned and fled along the\nstreet.\n\nChalloner observed her retreat and disappear, an almost intolerable sense\nof guilt contending with the profound sense that he was being gulled.\nShe was no sooner gone than the first of these feelings took the upper\nhand; he felt, if he had done her less than justice, that his conduct was\na perfect model of the ungracious; the cultured tone of her voice, her\nchoice of language, and the elegant decorum of her movements, cried out\naloud against a harsh construction; and between penitence and curiosity\nhe began slowly to follow in her wake.  At the corner he had her once\nmore full in view.  Her speed was failing like a stricken bird's.  Even\nas he looked, she threw her arm out gropingly, and fell and leaned\nagainst the wall.  At the spectacle, Challoner's fortitude gave way.  In\na few strides he overtook her and, for the first time removing his hat,\nassured her in the most moving terms of his entire respect and firm\ndesire to help her.  He spoke at first unheeded; but gradually it\nappeared that she began to comprehend his words; she moved a little, and\ndrew herself upright; and finally, as with a sudden movement of\nforgiveness, turned on the young man a countenance in which reproach and\ngratitude were mingled.  'Ah, madam,' he cried, 'use me as you will!'\nAnd once more, but now with a great air of deference, he offered her the\nconduct of his arm.  She took it with a sigh that struck him to the\nheart; and they began once more to trace the deserted streets.  But now\nher steps, as though exhausted by emotion, began to linger on the way;\nshe leaned the more heavily upon his arm; and he, like the parent bird,\nstooped fondly above his drooping convoy.  Her physical distress was not\naccompanied by any failing of her spirits; and hearing her strike so soon\ninto a playful and charming vein of talk, Challoner could not\nsufficiently admire the elasticity of his companion's nature.  'Let me\nforget,' she had said, 'for one half hour, let me forget;' and sure\nenough, with the very word, her sorrows appeared to be forgotten.  Before\nevery house she paused, invented a name for the proprietor, and sketched\nhis character: here lived the old general whom she was to marry on the\nfifth of the next month, there was the mansion of the rich widow who had\nset her heart on Challoner; and though she still hung wearily on the\nyoung man's arm, her laughter sounded low and pleasant in his ears.\n'Ah,' she sighed, by way of commentary, 'in such a life as mine I must\nseize tight hold of any happiness that I can find.'\n\nWhen they arrived, in this leisurely manner, at the head of Grosvenor\nPlace, the gates of the park were opening and the bedraggled company of\nnight-walkers were being at last admitted into that paradise of lawns.\nChalloner and his companion followed the movement, and walked for awhile\nin silence in that tatterdemalion crowd; but as one after another, weary\nwith the night's patrolling of the city pavement, sank upon the benches\nor wandered into separate paths, the vast extent of the park had soon\nutterly swallowed up the last of these intruders; and the pair proceeded\non their way alone in the grateful quiet of the morning.\n\nPresently they came in sight of a bench, standing very open on a mound of\nturf.  The young lady looked about her with relief.\n\n'Here,' she said, 'here at last we are secure from listeners.  Here,\nthen, you shall learn and judge my history.  I could not bear that we\nshould part, and that you should still suppose your kindness squandered\nupon one who was unworthy.'\n\nThereupon she sat down upon the bench, and motioning Challoner to take a\nplace immediately beside her, began in the following words, and with the\ngreatest appearance of enjoyment, to narrate the story of her life.\n\n\n\n_STORY OF THE DESTROYING ANGEL_\n\n\nMy father was a native of England, son of a cadet of a great, ancient,\nbut untitled family; and by some event, fault or misfortune, he was\ndriven to flee from the land of his birth and to lay aside the name of\nhis ancestors.  He sought the States; and instead of lingering in\neffeminate cities, pushed at once into the far West with an exploring\nparty of frontiersmen.  He was no ordinary traveller; for he was not only\nbrave and impetuous by character, but learned in many sciences, and above\nall in botany, which he particularly loved.  Thus it fell that, before\nmany months, Fremont himself, the nominal leader of the troop, courted\nand bowed to his opinion.\n\nThey had pushed, as I have said, into the still unknown regions of the\nWest.  For some time they followed the track of Mormon caravans, guiding\nthemselves in that vast and melancholy desert by the skeletons of men and\nanimals.  Then they inclined their route a little to the north, and,\nlosing even these dire memorials, came into a country of forbidding\nstillness.\n\nI have often heard my father dwell upon the features of that ride: rock,\ncliff, and barren moor alternated; the streams were very far between; and\nneither beast nor bird disturbed the solitude.  On the fortieth day they\nhad already run so short of food that it was judged advisable to call a\nhalt and scatter upon all sides to hunt.  A great fire was built, that\nits smoke might serve to rally them; and each man of the party mounted\nand struck off at a venture into the surrounding desert.\n\nMy father rode for many hours with a steep range of cliffs upon the one\nhand, very black and horrible; and upon the other an unwatered vale\ndotted with boulders like the site of some subverted city.  At length he\nfound the slot of a great animal, and from the claw-marks and the hair\namong the brush, judged that he was on the track of a cinnamon bear of\nmost unusual size.  He quickened the pace of his steed, and still\nfollowing the quarry, came at last to the division of two watersheds.  On\nthe far side the country was exceeding intricate and difficult, heaped\nwith boulders, and dotted here and there with a few pines, which seemed\nto indicate the neighbourhood of water.  Here, then, he picketed his\nhorse, and relying on his trusty rifle, advanced alone into that\nwilderness.\n\nPresently, in the great silence that reigned, he was aware of the sound\nof running water to his right; and leaning in that direction, was\nrewarded by a scene of natural wonder and human pathos strangely\nintermixed.  The stream ran at the bottom of a narrow and winding\npassage, whose wall-like sides of rock were sometimes for miles together\nunscalable by man.  The water, when the stream was swelled with rains,\nmust have filled it from side to side; the sun's rays only plumbed it in\nthe hour of noon; the wind, in that narrow and damp funnel, blew\ntempestuously.  And yet, in the bottom of this den, immediately below my\nfather's eyes as he leaned over the margin of the cliff, a party of some\nhalf a hundred men, women, and children lay scattered uneasily among the\nrocks.  They lay some upon their backs, some prone, and not one stirring;\ntheir upturned faces seemed all of an extraordinary paleness and\nemaciation; and from time to time, above the washing of the stream, a\nfaint sound of moaning mounted to my father's ears.\n\nWhile he thus looked, an old man got staggering to his feet, unwound his\nblanket, and laid it, with great gentleness, on a young girl who sat hard\nby propped against a rock.  The girl did not seem to be conscious of the\nact; and the old man, after having looked upon her with the most engaging\npity, returned to his former bed and lay down again uncovered on the\nturf.  But the scene had not passed without observation even in that\nstarving camp.  From the very outskirts of the party, a man with a white\nbeard and seemingly of venerable years, rose upon his knees, and came\ncrawling stealthily among the sleepers towards the girl; and judge of my\nfather's indignation, when he beheld this cowardly miscreant strip from\nher both the coverings and return with them to his original position.\nHere he lay down for a while below his spoils, and, as my father\nimagined, feigned to be asleep; but presently he had raised himself again\nupon one elbow, looked with sharp scrutiny at his companions, and then\nswiftly carried his hand into his bosom and thence to his mouth.  By the\nmovement of his jaws he must be eating; in that camp of famine he had\nreserved a store of nourishment; and while his companions lay in the\nstupor of approaching death, secretly restored his powers.\n\nMy father was so incensed at what he saw that he raised his rifle; and\nbut for an accident, he has often declared, he would have shot the fellow\ndead upon the spot.  How different would then have been my history!  But\nit was not to be: even as he raised the barrel, his eye lighted on the\nbear, as it crawled along a ledge some way below him; and ceding to the\nhunters instinct, it was at the brute, not at the man, that he discharged\nhis piece.  The bear leaped and fell into a pool of the river; the canyon\nre-echoed the report; and in a moment the camp was afoot.  With cries\nthat were scarce human, stumbling, falling and throwing each other down,\nthese starving people rushed upon the quarry; and before my father,\nclimbing down by the ledge, had time to reach the level of the stream,\nmany were already satisfying their hunger on the raw flesh, and a fire\nwas being built by the more dainty.\n\nHis arrival was for some time unremarked.  He stood in the midst of these\ntottering and clay-faced marionettes; he was surrounded by their cries;\nbut their whole soul was fixed on the dead carcass; even those who were\ntoo weak to move, lay, half-turned over, with their eyes riveted upon the\nbear; and my father, seeing himself stand as though invisible in the\nthick of this dreary hubbub, was seized with a desire to weep.  A touch\nupon the arm restrained him.  Turning about, he found himself face to\nface with the old man he had so nearly killed; and yet, at the second\nglance, recognised him for no old man at all, but one in the full\nstrength of his years, and of a strong, speaking, and intellectual\ncountenance stigmatised by weariness and famine.  He beckoned my father\nnear the cliff, and there, in the most private whisper, begged for\nbrandy.  My father looked at him with scorn: 'You remind me,' he said,\n'of a neglected duty.  Here is my flask; it contains enough, I trust, to\nrevive the women of your party; and I will begin with her whom I saw you\nrobbing of her blankets.'  And with that, not heeding his appeals, my\nfather turned his back upon the egoist.\n\nThe girl still lay reclined against the rock; she lay too far sunk in the\nfirst stage of death to have observed the bustle round her couch; but\nwhen my father had raised her head, put the flask to her lips, and forced\nor aided her to swallow some drops of the restorative, she opened her\nlanguid eyes and smiled upon him faintly.  Never was there a smile of a\nmore touching sweetness; never were eyes more deeply violet, more\nhonestly eloquent of the soul!  I speak with knowledge, for these were\nthe same eyes that smiled upon me in the cradle.  From her who was to be\nhis wife, my father, still jealously watched and followed by the man with\nthe grey beard, carried his attentions to all the women of the party, and\ngave the last drainings of his flask to those among the men who seemed in\nthe most need.\n\n'Is there none left? not a drop for me?' said the man with the beard.\n\n'Not one drop,' replied my father; 'and if you find yourself in want, let\nme counsel you to put your hand into the pocket of your coat.'\n\n'Ah!' cried the other, 'you misjudge me.  You think me one who clings to\nlife for selfish and commonplace considerations.  But let me tell you,\nthat were all this caravan to perish, the world would but be lightened of\na weight.  These are but human insects, pullulating, thick as May-flies,\nin the slums of European cities, whom I myself have plucked from\ndegradation and misery, from the dung-heap and gin-palace door.  And you\ncompare their lives with mine!'\n\n'You are then a Mormon missionary?' asked my father.\n\n'Oh!' cried the man, with a strange smile, 'a Mormon missionary if you\nwill!  I value not the title.  Were I no more than that, I could have\ndied without a murmur.  But with my life as a physician is bound up the\nknowledge of great secrets and the future of man.  This it was, when we\nmissed the caravan, tried for a short cut and wandered to this desolate\nravine, that ate into my soul, and, in five days, has changed my beard\nfrom ebony to silver.'\n\n'And you are a physician,' mused my father, looking on his face, 'bound\nby oath to succour man in his distresses.'\n\n'Sir,' returned the Mormon, 'my name is Grierson: you will hear that name\nagain; and you will then understand that my duty was not to this caravan\nof paupers, but to mankind at large.'\n\nMy father turned to the remainder of the party, who were now sufficiently\nrevived to hear; told them that he would set off at once to bring help\nfrom his own party; 'and,' he added, 'if you be again reduced to such\nextremities, look round you, and you will see the earth strewn with\nassistance.  Here, for instance, growing on the under side of fissures in\nthis cliff, you will perceive a yellow moss.  Trust me, it is both edible\nand excellent.'\n\n'Ha!' said Doctor Grierson, 'you know botany!'\n\n'Not I alone,' returned my father, lowering his voice; 'for see where\nthese have been scraped away.  Am I right?  Was that your secret store?'\n\nMy father's comrades, he found, when he returned to the signal-fire, had\nmade a good day's hunting.  They were thus the more easily persuaded to\nextend assistance to the Mormon caravan; and the next day beheld both\nparties on the march for the frontiers of Utah.  The distance to be\ntraversed was not great; but the nature of the country, and the\ndifficulty of procuring food, extended the time to nearly three weeks;\nand my father had thus ample leisure to know and appreciate the girl whom\nhe had succoured.  I will call my mother Lucy.  Her family name I am not\nat liberty to mention; it is one you would know well.  By what series of\nundeserved calamities this innocent flower of maidenhood, lovely, refined\nby education, ennobled by the finest taste, was thus cast among the\nhorrors of a Mormon caravan, I must not stay to tell you.  Let it\nsuffice, that even in these untoward circumstances, she found a heart\nworthy of her own.  The ardour of attachment which united my father and\nmother was perhaps partly due to the strange manner of their meeting; it\nknew, at least, no bounds either divine or human; my father, for her\nsake, determined to renounce his ambitions and abjure his faith; and a\nweek had not yet passed upon the march before he had resigned from his\nparty, accepted the Mormon doctrine, and received the promise of my\nmother's hand on the arrival of the party at Salt Lake.\n\nThe marriage took place, and I was its only offspring.  My father\nprospered exceedingly in his affairs, remained faithful to my mother; and\nthough you may wonder to hear it, I believe there were few happier homes\nin any country than that in which I saw the light and grew to girlhood.\nWe were, indeed, and in spite of all our wealth, avoided as heretics and\nhalf-believers by the more precise and pious of the faithful: Young\nhimself, that formidable tyrant, was known to look askance upon my\nfather's riches; but of this I had no guess.  I dwelt, indeed, under the\nMormon system, with perfect innocence and faith.  Some of our friends had\nmany wives; but such was the custom; and why should it surprise me more\nthan marriage itself?  From time to time one of our rich acquaintances\nwould disappear, his family be broken up, his wives and houses shared\namong the elders of the Church, and his memory only recalled with bated\nbreath and dreadful headshakings.  When I had been very still, and my\npresence perhaps was forgotten, some such topic would arise among my\nelders by the evening fire; I would see them draw the closer together and\nlook behind them with scared eyes; and I might gather from their\nwhisperings how some one, rich, honoured, healthy, and in the prime of\nhis days, some one, perhaps, who had taken me on his knees a week before,\nhad in one hour been spirited from home and family, and vanished like an\nimage from a mirror, leaving not a print behind.  It was terrible,\nindeed; but so was death, the universal law.  And even if the talk should\nwax still bolder, full of ominous silences and nods, and I should hear\nnamed in a whisper the Destroying Angels, how was a child to understand\nthese mysteries?  I heard of a Destroying Angel as some more happy child\nmight hear in England of a bishop or a rural dean, with vague respect and\nwithout the wish for further information.  Life anywhere, in society as\nin nature, rests upon dread foundations; I beheld safe roads, a garden\nblooming in the desert, pious people crowding to worship; I was aware of\nmy parents' tenderness and all the harmless luxuries of my existence; and\nwhy should I pry beneath this honest seeming surface for the mysteries on\nwhich it stood?\n\nWe dwelt originally in the city; but at an early date we moved to a\nbeautiful house in a green dingle, musical with splashing water, and\nsurrounded on almost every side by twenty miles of poisonous and rocky\ndesert.  The city was thirty miles away; there was but one road, which\nwent no further than my father's door; the rest were bridle-tracks\nimpassable in winter; and we thus dwelt in a solitude inconceivable to\nthe European.  Our only neighbour was Dr. Grierson.  To my young eyes,\nafter the hair-oiled, chin-bearded elders of the city, and the\nill-favoured and mentally stunted women of their harems, there was\nsomething agreeable in the correct manner, the fine bearing, the thin\nwhite hair and beard, and the piercing looks of the old doctor.  Yet,\nthough he was almost our only visitor, I never wholly overcame a sense of\nfear in his presence; and this disquietude was rather fed by the awful\nsolitude in which he lived and the obscurity that hung about his\noccupations.  His house was but a mile or two from ours, but very\ndifferently placed.  It stood overlooking the road on the summit of a\nsteep slope, and planted close against a range of overhanging bluffs.\nNature, you would say, had here desired to imitate the works of man; for\nthe slope was even, like the glacis of a fort, and the cliffs of a\nconstant height, like the ramparts of a city.  Not even spring could\nchange one feature of that desolate scene; and the windows looked down\nacross a plain, snowy with alkali, to ranges of cold stone sierras on the\nnorth.  Twice or thrice I remember passing within view of this forbidding\nresidence; and seeing it always shuttered, smokeless, and deserted, I\nremarked to my parents that some day it would certainly be robbed.\n\n'Ah, no,' said my father, 'never robbed;' and I observed a strange\nconviction in his tone.\n\nAt last, and not long before the blow fell on my unhappy family, I\nchanced to see the doctor's house in a new light.  My father was ill; my\nmother confined to his bedside; and I was suffered to go, under the\ncharge of our driver, to the lonely house some twenty miles away, where\nour packages were left for us.  The horse cast a shoe; night overtook us\nhalfway home; and it was well on for three in the morning when the driver\nand I, alone in a light waggon, came to that part of the road which ran\nbelow the doctor's house.  The moon swam clear; the cliffs and mountains\nin this strong light lay utterly deserted; but the house, from its\nstation on the top of the long slope and close under the bluff, not only\nshone abroad from every window like a place of festival, but from the\ngreat chimney at the west end poured forth a coil of smoke so thick and\nso voluminous, that it hung for miles along the windless night air, and\nits shadow lay far abroad in the moonlight upon the glittering alkali.\nAs we continued to draw near, besides, a regular and panting throb began\nto divide the silence.  First it seemed to me like the beating of a\nheart; and next it put into my mind the thought of some giant, smothered\nunder mountains and still, with incalculable effort, fetching breath.  I\nhad heard of the railway, though I had not seen it, and I turned to ask\nthe driver if this resembled it.  But some look in his eye, some pallor,\nwhether of fear or moonlight on his face, caused the words to die upon my\nlips.  We continued, therefore, to advance in silence, till we were close\nbelow the lighted house; when suddenly, without one premonitory rustle,\nthere burst forth a report of such a bigness that it shook the earth and\nset the echoes of the mountains thundering from cliff to cliff.  A pillar\nof amber flame leaped from the chimney-top and fell in multitudes of\nsparks; and at the same time the lights in the windows turned for one\ninstant ruby red and then expired.  The driver had checked his horse\ninstinctively, and the echoes were still rumbling farther off among the\nmountains, when there broke from the now darkened interior a series of\nyells--whether of man or woman it was impossible to guess--the door flew\nopen, and there ran forth into the moonlight, at the top of the long\nslope, a figure clad in white, which began to dance and leap and throw\nitself down, and roll as if in agony, before the house.  I could no more\nrestrain my cries; the driver laid his lash about the horse's flank, and\nwe fled up the rough track at the peril of our lives; and did not draw\nrein till, turning the corner of the mountain, we beheld my father's\nranch and deep, green groves and gardens, sleeping in the tranquil light.\n\nThis was the one adventure of my life, until my father had climbed to the\nvery topmost point of material prosperity, and I myself had reached the\nage of seventeen.  I was still innocent and merry like a child; tended my\ngarden or ran upon the hills in glad simplicity; gave not a thought to\ncoquetry or to material cares; and if my eye rested on my own image in a\nmirror or some sylvan spring, it was to seek and recognise the features\nof my parents.  But the fears which had long pressed on others were now\nto be laid on my youth.  I had thrown myself, one sultry, cloudy\nafternoon, on a divan; the windows stood open on the verandah, where my\nmother sat with her embroidery; and when my father joined her from the\ngarden, their conversation, clearly audible to me, was of so startling a\nnature that it held me enthralled where I lay.\n\n'The blow has come,' my father said, after a long pause.\n\nI could hear my mother start and turn, but in words she made no reply.\n\n'Yes,' continued my father, 'I have received to-day a list of all that I\npossess; of all, I say; of what I have lent privately to men whose lips\nare sealed with terror; of what I have buried with my own hand on the\nbare mountain, when there was not a bird in heaven.  Does the air, then,\ncarry secrets?  Are the hills of glass?  Do the stones we tread upon\npreserve the footprint to betray us?  Oh, Lucy, Lucy, that we should have\ncome to such a country!'\n\n'But this,' returned my mother, 'is no very new or very threatening\nevent.  You are accused of some concealment.  You will pay more taxes in\nthe future, and be mulcted in a fine.  It is disquieting, indeed, to find\nour acts so spied upon, and the most private known.  But is this new?\nHave we not long feared and suspected every blade of grass?'\n\n'Ay, and our shadows!' cried my father.  'But all this is nothing.  Here\nis the letter that accompanied the list.'\n\nI heard my mother turn the pages, and she was some time silent.\n\n'I see,' she said at last; and then, with the tone of one reading: '\"From\na believer so largely blessed by Providence with this world's goods,\"'\nshe continued, '\"the Church awaits in confidence some signal mark of\npiety.\"  There lies the sting.  Am I not right?  These are the words you\nfear?'\n\n'These are the words,' replied my father.  'Lucy, you remember Priestley?\nTwo days before he disappeared, he carried me to the summit of an\nisolated butte; we could see around us for ten miles; sure, if in any\nquarter of this land a man were safe from spies, it were in such a\nstation; but it was in the very ague-fit of terror that he told me, and\nthat I heard, his story.  He had received a letter such as this; and he\nsubmitted to my approval an answer, in which he offered to resign a third\nof his possessions.  I conjured him, as he valued life, to raise his\noffering; and, before we parted, he had doubled the amount.  Well, two\ndays later he was gone--gone from the chief street of the city in the\nhour of noon--and gone for ever.  O God!' cried my father, 'by what art\ndo they thus spirit out of life the solid body?  What death do they\ncommand that leaves no traces? that this material structure, these strong\narms, this skeleton that can resist the grave for centuries, should be\nthus reft in a moment from the world of sense?  A horror dwells in that\nthought more awful than mere death.'\n\n'Is there no hope in Grierson?' asked my mother.\n\n'Dismiss the thought,' replied my father.  'He now knows all that I can\nteach, and will do naught to save me.  His power, besides, is small, his\nown danger not improbably more imminent than mine; for he, too, lives\napart; he leaves his wives neglected and unwatched; he is openly cited\nfor an unbeliever; and unless he buys security at a more awful price--but\nno; I will not believe it: I have no love for him, but I will not believe\nit.'\n\n'Believe what?' asked my mother; and then, with a change of note, 'But\noh, what matters it?' she cried.  'Abimelech, there is but one way open:\nwe must fly!'\n\n'It is in vain,' returned my father.  'I should but involve you in my\nfate.  To leave this land is hopeless: we are closed in it as men are\nclosed in life; and there is no issue but the grave.'\n\n'We can but die then,' replied my mother.  'Let us at least die together.\nLet not Asenath {43} and myself survive you.  Think to what a fate we\nshould be doomed!'\n\nMy father was unable to resist her tender violence; and though I could\nsee he nourished not one spark of hope, he consented to desert his whole\nestate, beyond some hundreds of dollars that he had by him at the moment,\nand to flee that night, which promised to be dark and cloudy.  As soon as\nthe servants were asleep, he was to load two mules with provisions; two\nothers were to carry my mother and myself; and, striking through the\nmountains by an unfrequented trail, we were to make a fair stroke for\nliberty and life.  As soon as they had thus decided, I showed myself at\nthe window, and, owning that I had heard all, assured them that they\ncould rely on my prudence and devotion.  I had no fear, indeed, but to\nshow myself unworthy of my birth; I held my life in my hand without\nalarm; and when my father, weeping upon my neck, had blessed Heaven for\nthe courage of his child, it was with a sentiment of pride and some of\nthe joy that warriors take in war, that I began to look forward to the\nperils of our flight.\n\nBefore midnight, under an obscure and starless heaven, we had left far\nbehind us the plantations of the valley, and were mounting a certain\ncanyon in the hills, narrow, encumbered with great rocks, and echoing\nwith the roar of a tumultuous torrent.  Cascade after cascade thundered\nand hung up its flag of whiteness in the night, or fanned our faces with\nthe wet wind of its descent.  The trail was breakneck, and led to\nfamine-guarded deserts; it had been long since deserted for more\npracticable routes; and it was now a part of the world untrod from year\nto year by human footing. Judge of our dismay, when turning suddenly an\nangle of the cliffs, we found a bright bonfire blazing by itself under an\nimpending rock; and on the face of the rock, drawn very rudely with\ncharred wood, the great Open Eye which is the emblem of the Mormon faith.\nWe looked upon each other in the firelight; my mother broke into a\npassion of tears; but not a word was said.  The mules were turned about;\nand leaving that great eye to guard the lonely canyon, we retraced our\nsteps in silence.  Day had not yet broken ere we were once more at home,\ncondemned beyond reprieve.\n\nWhat answer my father sent I was not told; but two days later, a little\nbefore sundown, I saw a plain, honest-looking man ride slowly up the road\nin a great pother of dust.  He was clad in homespun, with a broad straw\nhat; wore a patriarchal beard; and had an air of a simple rustic farmer,\nthat was, in my eyes, very reassuring.  He was, indeed, a very honest man\nand pious Mormon; with no liking for his errand, though neither he nor\nany one in Utah dared to disobey; and it was with every mark of\ndiffidence that he had had himself announced as Mr. Aspinwall, and\nentered the room where our unhappy family was gathered.  My mother and\nme, he awkwardly enough dismissed; and as soon as he was alone with my\nfather laid before him a blank signature of President Young's, and\noffered him a choice of services: either to set out as a missionary to\nthe tribes about the White Sea, or to join the next day, with a party of\nDestroying Angels, in the massacre of sixty German immigrants.  The last,\nof course, my father could not entertain, and the first he regarded as a\npretext: even if he could consent to leave his wife defenceless, and to\ncollect fresh victims for the tyranny under which he was himself\noppressed, he felt sure he would never be suffered to return.  He refused\nboth; and Aspinwall, he said, betrayed sincere emotion, part religious,\nat the spectacle of such disobedience, but part human, in pity for my\nfather and his family.  He besought him to reconsider his decision; and\nat length, finding he could not prevail, gave him till the moon rose to\nsettle his affairs, and say farewell to wife and daughter.  'For,' said\nhe, 'then, at the latest, you must ride with me.'\n\nI dare not dwell upon the hours that followed: they fled all too fast;\nand presently the moon out-topped the eastern range, and my father and\nMr. Aspinwall set forth, side by side, on their nocturnal journey.  My\nmother, though still bearing an heroic countenance, had hastened to shut\nherself in her apartment, thenceforward solitary; and I, alone in the\ndark house, and consumed by grief and apprehension, made haste to saddle\nmy Indian pony, to ride up to the corner of the mountain, and to enjoy\none farewell sight of my departing father.  The two men had set forth at\na deliberate pace; nor was I long behind them, when I reached the point\nof view.  I was the more amazed to see no moving creature in the\nlandscape.  The moon, as the saying is, shone bright as day; and nowhere,\nunder the whole arch of night, was there a growing tree, a bush, a farm,\na patch of tillage, or any evidence of man, but one.  From the corner\nwhere I stood, a rugged bastion of the line of bluffs concealed the\ndoctor's house; and across the top of that projection the soft night wind\ncarried and unwound about the hills a coil of sable smoke.  What fuel\ncould produce a vapour so sluggish to dissipate in that dry air, or what\nfurnace pour it forth so copiously, I was unable to conceive; but I knew\nwell enough that it came from the doctor's chimney; I saw well enough\nthat my father had already disappeared; and in despite of reason, I\nconnected in my mind the loss of that dear protector with the ribbon of\nfoul smoke that trailed along the mountains.\n\nDays passed, and still my mother and I waited in vain for news; a week\nwent by, a second followed, but we heard no word of the father and\nhusband.  As smoke dissipates, as the image glides from the mirror, so in\nthe ten or twenty minutes that I had spent in getting my horse and\nfollowing upon his trail, had that strong and brave man vanished out of\nlife.  Hope, if any hope we had, fled with every hour; the worst was now\ncertain for my father, the worst was to be dreaded for his defenceless\nfamily.  Without weakness, with a desperate calm at which I marvel when I\nlook back upon it, the widow and the orphan awaited the event.  On the\nlast day of the third week we rose in the morning to find ourselves alone\nin the house, alone, so far as we searched, on the estate; all our\nattendants, with one accord, had fled: and as we knew them to be\ngratefully devoted, we drew the darkest intimations from their flight.\nThe day passed, indeed, without event; but in the fall of the evening we\nwere called at last into the verandah by the approaching clink of horse's\nhoofs.\n\nThe doctor, mounted on an Indian pony, rode into the garden, dismounted,\nand saluted us.  He seemed much more bent, and his hair more silvery than\never; but his demeanour was composed, serious, and not unkind.\n\n'Madam,' said he, 'I am come upon a weighty errand; and I would have you\nrecognise it as an effect of kindness in the President, that he should\nsend as his ambassador your only neighbour and your husband's oldest\nfriend in Utah.'\n\n'Sir,' said my mother, 'I have but one concern, one thought.  You know\nwell what it is.  Speak: my husband?'\n\n'Madam,' returned the doctor, taking a chair on the verandah, 'if you\nwere a silly child, my position would now be painfully embarrassing.  You\nare, on the other hand, a woman of great intelligence and fortitude: you\nhave, by my forethought, been allowed three weeks to draw your own\nconclusions and to accept the inevitable.  Farther words from me are, I\nconceive, superfluous.'\n\nMy mother was as pale as death, and trembled like a reed; I gave her my\nhand, and she kept it in the folds of her dress and wrung it till I could\nhave cried aloud.  'Then, sir,' said she at last, 'you speak to deaf\nears.  If this be indeed so, what have I to do with errands?  What do I\nask of Heaven but to die?'\n\n'Come,' said the doctor, 'command yourself.  I bid you dismiss all\nthoughts of your late husband, and bring a clear mind to bear upon your\nown future and the fate of that young girl.'\n\n'You bid me dismiss--' began my mother.  'Then you know!' she cried.\n\n'I know,' replied the doctor.\n\n'You know?' broke out the poor woman.  'Then it was you who did the deed!\nI tear off the mask, and with dread and loathing see you as you are--you,\nwhom the poor fugitive beholds in nightmares, and awakes raving--you, the\nDestroying Angel!'\n\n'Well, madam, and what then?' returned the doctor.  'Have not my fate and\nyours been similar?  Are we not both immured in this strong prison of\nUtah?  Have you not tried to flee, and did not the Open Eye confront you\nin the canyon?  Who can escape the watch of that unsleeping eye of Utah?\nNot I, at least.  Horrible tasks have, indeed, been laid upon me; and the\nmost ungrateful was the last; but had I refused my offices, would that\nhave spared your husband?  You know well it would not.  I, too, had\nperished along with him; nor would I have been able to alleviate his last\nmoments, nor could I to-day have stood between his family and the hand of\nBrigham Young.'\n\n'Ah!' cried I, 'and could you purchase life by such concessions?'\n\n'Young lady,' answered the doctor, 'I both could and did; and you will\nlive to thank me for that baseness.  You have a spirit, Asenath, that it\npleases me to recognise.  But we waste time.  Mr. Fonblanque's estate\nreverts, as you doubtless imagine, to the Church; but some part of it has\nbeen reserved for him who is to marry the family; and that person, I\nshould perhaps tell you without more delay, is no other than myself.'\n\nAt this odious proposal my mother and I cried out aloud, and clung\ntogether like lost souls.\n\n'It is as I supposed,' resumed the doctor, with the same measured\nutterance.  'You recoil from this arrangement.  Do you expect me to\nconvince you?  You know very well that I have never held the Mormon view\nof women.  Absorbed in the most arduous studies, I have left the\nslatterns whom they call my wives to scratch and quarrel among\nthemselves; of me, they have had nothing but my purse; such was not the\nunion I desired, even if I had the leisure to pursue it.  No: you need\nnot, madam, and my old friend'--and here the doctor rose and bowed with\nsomething of gallantry--'you need not apprehend my importunities.  On the\ncontrary, I am rejoiced to read in you a Roman spirit; and if I am\nobliged to bid you follow me at once, and that in the name, not of my\nwish, but of my orders, I hope it will be found that we are of a common\nmind.'\n\nSo, bidding us dress for the road, he took a lamp (for the night had now\nfallen) and set off to the stable to prepare our horses.\n\n'What does it mean?--what will become of us?' I cried.\n\n'Not that, at least,' replied my mother, shuddering.  'So far we can\ntrust him.  I seem to read among his words a certain tragic promise.\nAsenath, if I leave you, if I die, you will not forget your miserable\nparents?'\n\nThereupon we fell to cross-purposes: I beseeching her to explain her\nwords; she putting me by, and continuing to recommend the doctor for a\nfriend.  'The doctor!' I cried at last; 'the man who killed my father?'\n\n'Nay,' said she, 'let us be just.  I do believe before, Heaven, he played\nthe friendliest part.  And he alone, Asenath, can protect you in this\nland of death.'\n\nAt this the doctor returned, leading our two horses; and when we were all\nin the saddle, he bade me ride on before, as he had matter to discuss\nwith Mrs. Fonblanque.  They came at a foot's pace, eagerly conversing in\na whisper; and presently after the moon rose and showed them looking\neagerly in each other's faces as they went, my mother laying her hand\nupon the doctor's arm, and the doctor himself, against his usual custom,\nmaking vigorous gestures of protest or asseveration.\n\nAt the foot of the track which ascended the talus of the mountain to his\ndoor, the doctor overtook me at a trot.\n\n'Here,' he said, 'we shall dismount; and as your mother prefers to be\nalone, you and I shall walk together to my house.'\n\n'Shall I see her again?' I asked.\n\n'I give you my word,' he said, and helped me to alight.  'We leave the\nhorses here,' he added.  'There are no thieves in this stone wilderness.'\n\nThe track mounted gradually, keeping the house in view.  The windows were\nonce more bright; the chimney once more vomited smoke; but the most\nabsolute silence reigned, and, but for the figure of my mother very\nslowly following in our wake, I felt convinced there was no human soul\nwithin a range of miles.  At the thought, I looked upon the doctor,\ngravely walking by my side, with his bowed shoulders and white hair, and\nthen once more at his house, lit up and pouring smoke like some\nindustrious factory.  And then my curiosity broke forth.  'In Heaven's\nname,' I cried, 'what do you make in this inhuman desert?'\n\nHe looked at me with a peculiar smile, and answered with an evasion--\n\n'This is not the first time,' said he, 'that you have seen my furnaces\nalight.  One morning, in the small hours, I saw you driving past; a\ndelicate experiment miscarried; and I cannot acquit myself of having\nstartled either your driver or the horse that drew you.'\n\n'What!' cried I, beholding again in fancy the antics of the figure,\n'could that be you?'\n\n'It was I,' he replied; 'but do not fancy that I was mad.  I was in\nagony.  I had been scalded cruelly.'\n\nWe were now near the house, which, unlike the ordinary houses of the\ncountry, was built of hewn stone and very solid.  Stone, too, was its\nfoundation, stone its background.  Not a blade of grass sprouted among\nthe broken mineral about the walls, not a flower adorned the windows.\nOver the door, by way of sole adornment, the Mormon Eye was rudely\nsculptured; I had been brought up to view that emblem from my childhood;\nbut since the night of our escape, it had acquired a new significance,\nand set me shrinking.  The smoke rolled voluminously from the chimney\ntop, its edges ruddy with the fire; and from the far corner of the\nbuilding, near the ground, angry puffs of steam shone snow-white in the\nmoon and vanished.\n\nThe doctor opened the door and paused upon the threshold.  'You ask me\nwhat I make here,' he observed.  'Two things: Life and Death.'  And he\nmotioned me to enter.\n\n'I shall await my mother,' said I.\n\n'Child,' he replied, 'look at me: am I not old and broken?  Of us two,\nwhich is the stronger, the young maiden or the withered man?'\n\nI bowed, and passing by him, entered a vestibule or kitchen, lit by a\ngood fire and a shaded reading-lamp.  It was furnished only with a\ndresser, a rude table, and some wooden benches; and on one of these the\ndoctor motioned me to take a seat; and passing by another door into the\ninterior of the house, he left me to myself.  Presently I heard the jar\nof iron from the far end of the building; and this was followed by the\nsame throbbing noise that had startled me in the valley, but now so near\nat hand as to be menacing by loudness, and even to shake the house with\nevery recurrence of the stroke.  I had scarce time to master my alarm\nwhen the doctor returned, and almost in the same moment my mother\nappeared upon the threshold.  But how am I to describe to you the peace\nand ravishment of that face?  Years seemed to have passed over her head\nduring that brief ride, and left her younger and fairer; her eyes shone,\nher smile went to my heart; she seemed no more a woman but the angel of\necstatic tenderness.  I ran to her in a kind of terror; but she shrank a\nlittle back and laid her finger on her lips, with something arch and yet\nunearthly.  To the doctor, on the contrary, she reached out her hand as\nto a friend and helper; and so strange was the scene that I forgot to be\noffended.\n\n'Lucy,' said the doctor, 'all is prepared.  Will you go alone, or shall\nyour daughter follow us?'\n\n'Let Asenath come,' she answered, 'dear Asenath!  At this hour, when I am\npurified of fear and sorrow, and already survive myself and my\naffections, it is for your sake, and not for mine, that I desire her\npresence.  Were she shut out, dear friend, it is to be feared she might\nmisjudge your kindness.'\n\n'Mother,' I cried wildly, 'mother, what is this?'\n\nBut my mother, with her radiant smile, said only 'Hush!' as though I were\na child again, and tossing in some fever-fit; and the doctor bade me be\nsilent and trouble her no more.  'You have made a choice,' he continued,\naddressing my mother, 'that has often strangely tempted me.  The two\nextremes: all, or else nothing; never, or this very hour upon the\nclock--these have been my incongruous desires.  But to accept the middle\nterm, to be content with a half-gift, to flicker awhile and to burn\nout--never for an hour, never since I was born, has satisfied the\nappetite of my ambition.'  He looked upon my mother fixedly, much of\nadmiration and some touch of envy in his eyes; then, with a profound\nsigh, he led the way into the inner room.\n\nIt was very long.  From end to end it was lit up by many lamps, which by\nthe changeful colour of their light, and by the incessant snapping sounds\nwith which they burned, I have since divined to be electric.  At the\nextreme end an open door gave us a glimpse into what must have been a\nlean-to shed beside the chimney; and this, in strong contrast to the\nroom, was painted with a red reverberation as from furnace-doors.  The\nwalls were lined with books and glazed cases, the tables crowded with the\nimplements of chemical research; great glass accumulators glittered in\nthe light; and through a hole in the gable near the shed door, a heavy\ndriving-belt entered the apartment and ran overhead upon steel pulleys,\nwith clumsy activity and many ghostly and fluttering sounds.  In one\ncorner I perceived a chair resting upon crystal feet, and curiously\nwreathed with wire.  To this my mother advanced with a decisive\nswiftness.\n\n'Is this it?' she asked.\n\nThe doctor bowed in silence.\n\n'Asenath,' said my mother, 'in this sad end of my life I have found one\nhelper.  Look upon him: it is Doctor Grierson.  Be not, oh my daughter,\nbe not ungrateful to that friend!'\n\nShe sate upon the chair, and took in her hands the globes that terminated\nthe arms.\n\n'Am I right?' she asked, and looked upon the doctor with such a radiancy\nof face that I trembled for her reason.  Once more the doctor bowed, but\nthis time leaning hard against the wall.  He must have touched a spring.\nThe least shock agitated my mother where she sat; the least passing jar\nappeared to cross her features; and she sank back in the chair like one\nresigned to weariness.  I was at her knees that moment; but her hands\nfell loosely in my grasp; her face, still beatified with the same\ntouching smile, sank forward on her bosom: her spirit had for ever fled.\n\nI do not know how long may have elapsed before, raising for a moment my\ntearful face, I met the doctor's eyes.  They rested upon mine with such a\ndepth of scrutiny, pity, and interest, that even from the freshness of my\nsorrow, I was startled into attention.\n\n'Enough,' he said, 'to lamentation.  Your mother went to death as to a\nbridal, dying where her husband died.  It is time, Asenath, to think of\nthe survivors.  Follow me to the next room.'\n\nI followed him, like a person in a dream; he made me sit by the fire, he\ngave me wine to drink; and then, pacing the stone floor, he thus began to\naddress me--\n\n'You are now, my child, alone in the world, and under the immediate watch\nof Brigham Young.  It would be your lot, in ordinary circumstances, to\nbecome the fiftieth bride of some ignoble elder, or by particular\nfortune, as fortune is counted in this land, to find favour in the eyes\nof the President himself.  Such a fate for a girl like you were worse\nthan death; better to die as your mother died than to sink daily deeper\nin the mire of this pit of woman's degradation.  But is escape\nconceivable?  Your father tried; and you beheld yourself with what\nsecurity his jailers acted, and how a dumb drawing on a rock was counted\na sufficient sentry over the avenues of freedom.  Where your father\nfailed, will you be wiser or more fortunate? or are you, too, helpless in\nthe toils?'\n\nI had followed his words with changing emotion, but now I believed I\nunderstood.\n\n'I see,' I cried; 'you judge me rightly.  I must follow where my parents\nled; and oh! I am not only willing, I am eager!'\n\n'No,' replied the doctor, 'not death for you.  The flawed vessel we may\nbreak, but not the perfect.  No, your mother cherished a different hope,\nand so do I.  I see,' he cried, 'the girl develop to the completed woman,\nthe plan reach fulfilment, the promise--ay, outdone!  I could not bear to\narrest so lively, so comely a process.  It was your mother's thought,' he\nadded, with a change of tone, 'that I should marry you myself.'  I fear I\nmust have shown a perfect horror of aversion from this fate, for he made\nhaste to quiet me.  'Reassure yourself, Asenath,' he resumed.  'Old as I\nam, I have not forgotten the tumultuous fancies of youth.  I have passed\nmy days, indeed, in laboratories; but in all my vigils I have not\nforgotten the tune of a young pulse.  Age asks with timidity to be spared\nintolerable pain; youth, taking fortune by the beard, demands joy like a\nright.  These things I have not forgotten; none, rather, has more keenly\nfelt, none more jealously considered them; I have but postponed them to\ntheir day.  See, then: you stand without support; the only friend left to\nyou, this old investigator, old in cunning, young in sympathy.  Answer me\nbut one question: Are you free from the entanglement of what the world\ncalls love?  Do you still command your heart and purposes? or are you\nfallen in some bond-slavery of the eye and ear?'\n\nI answered him in broken words; my heart, I think I must have told him,\nlay with my dead parents.\n\n'It is enough,' he said.  'It has been my fate to be called on often, too\noften, for those services of which we spoke to-night; none in Utah could\ncarry them so well to a conclusion; hence there has fallen into my hands\na certain share of influence which I now lay at your service, partly for\nthe sake of my dead friends, your parents; partly for the interest I bear\nyou in your own right.  I shall send you to England, to the great city of\nLondon, there to await the bridegroom I have selected.  He shall be a son\nof mine, a young man suitable in age and not grossly deficient in that\nquality of beauty that your years demand.  Since your heart is free, you\nmay well pledge me the sole promise that I ask in return for much expense\nand still more danger: to await the arrival of that bridegroom with the\ndelicacy of a wife.'\n\nI sat awhile stunned.  The doctor's marriages, I remembered to have\nheard, had been unfruitful; and this added perplexity to my distress.\nBut I was alone, as he had said, alone in that dark land; the thought of\nescape, of any equal marriage, was already enough to revive in me some\ndawn of hope; and in what words I know not, I accepted the proposal.\n\nHe seemed more moved by my consent than I could reasonably have looked\nfor.  'You shall see,' he cried; 'you shall judge for yourself.'  And\nhurrying to the next room he returned with a small portrait somewhat\ncoarsely done in oils.  It showed a man in the dress of nearly forty\nyears before, young indeed, but still recognisable to be the doctor.  'Do\nyou like it?' he asked.  'That is myself when I was young.  My--my boy\nwill be like that, like but nobler; with such health as angels might\ncondescend to envy; and a man of mind, Asenath, of commanding mind.  That\nshould be a man, I think; that should be one among ten thousand.  A man\nlike that--one to combine the passions of youth with the restraint, the\nforce, the dignity of age--one to fill all the parts and faculties, one\nto be man's epitome--say, will that not satisfy the needs of an ambitious\ngirl?  Say, is not that enough?'  And as he held the picture close before\nmy eyes, his hands shook.\n\nI told him briefly I would ask no better, for I was transpierced with\nthis display of fatherly emotion; but even as I said the words, the most\ninsolent revolt surged through my arteries.  I held him in horror, him,\nhis portrait, and his son; and had there been any choice but death or a\nMormon marriage, I declare before Heaven I had embraced it.\n\n'It is well,' he replied, 'and I had rightly counted on your spirit.\nEat, then, for you have far to go.'  So saying, he set meat before me;\nand while I was endeavouring to obey, he left the room and returned with\nan armful of coarse raiment.  'There,' said he, 'is your disguise.  I\nleave you to your toilet.'\n\nThe clothes had probably belonged to a somewhat lubberly boy of fifteen;\nand they hung about me like a sack, and cruelly hampered my movements.\nBut what filled me with uncontrollable shudderings, was the problem of\ntheir origin and the fate of the lad to whom they had belonged.  I had\nscarcely effected the exchange when the doctor returned, opened a back\nwindow, helped me out into the narrow space between the house and the\noverhanging bluffs, and showed me a ladder of iron footholds mortised in\nthe rock.  'Mount,' he said, 'swiftly.  When you are at the summit, walk,\nso far as you are able, in the shadow of the smoke.  The smoke will bring\nyou, sooner or later, to a canyon; follow that down, and you will find a\nman with two horses.  Him you will implicitly obey.  And remember,\nsilence!  That machinery, which I now put in motion for your service, may\nby one word be turned against you.  Go; Heaven prosper you!'\n\nThe ascent was easy.  Arrived at the top of the cliff, I saw before me on\nthe other side a vast and gradual declivity of stone, lying bare to the\nmoon and the surrounding mountains.  Nowhere was any vantage or\nconcealment; and knowing how these deserts were beset with spies, I made\nhaste to veil my movements under the blowing trail of smoke.  Sometimes\nit swam high, rising on the night wind, and I had no more substantial\ncurtain than its moon-thrown shadow; sometimes again it crawled upon the\nearth, and I would walk in it, no higher than to my shoulders, like some\nmountain fog.  But, one way or another, the smoke of that ill-omened\nfurnace protected the first steps of my escape, and led me unobserved to\nthe canyon.\n\nThere, sure enough, I found a taciturn and sombre man beside a pair of\nsaddle-horses; and thenceforward, all night long, we wandered in silence\nby the most occult and dangerous paths among the mountains.  A little\nbefore the dayspring we took refuge in a wet and gusty cavern at the\nbottom of a gorge; lay there all day concealed; and the next night,\nbefore the glow had faded out of the west, resumed our wanderings.  About\nnoon we stopped again, in a lawn upon a little river, where was a screen\nof bushes; and here my guide, handing me a bundle from his pack, bade me\nchange my dress once more.  The bundle contained clothing of my own,\ntaken from our house, with such necessaries as a comb and soap.  I made\nmy toilet by the mirror of a quiet pool; and as I was so doing, and\nsmiling with some complacency to see myself restored to my own image, the\nmountains rang with a scream of far more than human piercingness; and\nwhile I still stood astonished, there sprang up and swiftly increased a\nstorm of the most awful and earth-rending sounds.  Shall I own to you,\nthat I fell upon my face and shrieked?  And yet this was but the overland\ntrain winding among the near mountains: the very means of my salvation:\nthe strong wings that were to carry me from Utah!\n\nWhen I was dressed, the guide gave me a bag, which contained, he said,\nboth money and papers; and telling me that I was already over the borders\nin the territory of Wyoming, bade me follow the stream until I reached\nthe railway station, half a mile below.  'Here,' he added, 'is your\nticket as far as Council Bluffs.  The East express will pass in a few\nhours.'  With that, he took both horses, and, without further words or\nany salutation, rode off by the way that we had come.\n\nThree hours afterwards, I was seated on the end platform of the train as\nit swept eastward through the gorges and thundered in tunnels of the\nmountain.  The change of scene, the sense of escape, the still throbbing\nterror of pursuit--above all, the astounding magic of my new conveyance,\nkept me from any logical or melancholy thought.  I had gone to the\ndoctor's house two nights before prepared to die, prepared for worse than\ndeath; what had passed, terrible although it was, looked almost bright\ncompared to my anticipations; and it was not till I had slept a full\nnight in the flying palace car, that I awoke to the sense of my\nirreparable loss and to some reasonable alarm about the future.  In this\nmood, I examined the contents of the bag.  It was well supplied with\ngold; it contained tickets and complete directions for my journey as far\nas Liverpool, and a long letter from the doctor, supplying me with a\nfictitious name and story, recommending the most guarded silence, and\nbidding me to await faithfully the coming of his son.  All then had been\narranged beforehand: he had counted upon my consent, and what was tenfold\nworse, upon my mother's voluntary death.  My horror of my only friend, my\naversion for this son who was to marry me, my revolt against the whole\ncurrent and conditions of my life, were now complete.  I was sitting\nstupefied by my distress and helplessness, when, to my joy, a very\npleasant lady offered me her conversation.  I clutched at the relief; and\nI was soon glibly telling her the story in the doctor's letter: how I was\na Miss Gould, of Nevada City, going to England to an uncle, what money I\nhad, what family, my age, and so forth, until I had exhausted my\ninstructions, and, as the lady still continued to ply me with questions,\nbegan to embroider on my own account.  This soon carried one of my\ninexperience beyond her depth; and I had already remarked a shadow on the\nlady's face, when a gentleman drew near and very civilly addressed me.\n\n'Miss Gould, I believe?' said he; and then, excusing himself to the lady\nby the authority of my guardian, drew me to the fore platform of the\nPullman car.  'Miss Gould,' he said in my ear, 'is it possible that you\nsuppose yourself in safety?  Let me completely undeceive you.  One more\nsuch indiscretion and you return to Utah.  And, in the meanwhile, if this\nwoman should again address you, you are to reply with these words:\n\"Madam, I do not like you, and I will be obliged if you will suffer me to\nchoose my own associates.\"'\n\nAlas, I had to do as I was bid; this lady, to whom I already felt myself\ndrawn with the strongest cords of sympathy, I dismissed with insult; and\nthenceforward, through all that day, I sat in silence, gazing on the bare\nplains and swallowing my tears.  Let that suffice: it was the pattern of\nmy journey.  Whether on the train, at the hotels, or on board the ocean\nsteamer, I never exchanged a friendly word with any fellow-traveller but\nI was certain to be interrupted.  In every place, on every side, the most\nunlikely persons, man or woman, rich or poor, became protectors to\nforward me upon my journey, or spies to observe and regulate my conduct.\nThus I crossed the States, thus passed the ocean, the Mormon Eye still\nfollowing my movements; and when at length a cab had set me down before\nthat London lodging-house from which you saw me flee this morning, I had\nalready ceased to struggle and ceased to hope.\n\nThe landlady, like every one else through all that journey, was expecting\nmy arrival.  A fire was lighted in my room, which looked upon the garden;\nthere were books on the table, clothes in the drawers; and there (I had\nalmost said with contentment, and certainly with resignation) I saw month\nfollow month over my head.  At times my landlady took me for a walk or an\nexcursion, but she would never suffer me to leave the house alone; and I,\nseeing that she also lived under the shadow of that widespread Mormon\nterror, felt too much pity to resist.  To the child born on Mormon soil,\nas to the man who accepts the engagements of a secret order, no escape is\npossible; so I had clearly read, and I was thankful even for this\nrespite.  Meanwhile, I tried honestly to prepare my mind for my\napproaching nuptials.  The day drew near when my bridegroom was to visit\nme, and gratitude and fear alike obliged me to consent.  A son of Doctor\nGrierson's, be he what he pleased, must still be young, and it was even\nprobable he should be handsome; on more than that, I felt I dared not\nreckon; and in moulding my mind towards consent I dwelt the more\ncarefully on these physical attractions which I felt I might expect, and\naverted my eyes from moral or intellectual considerations.  We have a\ngreat power upon our spirits; and as time passed I worked myself into a\nframe of acquiescence, nay, and I began to grow impatient for the hour.\nAt night sleep forsook me; I sat all day by the fire, absorbed in dreams,\nconjuring up the features of my husband, and anticipating in fancy the\ntouch of his hand and the sound of his voice.  In the dead level and\nsolitude of my existence, this was the one eastern window and the one\ndoor of hope.  At last, I had so cultivated and prepared my will, that I\nbegan to be besieged with fears upon the other side.  How if it was I\nthat did not please?  How if this unseen lover should turn from me with\ndisaffection?  And now I spent hours before the glass, studying and\njudging my attractions, and was never weary of changing my dress or\nordering my hair.\n\nWhen the day came I was long about my toilet; but at last, with a sort of\nhopeful desperation, I had to own that I could do no more, and must now\nstand or fall by nature.  My occupation ended, I fell a prey to the most\nsickening impatience, mingled with alarms; giving ear to the swelling\nrumour of the streets, and at each change of sound or silence, starting,\nshrinking, and colouring to the brow.  Love is not to be prepared, I\nknow, without some knowledge of the object; and yet, when the cab at last\nrattled to the door and I heard my visitor mount the stairs, such was the\ntumult of hopes in my poor bosom that love itself might have been proud\nto own their parentage.  The door opened, and it was Doctor Grierson that\nappeared.  I believe I must have screamed aloud, and I know, at least,\nthat I fell fainting to the floor.\n\nWhen I came to myself he was standing over me, counting my pulse.  'I\nhave startled you,' he said.  'A difficulty unforeseen--the impossibility\nof obtaining a certain drug in its full purity--has forced me to resort\nto London unprepared.  I regret that I should have shown myself once more\nwithout those poor attractions which are much, perhaps, to you, but to me\nare no more considerable than rain that falls into the sea.  Youth is but\na state, as passing as that syncope from which you are but just awakened,\nand, if there be truth in science, as easy to recall; for I find,\nAsenath, that I must now take you for my confidant.  Since my first\nyears, I have devoted every hour and act of life to one ambitious task;\nand the time of my success is at hand.  In these new countries, where I\nwas so long content to stay, I collected indispensable ingredients; I\nhave fortified myself on every side from the possibility of error; what\nwas a dream now takes the substance of reality; and when I offered you a\nson of mine I did so in a figure.  That son--that husband, Asenath, is\nmyself--not as you now behold me, but restored to the first energy of\nyouth.  You think me mad?  It is the customary attitude of ignorance.  I\nwill not argue; I will leave facts to speak.  When you behold me\npurified, invigorated, renewed, restamped in the original image--when you\nrecognise in me (what I shall be) the first perfect expression of the\npowers of mankind--I shall be able to laugh with a better grace at your\npassing and natural incredulity.  To what can you aspire--fame, riches,\npower, the charm of youth, the dear-bought wisdom of age--that I shall\nnot be able to afford you in perfection?  Do not deceive yourself.  I\nalready excel you in every human gift but one: when that gift also has\nbeen restored to me you will recognise your master.'\n\nHereupon, consulting his watch, he told me he must now leave me to\nmyself; and bidding me consult reason, and not girlish fancies, he\nwithdrew.  I had not the courage to move; the night fell and found me\nstill where he had laid me during my faint, my face buried in my hands,\nmy soul drowned in the darkest apprehensions.  Late in the evening he\nreturned, carrying a candle, and, with a certain irritable tremor, bade\nme rise and sup.  'Is it possible,' he added, 'that I have been deceived\nin your courage?  A cowardly girl is no fit mate for me.'\n\nI flung myself before him on my knees, and with floods of tears besought\nhim to release me from this engagement, assuring him that my cowardice\nwas abject, and that in every point of intellect and character I was his\nhopeless and derisible inferior.\n\n'Why, certainly,' he replied.  'I know you better than yourself; and I am\nwell enough acquainted with human nature to understand this scene.  It is\naddressed to me,' he added with a smile, 'in my character of the still\nuntransformed.  But do not alarm yourself about the future.  Let me but\nattain my end, and not you only, Asenath, but every woman on the face of\nthe earth becomes my willing slave.'\n\nThereupon he obliged me to rise and eat; sat down with me to table;\nhelped and entertained me with the attentions of a fashionable host; and\nit was not till a late hour, that, bidding me courteously good-night, he\nonce more left me alone to my misery.\n\nIn all this talk of an elixir and the restoration of his youth, I scarce\nknew from which hypothesis I should the more eagerly recoil.  If his\nhopes reposed on any base of fact, if indeed, by some abhorrent miracle,\nhe should discard his age, death were my only refuge from that most\nunnatural, that most ungodly union.  If, on the other hand, these dreams\nwere merely lunatic, the madness of a life waxed suddenly acute, my pity\nwould become a load almost as heavy to bear as my revolt against the\nmarriage.  So passed the night, in alternations of rebellion and despair,\nof hate and pity; and with the next morning I was only to comprehend more\nfully my enslaved position.  For though he appeared with a very tranquil\ncountenance, he had no sooner observed the marks of grief upon my brow\nthan an answering darkness gathered on his own.  'Asenath.' he said, 'you\nowe me much already; with one finger I still hold you suspended over\ndeath; my life is full of labour and anxiety; and I choose,' said he,\nwith a remarkable accent of command, 'that you shall greet me with a\npleasant face.'  He never needed to repeat the recommendation; from that\nday forward I was always ready to receive him with apparent cheerfulness;\nand he rewarded me with a good deal of his company, and almost more than\nI could bear of his confidence.  He had set up a laboratory in the back\npart of the house, where he toiled day and night at his elixir, and he\nwould come thence to visit me in my parlour: now with passing humours of\ndiscouragement; now, and far more often, radiant with hope.  It was\nimpossible to see so much of him, and not to recognise that the sands of\nhis life were running low; and yet all the time he would be laying out\nvast fields of future, and planning, with all the confidence of youth,\nthe most unbounded schemes of pleasure and ambition.  How I replied I\nknow not; but I found a voice and words to answer, even while I wept and\nraged to hear him.\n\nA week ago the doctor entered my room with the marks of great\nexhilaration contending with pitiful bodily weakness.  'Asenath,' said\nhe, 'I have now obtained the last ingredient.  In one week from now the\nperilous moment of the last projection will draw nigh.  You have once\nbefore assisted, although unconsciously, at the failure of a similar\nexperiment.  It was the elixir which so terribly exploded one night when\nyou were passing my house; and it is idle to deny that the conduct of so\ndelicate a process, among the million jars and trepidations of so great a\ncity, presents a certain element of danger.  From this point of view, I\ncannot but regret the perfect stillness of my house among the deserts;\nbut, on the other hand, I have succeeded in proving that the singularly\nunstable equilibrium of the elixir, at the moment of projection, is due\nrather to the impurity than to the nature of the ingredients; and as all\nare now of an equal and exquisite nicety, I have little fear for the\nresult.  In a week then from to-day, my dear Asenath, this period of\ntrial will be ended.'  And he smiled upon me in a manner unusually\npaternal.\n\nI smiled back with my lips, but at my heart there raged the blackest and\nmost unbridled terror.  What if he failed?  And oh, tenfold worse! what\nif he succeeded?  What detested and unnatural changeling would appear\nbefore me to claim my hand?  And could there, I asked myself with a\ndreadful sinking, be any truth in his boasts of an assured victory over\nmy reluctance?  I knew him, indeed, to be masterful, to lead my life at a\nsign.  Suppose, then, this experiment to succeed; suppose him to return\nto me, hideously restored, like a vampire in a legend; and suppose that,\nby some devilish fascination . . . My head turned; all former fears\ndeserted me: and I felt I could embrace the worst in preference to this.\n\nMy mind was instantly made up.  The doctor's presence in London was\njustified by the affairs of the Mormon polity.  Often, in our\nconversation, he would gloat over the details of that great organisation,\nwhich he feared even while yet he wielded it; and would remind me, that\neven in the humming labyrinth of London, we were still visible to that\nunsleeping eye in Utah.  His visitors, indeed, who were of every sort,\nfrom the missionary to the destroying angel, and seemed to belong to\nevery rank of life, had, up to that moment, filled me with unmixed\nrepulsion and alarm.  I knew that if my secret were to reach the ear of\nany leader my fate were sealed beyond redemption; and yet in my present\npass of horror and despair, it was to these very men that I turned for\nhelp.  I waylaid upon the stair one of the Mormon missionaries, a man of\na low class, but not inaccessible to pity; told him I scarce remember\nwhat elaborate fable to explain my application; and by his intermediacy\nentered into correspondence with my father's family.  They recognised my\nclaim for help, and on this very day I was to begin my escape.\n\nLast night I sat up fully dressed, awaiting the result of the doctor's\nlabours, and prepared against the worst.  The nights at this season and\nin this northern latitude are short; and I had soon the company of the\nreturning daylight.  The silence in and around the house was only broken\nby the movements of the doctor in the laboratory; to these I listened,\nwatch in hand, awaiting the hour of my escape, and yet consumed by\nanxiety about the strange experiment that was going forward overhead.\nIndeed, now that I was conscious of some protection for myself, my\nsympathies had turned more directly to the doctor's side; I caught myself\neven praying for his success; and when some hours ago a low, peculiar cry\nreached my ears from the laboratory, I could no longer control my\nimpatience, but mounted the stairs and opened the door.\n\nThe doctor was standing in the middle of the room; in his hand a large,\nround-bellied, crystal flask, some three parts full of a bright\namber-coloured liquid; on his face a rapture of gratitude and joy\nunspeakable.  As he saw me he raised the flask at arm's length.\n'Victory!' he cried.  'Victory, Asenath!'  And then--whether the flask\nescaped his trembling fingers, or whether the explosion were spontaneous,\nI cannot tell--enough that we were thrown, I against the door-post, the\ndoctor into the corner of the room; enough that we were shaken to the\nsoul by the same explosion that must have startled you upon the street;\nand that, in the brief space of an indistinguishable instant, there\nremained nothing of the labours of the doctor's lifetime but a few shards\nof broken crystal and those voluminous and ill-smelling vapours that\npursued me in my flight.\n\n\n\n\n_THE SQUIRE OF DAMES_\n(_Concluded_)\n\n\nWhat with the lady's animated manner and dramatic conduct of her voice,\nChalloner had thrilled to every incident with genuine emotion.  His\nfancy, which was not perhaps of a very lively character, applauded both\nthe matter and the style; but the more judicial functions of his mind\nrefused assent.  It was an excellent story; and it might be true, but he\nbelieved it was not.  Miss Fonblanque was a lady, and it was doubtless\npossible for a lady to wander from the truth; but how was a gentleman to\ntell her so?  His spirits for some time had been sinking, but they now\nfell to zero; and long after her voice had died away he still sat with a\ntroubled and averted countenance, and could find no form of words to\nthank her for her narrative.  His mind, indeed, was empty of everything\nbeyond a dull longing for escape.  From this pause, which grew the more\nembarrassing with every second, he was roused by the sudden laughter of\nthe lady.  His vanity was alarmed; he turned and faced her; their eyes\nmet; and he caught from hers a spark of such frank merriment as put him\ninstantly at ease.\n\n'You certainly,' he said, 'appear to bear your calamities with excellent\nspirit.'\n\n'Do I not?' she cried, and fell once more into delicious laughter.  But\nfrom this access she more speedily recovered.  'This is all very well,'\nsaid she, nodding at him gravely, 'but I am still in a most distressing\nsituation, from which, if you deny me your help, I shall find it\ndifficult indeed to free myself.'\n\nAt this mention of help Challoner fell back to his original gloom.\n\n'My sympathies are much engaged with you,' he said, 'and I should be\ndelighted, I am sure.  But our position is most unusual; and\ncircumstances over which I have, I can assure you, no control, deprive me\nof the power--the pleasure--Unless, indeed,' he added, somewhat\nbrightening at the thought, 'I were to recommend you to the care of the\npolice?'\n\nShe laid her hand upon his arm and looked hard into his eyes; and he saw\nwith wonder that, for the first time since the moment of their meeting,\nevery trace of colour had faded from her cheek.\n\n'Do so,' she said, 'and--weigh my words well--you kill me as certainly as\nwith a knife.'\n\n'God bless me!' exclaimed Challoner.\n\n'Oh,' she cried, 'I can see you disbelieve my story and make light of the\nperils that surround me; but who are you to judge?  My family share my\napprehensions; they help me in secret; and you saw yourself by what an\nemissary, and in what a place, they have chosen to supply me with the\nfunds for my escape.  I admit that you are brave and clever and have\nimpressed me most favourably; but how are you to prefer your opinion\nbefore that of my uncle, an ex-minister of state, a man with the ear of\nthe Queen, and of a long political experience?  If I am mad, is he?  And\nyou must allow me, besides, a special claim upon your help.  Strange as\nyou may think my story, you know that much of it is true; and if you who\nheard the explosion and saw the Mormon at Victoria, refuse to credit and\nassist me, to whom am I to turn?'\n\n'He gave you money then?' asked Challoner, who had been dwelling singly\non that fact.\n\n'I begin to interest you,' she cried.  'But, frankly, you are condemned\nto help me.  If the service I had to ask of you were serious, were\nsuspicious, were even unusual, I should say no more.  But what is it?  To\ntake a pleasure trip (for which, if you will suffer me, I propose to pay)\nand to carry from one lady to another a sum of money!  What can be more\nsimple?'\n\n'Is the sum,' asked Challoner, 'considerable?'\n\nShe produced a packet from her bosom; and observing that she had not yet\nfound time to make the count, tore open the cover and spread upon her\nknees a considerable number of Bank of England notes.  It took some time\nto make the reckoning, for the notes were of every degree of value; but\nat last, and counting a few loose sovereigns, she made out the sum to be\na little under 710 pounds sterling.  The sight of so much money worked an\nimmediate revolution in the mind of Challoner.\n\n'And you propose, madam,' he cried, 'to intrust that money to a perfect\nstranger?'\n\n'Ah!' said she, with a charming smile, 'but I no longer regard you as a\nstranger.'\n\n'Madam,' said Challoner, 'I perceive I must make you a confession.\nAlthough of a very good family--through my mother, indeed, a lineal\ndescendant of the patriot Bruce--I dare not conceal from you that my\naffairs are deeply, very deeply involved.  I am in debt; my pockets are\npractically empty; and, in short, I am fallen to that state when a\nconsiderable sum of money would prove to many men an irresistible\ntemptation.'\n\n'Do you not see,' returned the young lady, 'that by these words you have\nremoved my last hesitation?  Take them.'  And she thrust the notes into\nthe young man's hand.\n\nHe sat so long, holding them, like a baby at the font, that Miss\nFonblanque once more bubbled into laughter.\n\n'Pray,' she said, 'hesitate no further; put them in your pocket; and to\nrelieve our position of any shadow of embarrassment, tell me by what name\nI am to address my knight-errant, for I find myself reduced to the\nawkwardness of the pronoun.'\n\nHad borrowing been in question, the wisdom of our ancestors had come\nlightly to the young man's aid; but upon what pretext could he refuse so\ngenerous a trust?  Upon none he saw, that was not unpardonably wounding;\nand the bright eyes and the high spirits of his companion had already\nmade a breach in the rampart of Challoner's caution.  The whole thing, he\nreasoned, might be a mere mystification, which it were the height of\nsolemn folly to resent.  On the other hand, the explosion, the interview\nat the public-house, and the very money in his hands, seemed to prove\nbeyond denial the existence of some serious danger; and if that were so,\ncould he desert her?  There was a choice of risks: the risk of behaving\nwith extraordinary incivility and unhandsomeness to a lady, and the risk\nof going on a fool's errand.  The story seemed false; but then the money\nwas undeniable.  The whole circumstances were questionable and obscure;\nbut the lady was charming, and had the speech and manners of society.\nWhile he still hung in the wind, a recollection returned upon his mind\nwith some of the dignity of prophecy.  Had he not promised Somerset to\nbreak with the traditions of the commonplace, and to accept the first\nadventure offered?  Well, here was the adventure.\n\nHe thrust the money into his pocket.\n\n'My name is Challoner,' said he.\n\n'Mr. Challoner,' she replied, 'you have come very generously to my aid\nwhen all was against me.  Though I am myself a very humble person, my\nfamily commands great interest; and I do not think you will repent this\nhandsome action.'\n\nChalloner flushed with pleasure.\n\n'I imagine that, perhaps, a consulship,' she added, her eyes dwelling on\nhim with a judicial admiration, 'a consulship in some great town or\ncapital--or else--But we waste time; let us set about the work of my\ndelivery.'\n\nShe took his arm with a frank confidence that went to his heart; and once\nmore laying by all serious thoughts, she entertained him, as they crossed\nthe park, with her agreeable gaiety of mind.  Near the Marble Arch they\nfound a hansom, which rapidly conveyed them to the terminus at Euston\nSquare; and here, in the hotel, they sat down to an excellent breakfast.\nThe young lady's first step was to call for writing materials and write,\nupon one corner of the table, a hasty note; still, as she did so,\nglancing with smiles at her companion.  'Here,' said she, 'here is the\nletter which will introduce you to my cousin.'  She began to fold the\npaper.  'My cousin, although I have never seen her, has the character of\na very charming woman and a recognised beauty; of that I know nothing,\nbut at least she has been very kind to me; so has my lord her father; so\nhave you--kinder than all--kinder than I can bear to think of.'  She said\nthis with unusual emotion; and, at the same time, sealed the envelope.\n'Ah!' she cried, 'I have shut my letter!  It is not quite courteous; and\nyet, as between friends, it is perhaps better so.  I introduce you, after\nall, into a family secret; and though you and I are already old comrades,\nyou are still unknown to my uncle.  You go then to this address, Richard\nStreet, Glasgow; go, please, as soon as you arrive; and give this letter\nwith your own hands into those of Miss Fonblanque, for that is the name\nby which she is to pass.  When we next meet, you will tell me what you\nthink of her,' she added, with a touch of the provocative.\n\n'Ah,' said Challoner, almost tenderly, 'she can be nothing to me.'\n\n'You do not know,' replied the young lady, with a sigh.  'By-the-bye, I\nhad forgotten--it is very childish, and I am almost ashamed to mention\nit--but when you see Miss Fonblanque, you will have to make yourself a\nlittle ridiculous; and I am sure the part in no way suits you.  We had\nagreed upon a watchword.  You will have to address an earl's daughter in\nthese words: \"_Nigger_, _nigger_, _never die_;\" but reassure yourself,'\nshe added, laughing, 'for the fair patrician will at once finish the\nquotation.  Come now, say your lesson.'\n\n'\"Nigger, nigger, never die,\"' repeated Challoner, with undisguised\nreluctance.\n\nMiss Fonblanque went into fits of laughter.  'Excellent,' said she, 'it\nwill be the most humorous scene.'  And she laughed again.\n\n'And what will be the counterword?' asked Challoner stiffly.\n\n'I will not tell you till the last moment,' said she; 'for I perceive you\nare growing too imperious.'\n\nBreakfast over, she accompanied the young man to the platform, bought him\nthe _Graphic_, the _Athenaeum_, and a paper-cutter, and stood on the step\nconversing till the whistle sounded.  Then she put her head into the\ncarriage.  '_Black face and shining eye_!' she whispered, and instantly\nleaped down upon the platform, with a thrill of gay and musical laughter.\nAs the train steamed out of the great arch of glass, the sound of that\nlaughter still rang in the young man's ears.\n\nChalloner's position was too unusual to be long welcome to his mind.  He\nfound himself projected the whole length of England, on a mission beset\nwith obscure and ridiculous circumstances, and yet, by the trust he had\naccepted, irrevocably bound to persevere.  How easy it appeared, in the\nretrospect, to have refused the whole proposal, returned the money, and\ngone forth again upon his own affairs, a free and happy man!  And it was\nnow impossible: the enchantress who had held him with her eye had now\ndisappeared, taking his honour in pledge; and as she had failed to leave\nhim an address, he was denied even the inglorious safety of retreat.  To\nuse the paper-knife, or even to read the periodicals with which she had\npresented him, was to renew the bitterness of his remorse; and as he was\nalone in the compartment, he passed the day staring at the landscape in\nimpotent repentance, and long before he was landed on the platform of St.\nEnoch's, had fallen to the lowest and coldest zones of self-contempt.\n\nAs he was hungry, and elegant in his habits, he would have preferred to\ndine and to remove the stains of travel; but the words of the young lady,\nand his own impatient eagerness, would suffer no delay.  In the late,\nluminous, and lamp-starred dusk of the summer evening, he accordingly set\nforward with brisk steps.\n\nThe street to which he was directed had first seen the day in the\ncharacter of a row of small suburban villas on a hillside; but the\nextension of the city had long since, and on every hand, surrounded it\nwith miles of streets.  From the top of the hill a range of very tall\nbuildings, densely inhabited by the poorest classes of the population and\nvariegated by drying-poles from every second window, overplumbed the\nvillas and their little gardens like a sea-board cliff.  But still, under\nthe grime of years of city smoke, these antiquated cottages, with their\nvenetian blinds and rural porticoes, retained a somewhat melancholy\nsavour of the past.\n\nThe street when Challoner entered it was perfectly deserted.  From hard\nby, indeed, the sound of a thousand footfalls filled the ear; but in\nRichard Street itself there was neither light nor sound of human\nhabitation.  The appearance of the neighbourhood weighed heavily on the\nmind of the young man; once more, as in the streets of London, he was\nimpressed with the sense of city deserts; and as he approached the number\nindicated, and somewhat falteringly rang the bell, his heart sank within\nhim.\n\nThe bell was ancient, like the house; it had a thin and garrulous note;\nand it was some time before it ceased to sound from the rear quarters of\nthe building.  Following upon this an inner door was stealthily opened,\nand careful and catlike steps drew near along the hall.  Challoner,\nsupposing he was to be instantly admitted, produced his letter, and, as\nwell as he was able, prepared a smiling face.  To his indescribable\nsurprise, however, the footsteps ceased, and then, after a pause and with\nthe like stealthiness, withdrew once more, and died away in the interior\nof the house.  A second time the young man rang violently at the bell; a\nsecond time, to his keen hearkening, a certain bustle of discreet footing\nmoved upon the hollow boards of the old villa; and again the fainthearted\ngarrison only drew near to retreat.  The cup of the visitor's endurance\nwas now full to overflowing; and, committing the whole family of\nFonblanque to every mood and shade of condemnation, he turned upon his\nheel and redescended the steps.  Perhaps the mover in the house was\nwatching from a window, and plucked up courage at the sight of this\ndesistance; or perhaps, where he lurked trembling in the back parts of\nthe villa, reason in its own right had conquered his alarms.  Challoner,\nat least, had scarce set foot upon the pavement when he was arrested by\nthe sound of the withdrawal of an inner bolt; one followed another,\nrattling in their sockets; the key turned harshly in the lock; the door\nopened; and there appeared upon the threshold a man of a very stalwart\nfigure in his shirt sleeves.  He was a person neither of great manly\nbeauty nor of a refined exterior; he was not the man, in ordinary moods,\nto attract the eyes of the observer; but as he now stood in the doorway,\nhe was marked so legibly with the extreme passion of terror that\nChalloner stood wonder-struck.  For a fraction of a minute they gazed\nupon each other in silence; and then the man of the house, with ashen\nlips and gasping voice, inquired the business of his visitor.  Challoner\nreplied, in tones from which he strove to banish his surprise, that he\nwas the bearer of a letter to a certain Miss Fonblanque.  At this name,\nas at a talisman, the man fell back and impatiently invited him to enter;\nand no sooner had the adventurer crossed the threshold, than the door was\nclosed behind him and his retreat cut off.\n\nIt was already long past eight at night; and though the late twilight of\nthe north still lingered in the streets, in the passage it was already\ngroping dark.  The man led Challoner directly to a parlour looking on the\ngarden to the back.  Here he had apparently been supping; for by the\nlight of a tallow dip the table was seen to be covered with a napkin, and\nset out with a quart of bottled ale and the heel of a Gouda cheese.  The\nroom, on the other hand, was furnished with faded solidity, and the walls\nwere lined with scholarly and costly volumes in glazed cases.  The house\nmust have been taken furnished; for it had no congruity with this man of\nthe shirt sleeves and the mean supper.  As for the earl's daughter, the\nearl and the visionary consulships in foreign cities, they had long ago\nbegun to fade in Challoner's imagination.  Like Doctor Grierson and the\nMormon angels, they were plainly woven of the stuff of dreams.  Not an\nillusion remained to the knight-errant; not a hope was left him, but to\nbe speedily relieved from this disreputable business.\n\nThe man had continued to regard his visitor with undisguised anxiety, and\nbegan once more to press him for his errand.\n\n'I am here,' said Challoner, 'simply to do a service between two ladies;\nand I must ask you, without further delay, to summon Miss Fonblanque,\ninto whose hands alone I am authorised to deliver the letter that I\nbear.'\n\nA growing wonder began to mingle on the man's face with the lines of\nsolicitude.  'I am Miss Fonblanque,' he said; and then, perceiving the\neffect of this communication, 'Good God!' he cried, 'what are you staring\nat?  I tell you, I am Miss Fonblanque.'\n\nSeeing the speaker wore a chin-beard of considerable length, and the\nremainder of his face was blue with shaving, Challoner could only suppose\nhimself the subject of a jest.  He was no longer under the spell of the\nyoung lady's presence; and with men, and above all with his inferiors, he\nwas capable of some display of spirit.\n\n'Sir,' said he, pretty roundly, 'I have put myself to great inconvenience\nfor persons of whom I know too little, and I begin to be weary of the\nbusiness.  Either you shall immediately summon Miss Fonblanque, or I\nleave this house and put myself under the direction of the police.'\n\n'This is horrible!' exclaimed the man.  'I declare before Heaven I am the\nperson meant, but how shall I convince you?  It must have been Clara, I\nperceive, that sent you on this errand--a madwoman, who jests with the\nmost deadly interests; and here we are incapable, perhaps, of an\nagreement, and Heaven knows what may depend on our delay!'\n\nHe spoke with a really startling earnestness; and at the same time there\nflashed upon the mind of Challoner the ridiculous jingle which was to\nserve as password.  'This may, perhaps, assist you,' he said, and then,\nwith some embarrassment, '\"Nigger, nigger, never die.\"'\n\nA light of relief broke upon the troubled countenance of the man with the\nchin-beard.  '\"Black face and shining eye\"--give me the letter,' he\npanted, in one gasp.\n\n'Well,' said Challoner, though still with some reluctance, 'I suppose I\nmust regard you as the proper recipient; and though I may justly complain\nof the spirit in which I have been treated, I am only too glad to be done\nwith all responsibility.  Here it is,' and he produced the envelope.\n\nThe man leaped upon it like a beast, and with hands that trembled in a\nmanner painful to behold, tore it open and unfolded the letter.  As he\nread, terror seemed to mount upon him to the pitch of nightmare.  He\nstruck one hand upon his brow, while with the other, as if unconsciously,\nhe crumpled the paper to a ball.  'My gracious powers!' he cried; and\nthen, dashing to the window, which stood open on the garden, he clapped\nforth his head and shoulders, and whistled long and shrill.  Challoner\nfell back into a corner, and resolutely grasping his staff, prepared for\nthe most desperate events; but the thoughts of the man with the\nchin-beard were far removed from violence.  Turning again into the room,\nand once more beholding his visitor, whom he appeared to have forgotten,\nhe fairly danced with trepidation.  'Impossible!' he cried.  'Oh, quite\nimpossible!  O Lord, I have lost my head.'  And then, once more striking\nhis hand upon his brow, 'The money!' he exclaimed.  'Give me the money.'\n\n'My good friend,' replied Challoner, 'this is a very painful exhibition;\nand until I see you reasonably master of yourself, I decline to proceed\nwith any business.'\n\n'You are quite right,' said the man.  'I am of a very nervous habit; a\nlong course of the dumb ague has undermined my constitution.  But I know\nyou have money; it may be still the saving of me; and oh, dear young\ngentleman, in pity's name be expeditious!'  Challoner, sincerely uneasy\nas he was, could scarce refrain from laughter; but he was himself in a\nhurry to be gone, and without more delay produced the money.  'You will\nfind the sum, I trust, correct,' he observed 'and let me ask you to give\nme a receipt.'\n\nBut the man heeded him not.  He seized the money, and disregarding the\nsovereigns that rolled loose upon the floor, thrust the bundle of notes\ninto his pocket.\n\n'A receipt,' repeated Challoner, with some asperity.  'I insist on a\nreceipt.'\n\n'Receipt?' repeated the man, a little wildly.  'A receipt?  Immediately!\nAwait me here.'\n\nChalloner, in reply, begged the gentleman to lose no unnecessary time, as\nhe was himself desirous of catching a particular train.\n\n'Ah, by God, and so am I!' exclaimed the man with the chin-beard; and\nwith that he was gone out of the room, and had rattled upstairs, four at\na time, to the upper story of the villa.\n\n'This is certainly a most amazing business,' thought Challoner;\n'certainly a most disquieting affair; and I cannot conceal from myself\nthat I have become mixed up with either lunatics or malefactors.  I may\ntruly thank my stars that I am so nearly and so creditably done with it.'\nThus thinking, and perhaps remembering the episode of the whistle, he\nturned to the open window.  The garden was still faintly clear; he could\ndistinguish the stairs and terraces with which the small domain had been\nadorned by former owners, and the blackened bushes and dead trees that\nhad once afforded shelter to the country birds; beyond these he saw the\nstrong retaining wall, some thirty feet in height, which enclosed the\ngarden to the back; and again above that, the pile of dingy buildings\nrearing its frontage high into the night.  A peculiar object lying\nstretched upon the lawn for some time baffled his eyesight; but at length\nhe had made it out to be a long ladder, or series of ladders bound into\none; and he was still wondering of what service so great an instrument\ncould be in such a scant enclosure, when he was recalled to himself by\nthe noise of some one running violently down the stairs.  This was\nfollowed by the sudden, clamorous banging of the house door; and that\nagain, by rapid and retreating footsteps in the street.\n\nChalloner sprang into the passage.  He ran from room to room, upstairs\nand downstairs; and in that old dingy and worm-eaten house, he found\nhimself alone.  Only in one apartment, looking to the front, were there\nany traces of the late inhabitant: a bed that had been recently slept in\nand not made, a chest of drawers disordered by a hasty search, and on the\nfloor a roll of crumpled paper.  This he picked up.  The light in this\nupper story looking to the front was considerably brighter than in the\nparlour; and he was able to make out that the paper bore the mark of the\nhotel at Euston, and even, by peering closely, to decipher the following\nlines in a very elegant and careful female hand:\n\n    'DEAR M'GUIRE,--It is certain your retreat is known.  We have just\n    had another failure, clockwork thirty hours too soon, with the usual\n    humiliating result.  Zero is quite disheartened.  We are all\n    scattered, and I could find no one but the _solemn ass_ who brings\n    you this and the money.  I would love to see your meeting.--Ever\n    yours,\n\n                                                             SHINING EYE.'\n\nChalloner was stricken to the heart.  He perceived by what facility, by\nwhat unmanly fear of ridicule, he had been brought down to be the gull of\nthis intriguer; and his wrath flowed forth in almost equal measure\nagainst himself, against the woman, and against Somerset, whose idle\ncounsels had impelled him to embark on that adventure.  At the same time\na great and troubled curiosity, and a certain chill of fear, possessed\nhis spirit.  The conduct of the man with the chin-beard, the terms of the\nletter, and the explosion of the early morning, fitted together like\nparts in some obscure and mischievous imbroglio.  Evil was certainly\nafoot; evil, secrecy, terror, and falsehood were the conditions and the\npassions of the people among whom he had begun to move, like a blind\npuppet; and he who began as a puppet, his experience told him, was often\ndoomed to perish as a victim.\n\nFrom the stupor of deep thought into which he had glided with the letter\nin his hand, he was awakened by the clatter of the bell.  He glanced from\nthe window; and, conceive his horror and surprise when he beheld,\nclustered on the steps, in the front garden and on the pavement of the\nstreet, a formidable posse of police!  He started to the full possession\nof his powers and courage.  Escape, and escape at any cost, was the one\nidea that possessed him.  Swiftly and silently he redescended the\ncreaking stairs; he was already in the passage when a second and more\nimperious summons from the door awoke the echoes of the empty house; nor\nhad the bell ceased to jangle before he had bestridden the window-sill of\nthe parlour and was lowering himself into the garden.  His coat was\nhooked upon the iron flower-basket; for a moment he hung dependent heels\nand head below; and then, with the noise of rending cloth, and followed\nby several pots, he dropped upon the sod.  Once more the bell was rung,\nand now with furious and repeated peals.  The desperate Challoner turned\nhis eyes on every side.  They fell upon the ladder, and he ran to it, and\nwith strenuous but unavailing effort sought to raise it from the ground.\nSuddenly the weight, which was thus resisting his whole strength, began\nto lighten in his hands; the ladder, like a thing of life, reared its\nbulk from off the sod; and Challoner, leaping back with a cry of almost\nsuperstitious terror, beheld the whole structure mount, foot by foot,\nagainst the face of the retaining wall.  At the same time, two heads were\ndimly visible above the parapet, and he was hailed by a guarded whistle.\nSomething in its modulation recalled, like an echo, the whistle of the\nman with the chin-beard.\n\nHad he chanced upon a means of escape prepared beforehand by those very\nmiscreants whose messenger and gull he had become?  Was this, indeed, a\nmeans of safety, or but the starting-point of further complication and\ndisaster?  He paused not to reflect.  Scarce was the ladder reared to its\nfull length than he had sprung already on the rounds; hand over hand,\nswift as an ape, he scaled the tottering stairway.  Strong arms received,\nembraced, and helped him; he was lifted and set once more upon the earth;\nand with the spasm of his alarm yet unsubsided, found himself in the\ncompany of two rough-looking men, in the paved back yard of one of the\ntall houses that crowned the summit of the hill.  Meanwhile, from below,\nthe note of the bell had been succeeded by the sound of vigorous and\nredoubling blows.\n\n'Are you all out?' asked one of his companions; and, as soon as he had\nbabbled an answer in the affirmative, the rope was cut from the top\nround, and the ladder thrust roughly back into the garden, where it fell\nand broke with clattering reverberations.  Its fall was hailed with many\nbroken cries; for the whole of Richard Street was now in high emotion,\nthe people crowding to the windows or clambering on the garden walls.\nThe same man who had already addressed Challoner seized him by the arm;\nwhisked him through the basement of the house and across the street upon\nthe other side; and before the unfortunate adventurer had time to realise\nhis situation, a door was opened, and he was thrust into a low and dark\ncompartment.\n\n'Bedad,' observed his guide, 'there was no time to lose.  Is M'Guire\ngone, or was it you that whistled?\n\n'M'Guire is gone,' said Challoner.\n\nThe guide now struck a light.  'Ah,' said he, 'this will never do.  You\ndare not go upon the streets in such a figure.  Wait quietly here and I\nwill bring you something decent.'\n\nWith that the man was gone, and Challoner, his attention thus rudely\nawakened, began ruefully to consider the havoc that had been worked in\nhis attire.  His hat was gone; his trousers were cruelly ripped; and the\nbest part of one tail of his very elegant frockcoat had been left hanging\nfrom the iron crockets of the window.  He had scarce had time to measure\nthese disasters when his host re-entered the apartment and proceeded,\nwithout a word, to envelop the refined and urbane Challoner in a long\nulster of the cheapest material, and of a pattern so gross and vulgar\nthat his spirit sickened at the sight.  This calumnious disguise was\ncrowned and completed by a soft felt hat of the Tyrolese design, and\nseveral sizes too small.  At another moment Challoner would simply have\nrefused to issue forth upon the world thus travestied; but the desire to\nescape from Glasgow was now too strongly and too exclusively impressed\nupon his mind.  With one haggard glance at the spotted tails of his new\ncoat, he inquired what was to pay for this accoutrement.  The man assured\nhim that the whole expense was easily met from funds in his possession,\nand begged him, instead of wasting time, to make his best speed out of\nthe neighbourhood.\n\nThe young man was not loath to take the hint.  True to his usual\ncourtesy, he thanked the speaker and complimented him upon his taste in\ngreatcoats; and leaving the man somewhat abashed by these remarks and the\nmanner of their delivery, he hurried forth into the lamplit city.  The\nlast train was gone ere, after many deviations, he had reached the\nterminus.  Attired as he was he dared not present himself at any\nreputable inn; and he felt keenly that the unassuming dignity of his\ndemeanour would serve to attract attention, perhaps mirth and possibly\nsuspicion, in any humbler hostelry.  He was thus condemned to pass the\nsolemn and uneventful hours of a whole night in pacing the streets of\nGlasgow; supperless; a figure of fun for all beholders; waiting the dawn,\nwith hope indeed, but with unconquerable shrinkings; and above all\nthings, filled with a profound sense of the folly and weakness of his\nconduct.  It may be conceived with what curses he assailed the memory of\nthe fair narrator of Hyde Park; her parting laughter rang in his ears all\nnight with damning mockery and iteration; and when he could spare a\nthought from this chief artificer of his confusion, it was to expend his\nwrath on Somerset and the career of the amateur detective.  With the\ncoming of day, he found in a shy milk-shop the means to appease his\nhunger.  There were still many hours to wait before the departure of the\nSouth express; these he passed wandering with indescribable fatigue in\nthe obscurer by-streets of the city; and at length slipped quietly into\nthe station and took his place in the darkest corner of a third-class\ncarriage.  Here, all day long, he jolted on the bare boards, distressed\nby heat and continually reawakened from uneasy slumbers.  By the half\nreturn ticket in his purse, he was entitled to make the journey on the\neasy cushions and with the ample space of the first-class; but alas! in\nhis absurd attire, he durst not, for decency, commingle with his equals;\nand this small annoyance, coming last in such a series of disasters, cut\nhim to the heart.\n\nThat night, when, in his Putney lodging, he reviewed the expense,\nanxiety, and weariness of his adventure; when he beheld the ruins of his\nlast good trousers and his last presentable coat; and above all, when his\neye by any chance alighted on the Tyrolese hat or the degrading ulster,\nhis heart would overflow with bitterness, and it was only by a serious\ncall on his philosophy that he maintained the dignity of his demeanour.\n\n\n\n\nSOMERSET'S ADVENTURE\n\n\n_THE SUPERFLUOUS MANSION_\n\n\nMr. Paul Somerset was a young gentleman of a lively and fiery\nimagination, with very small capacity for action.  He was one who lived\nexclusively in dreams and in the future: the creature of his own\ntheories, and an actor in his own romances.  From the cigar divan he\nproceeded to parade the streets, still heated with the fire of his\neloquence, and scouting upon every side for the offer of some fortunate\nadventure.  In the continual stream of passers-by, on the sealed fronts\nof houses, on the posters that covered the hoardings, and in every\nlineament and throb of the great city, he saw a mysterious and hopeful\nhieroglyph.  But although the elements of adventure were streaming by him\nas thick as drops of water in the Thames, it was in vain that, now with a\nbeseeching, now with something of a braggadocio air, he courted and\nprovoked the notice of the passengers; in vain that, putting fortune to\nthe touch, he even thrust himself into the way and came into direct\ncollision with those of the more promising demeanour.  Persons brimful of\nsecrets, persons pining for affection, persons perishing for lack of help\nor counsel, he was sure he could perceive on every side; but by some\ncontrariety of fortune, each passed upon his way without remarking the\nyoung gentleman, and went farther (surely to fare worse!) in quest of the\nconfidant, the friend, or the adviser.  To thousands he must have turned\nan appealing countenance, and yet not one regarded him.\n\nA light dinner, eaten to the accompaniment of his impetuous aspirations,\nbroke in upon the series of his attempts on fortune; and when he returned\nto the task, the lamps were already lighted, and the nocturnal crowd was\ndense upon the pavement.  Before a certain restaurant, whose name will\nreadily occur to any student of our Babylon, people were already packed\nso closely that passage had grown difficult; and Somerset, standing in\nthe kennel, watched, with a hope that was beginning to grow somewhat\nweary, the faces and the manners of the crowd.  Suddenly he was startled\nby a gentle touch upon the shoulder, and facing about, he was aware of a\nvery plain and elegant brougham, drawn by a pair of powerful horses, and\ndriven by a man in sober livery.  There were no arms upon the panel; the\nwindow was open, but the interior was obscure; the driver yawned behind\nhis palm; and the young man was already beginning to suppose himself the\ndupe of his own fancy, when a hand, no larger than a child's and smoothly\ngloved in white, appeared in a corner of the window and privily beckoned\nhim to approach.  He did so, and looked in.  The carriage was occupied by\na single small and very dainty figure, swathed head and shoulders in\nimpenetrable folds of white lace; and a voice, speaking low and silvery,\naddressed him in these words--\n\n'Open the door and get in.'\n\n'It must be,' thought the young man with an almost unbearable thrill, 'it\nmust be that duchess at last!'  Yet, although the moment was one to which\nhe had long looked forward, it was with a certain share of alarm that he\nopened the door, and, mounting into the brougham, took his seat beside\nthe lady of the lace.  Whether or no she had touched a spring, or given\nsome other signal, the young man had hardly closed the door before the\ncarriage, with considerable swiftness, and with a very luxurious and easy\nmovement on its springs, turned and began to drive towards the west.\n\nSomerset, as I have written, was not unprepared; it had long been his\nparticular pleasure to rehearse his conduct in the most unlikely\nsituations; and this, among others, of the patrician ravisher, was one he\nhad familiarly studied.  Strange as it may seem, however, he could find\nno apposite remark; and as the lady, on her side, vouchsafed no further\nsign, they continued to drive in silence through the streets.  Except for\nalternate flashes from the passing lamps, the carriage was plunged in\nobscurity; and beyond the fact that the fittings were luxurious, and that\nthe lady was singularly small and slender in person, and, all but one\ngloved hand, still swathed in her costly veil, the young man could\ndecipher no detail of an inspiring nature.  The suspense began to grow\nunbearable.  Twice he cleared his throat, and twice the whole resources\nof the language failed him.  In similar scenes, when he had forecast them\non the theatre of fancy, his presence of mind had always been complete,\nhis eloquence remarkable; and at this disparity between the rehearsal and\nthe performance, he began to be seized with a panic of apprehension.\nHere, on the very threshold of adventure, suppose him ignominiously to\nfail; suppose that after ten, twenty, or sixty seconds of still\nuninterrupted silence, the lady should touch the check-string and\nre-deposit him, weighed and found wanting, on the common street!\nThousands of persons of no mind at all, he reasoned, would be found more\nequal to the part; could, that very instant, by some decisive step, prove\nthe lady's choice to have been well inspired, and put a stop to this\nintolerable silence.\n\nHis eye, at this point, lighted on the hand.  It was better to fall by\ndesperate councils than to continue as he was; and with one tremulous\nswoop he pounced on the gloved fingers and drew them to himself.  One\novert step, it had appeared to him, would dissolve the spell of his\nembarrassment; in act, he found it otherwise: he found himself no less\nincapable of speech or further progress; and with the lady's hand in his,\nsat helpless.  But worse was in store.  A peculiar quivering began to\nagitate the form of his companion; the hand that lay unresistingly in\nSomerset's trembled as with ague; and presently there broke forth, in the\nshadow of the carriage, the bubbling and musical sound of laughter,\nresisted but triumphant.  The young man dropped his prize; had it been\npossible, he would have bounded from the carriage.  The lady, meanwhile,\nlying back upon the cushions, passed on from trill to trill of the most\nheartfelt, high-pitched, clear and fairy-sounding merriment.\n\n'You must not be offended,' she said at last, catching an opportunity\nbetween two paroxysms.  'If you have been mistaken in the warmth of your\nattentions, the fault is solely mine; it does not flow from your\npresumption, but from my eccentric manner of recruiting friends; and,\nbelieve me, I am the last person in the world to think the worse of a\nyoung man for showing spirit.  As for to-night, it is my intention to\nentertain you to a little supper; and if I shall continue to be as much\npleased with your manners as I was taken with your face, I may perhaps\nend by making you an advantageous offer.'\n\nSomerset sought in vain to find some form of answer, but his discomfiture\nhad been too recent and complete.\n\n'Come,' returned the lady, 'we must have no display of temper; that is\nfor me the one disqualifying fault; and as I perceive we are drawing near\nour destination, I shall ask you to descend and offer me your arm.'\n\nIndeed, at that very moment the carriage drew up before a stately and\nsevere mansion in a spacious square; and Somerset, who was possessed of\nan excellent temper, with the best grace in the world assisted the lady\nto alight.  The door was opened by an old woman of a grim appearance, who\nushered the pair into a dining-room somewhat dimly lighted, but already\nlaid for supper, and occupied by a prodigious company of large and\nvaluable cats.  Here, as soon as they were alone, the lady divested\nherself of the lace in which she was enfolded; and Somerset was relieved\nto find, that although still bearing the traces of great beauty, and\nstill distinguished by the fire and colour of her eye, her hair was of a\nsilvery whiteness and her face lined with years.\n\n'And now, _mon preux_,' said the old lady, nodding at him with a quaint\ngaiety, 'you perceive that I am no longer in my first youth.  You will\nsoon find that I am all the better company for that.'\n\nAs she spoke, the maid re-entered the apartment with a light but tasteful\nsupper.  They sat down, accordingly, to table, the cats with savage\npantomime surrounding the old lady's chair; and what with the excellence\nof the meal and the gaiety of his entertainer, Somerset was soon\ncompletely at his ease.  When they had well eaten and drunk, the old lady\nleaned back in her chair, and taking a cat upon her lap, subjected her\nguest to a prolonged but evidently mirthful scrutiny.\n\n'I fear, madam,' said Somerset, 'that my manners have not risen to the\nheight of your preconceived opinion.'\n\n'My dear young man,' she replied, 'you were never more mistaken in your\nlife.  I find you charming, and you may very well have lighted on a fairy\ngodmother.  I am not one of those who are given to change their opinions,\nand short of substantial demerit, those who have once gained my favour\ncontinue to enjoy it; but I have a singular swiftness of decision, read\nmy fellow men and women with a glance, and have acted throughout life on\nfirst impressions.  Yours, as I tell you, has been favourable; and if, as\nI suppose, you are a young fellow of somewhat idle habits, I think it not\nimprobable that we may strike a bargain.'\n\n'Ah, madam,' returned Somerset, 'you have divined my situation.  I am a\nman of birth, parts, and breeding; excellent company, or at least so I\nfind myself; but by a peculiar iniquity of fate, destitute alike of trade\nor money.  I was, indeed, this evening upon the quest of an adventure,\nresolved to close with any offer of interest, emolument, or pleasure; and\nyour summons, which I profess I am still at some loss to understand,\njumped naturally with the inclination of my mind.  Call it, if you will,\nimpudence; I am here, at least, prepared for any proposition you can find\nit in your heart to make, and resolutely determined to accept.'\n\n'You express yourself very well,' replied the old lady, 'and are\ncertainly a droll and curious young man.  I should not care to affirm\nthat you were sane, for I have never found any one entirely so besides\nmyself; but at least the nature of your madness entertains me, and I will\nreward you with some description of my character and life.'\n\nThereupon the old lady, still fondling the cat upon her lap, proceeded to\nnarrate the following particulars.\n\n\n\n_NARRATIVE OF THE SPIRITED OLD LADY_\n\n\nI was the eldest daughter of the Reverend Bernard Fanshawe, who held a\nvaluable living in the diocese of Bath and Wells.  Our family, a very\nlarge one, was noted for a sprightly and incisive wit, and came of a good\nold stock where beauty was an heirloom.  In Christian grace of character\nwe were unhappily deficient.  From my earliest years I saw and deplored\nthe defects of those relatives whose age and position should have enabled\nthem to conquer my esteem; and while I was yet a child, my father married\na second wife, in whom (strange to say) the Fanshawe failings were\nexaggerated to a monstrous and almost laughable degree.  Whatever may be\nsaid against me, it cannot be denied I was a pattern daughter; but it was\nin vain that, with the most touching patience, I submitted to my\nstepmother's demands; and from the hour she entered my father's house, I\nmay say that I met with nothing but injustice and ingratitude.\n\nI stood not alone, however, in the sweetness of my disposition; for one\nother of the family besides myself was free from any violence of\ncharacter.  Before I had reached the age of sixteen, this cousin, John by\nname, had conceived for me a sincere but silent passion; and although the\npoor lad was too timid to hint at the nature of his feelings, I had soon\ndivined and begun to share them.  For some days I pondered on the odd\nsituation created for me by the bashfulness of my admirer; and at length,\nperceiving that he began, in his distress, rather to avoid than seek my\ncompany, I determined to take the matter into my own hands.  Finding him\nalone in a retired part of the rectory garden, I told him that I had\ndivined his amiable secret, that I knew with what disfavour our union was\nsure to be regarded; and that, under the circumstances, I was prepared to\nflee with him at once.  Poor John was literally paralysed with joy; such\nwas the force of his emotions, that he could find no words in which to\nthank me; and that I, seeing him thus helpless, was obliged to arrange,\nmyself, the details of our flight, and of the stolen marriage which was\nimmediately to crown it.  John had been at that time projecting a visit\nto the metropolis.  In this I bade him persevere, and promised on the\nfollowing day to join him at the Tavistock Hotel.\n\nTrue, on my side, to every detail of our arrangement, I arose, on the day\nin question, before the servants, packed a few necessaries in a bag, took\nwith me the little money I possessed, and bade farewell for ever to the\nrectory.  I walked with good spirits to a town some thirty miles from\nhome, and was set down the next morning in this great city of London.  As\nI walked from the coach-office to the hotel, I could not help exulting in\nthe pleasant change that had befallen me; beholding, meanwhile, with\ninnocent delight, the traffic of the streets, and depicting, in all the\ncolours of fancy, the reception that awaited me from John.  But alas!\nwhen I inquired for Mr. Fanshawe, the porter assured me there was no such\ngentleman among the guests.  By what channel our secret had leaked out,\nor what pressure had been brought to bear on the too facile John, I could\nnever fathom.  Enough that my family had triumphed; that I found myself\nalone in London, tender in years, smarting under the most sensible\nmortification, and by every sentiment of pride and self-respect debarred\nfor ever from my father's house.\n\nI rose under the blow, and found lodgings in the neighbourhood of Euston\nRoad, where, for the first time in my life, I tasted the joys of\nindependence.  Three days afterwards, an advertisement in the _Times_\ndirected me to the office of a solicitor whom I knew to be in my father's\nconfidence.  There I was given the promise of a very moderate allowance,\nand a distinct intimation that I must never look to be received at home.\nI could not but resent so cruel a desertion, and I told the lawyer it was\na meeting I desired as little as themselves.  He smiled at my courageous\nspirit, paid me the first quarter of my income, and gave me the remainder\nof my personal effects, which had been sent to me, under his care, in a\ncouple of rather ponderous boxes.  With these I returned in triumph to my\nlodgings, more content with my position than I should have thought\npossible a week before, and fully determined to make the best of the\nfuture.\n\nAll went well for several months; and, indeed, it was my own fault alone\nthat ended this pleasant and secluded episode of life.  I have, I must\nconfess, the fatal trick of spoiling my inferiors.  My landlady, to whom\nI had as usual been overkind, impertinently called me in fault for some\nparticular too small to mention; and I, annoyed that I had allowed her\nthe freedom upon which she thus presumed, ordered her to leave my\npresence.  She stood a moment dumb, and then, recalling her\nself-possession, 'Your bill,' said she, 'shall be ready this evening, and\nto-morrow, madam, you shall leave my house.  See,' she added, 'that you\nare able to pay what you owe me; for if I do not receive the uttermost\nfarthing, no box of yours shall pass my threshold.'\n\nI was confounded at her audacity, but as a whole quarter's income was due\nto me, not otherwise affected by the threat.  That afternoon, as I left\nthe solicitor's door, carrying in one hand, and done up in a paper\nparcel, the whole amount of my fortune, there befell me one of those\ndecisive incidents that sometimes shape a life.  The lawyer's office was\nsituate in a street that opened at the upper end upon the Strand, and was\nclosed at the lower, at the time of which I speak, by a row of iron\nrailings looking on the Thames.  Down this street, then, I beheld my\nstepmother advancing to meet me, and doubtless bound to the very house I\nhad just left.  She was attended by a maid whose face was new to me, but\nher own was too clearly printed on my memory; and the sight of it, even\nfrom a distance, filled me with generous indignation.  Flight was\nimpossible.  There was nothing left but to retreat against the railing,\nand with my back turned to the street, pretend to be admiring the barges\non the river or the chimneys of transpontine London.\n\nI was still so standing, and had not yet fully mastered the turbulence of\nmy emotions, when a voice at my elbow addressed me with a trivial\nquestion.  It was the maid whom my stepmother, with characteristic\nhardness, had left to await her on the street, while she transacted her\nbusiness with the family solicitor.  The girl did not know who I was; the\nopportunity too golden to be lost; and I was soon hearing the latest news\nof my father's rectory and parish.  It did not surprise me to find that\nshe detested her employers; and yet the terms in which she spoke of them\nwere hard to bear, hard to let pass unchallenged.  I heard them, however,\nwithout dissent, for my self-command is wonderful; and we might have\nparted as we met, had she not proceeded, in an evil hour, to criticise\nthe rector's missing daughter, and with the most shocking perversions, to\nnarrate the story of her flight.  My nature is so essentially generous\nthat I can never pause to reason.  I flung up my hand sharply, by way, as\nwell as I remember, of indignant protest; and, in the act, the packet\nslipped from my fingers, glanced between the railings, and fell and sunk\nin the river.  I stood a moment petrified, and then, struck by the\ndrollery of the incident, gave way to peals of laughter.  I was still\nlaughing when my stepmother reappeared, and the maid, who doubtless\nconsidered me insane, ran off to join her; nor had I yet recovered my\ngravity when I presented myself before the lawyer to solicit a fresh\nadvance.  His answer made me serious enough, for it was a flat refusal;\nand it was not until I had besought him even with tears, that he\nconsented to lend me ten pounds from his own pocket.  'I am a poor man,'\nsaid he, 'and you must look for nothing farther at my hands.'\n\nThe landlady met me at the door.  'Here, madam,' said she, with a curtsey\ninsolently low, 'here is my bill.  Would it inconvenience you to settle\nit at once?'\n\n'You shall be paid, madam,' said I, 'in the morning, in the proper\ncourse.'  And I took the paper with a very high air, but inwardly\nquaking.\n\nI had no sooner looked at it than I perceived myself to be lost.  I had\nbeen short of money and had allowed my debt to mount; and it had now\nreached the sum, which I shall never forget, of twelve pounds thirteen\nand fourpence halfpenny.  All evening I sat by the fire considering my\nsituation.  I could not pay the bill; my landlady would not suffer me to\nremove my boxes; and without either baggage or money, how was I to find\nanother lodging?  For three months, unless I could invent some remedy, I\nwas condemned to be without a roof and without a penny.  It can surprise\nno one that I decided on immediate flight; but even here I was confronted\nby a difficulty, for I had no sooner packed my boxes than I found I was\nnot strong enough to move, far less to carry them.\n\nIn this strait I did not hesitate a moment, but throwing on a shawl and\nbonnet, and covering my face with a thick veil, I betook myself to that\ngreat bazaar of dangerous and smiling chances, the pavement of the city.\nIt was already late at night, and the weather being wet and windy, there\nwere few abroad besides policemen.  These, on my present mission, I had\nwit enough to know for enemies; and wherever I perceived their moving\nlanterns, I made haste to turn aside and choose another thoroughfare.  A\nfew miserable women still walked the pavement; here and there were young\nfellows returning drunk, or ruffians of the lowest class lurking in the\nmouths of alleys; but of any one to whom I might appeal in my distress, I\nbegan almost to despair.\n\nAt last, at the corner of a street, I ran into the arms of one who was\nevidently a gentleman, and who, in all his appointments, from his furred\ngreat-coat to the fine cigar which he was smoking, comfortably breathed\nof wealth.  Much as my face has changed from its original beauty, I still\nretain (or so I tell myself) some traces of the youthful lightness of my\nfigure.  Even veiled as I then was, I could perceive the gentleman was\nstruck by my appearance: and this emboldened me for my adventure.\n\n'Sir,' said I, with a quickly beating heart, 'sir, are you one in whom a\nlady can confide?'\n\n'Why, my dear,' said he, removing his cigar, 'that depends on\ncircumstances.  If you will raise your veil--'\n\n'Sir,' I interrupted, 'let there be no mistake.  I ask you, as a\ngentleman, to serve me, but I offer no reward.'\n\n'That is frank,' said he; 'but hardly tempting.  And what, may I inquire,\nis the nature of the service?'\n\nBut I knew well enough it was not my interest to tell him on so short an\ninterview.  'If you will accompany me,' said I, 'to a house not far from\nhere, you can see for yourself.'\n\nHe looked at me awhile with hesitating eyes; and then, tossing away his\ncigar, which was not yet a quarter smoked, 'Here goes!' said he, and with\nperfect politeness offered me his arm.  I was wise enough to take it; to\nprolong our walk as far as possible, by more than one excursion from the\nshortest line; and to beguile the way with that sort of conversation\nwhich should prove to him indubitably from what station in society I\nsprang.  By the time we reached the door of my lodging, I felt sure I had\nconfirmed his interest, and might venture, before I turned the pass-key,\nto beseech him to moderate his voice and to tread softly.  He promised to\nobey me: and I admitted him into the passage and thence into my\nsitting-room, which was fortunately next the door.\n\n'And now,' said he, when with trembling fingers I had lighted a candle,\n'what is the meaning of all this?'\n\n'I wish you,' said I, speaking with great difficulty, 'to help me out\nwith these boxes--and I wish nobody to know.'\n\nHe took up the candle.  'And I wish to see your face,' said he.\n\nI turned back my veil without a word, and looked at him with every\nappearance of resolve that I could summon up.  For some time he gazed\ninto my face, still holding up the candle.  'Well,' said he at last, 'and\nwhere do you wish them taken?'\n\nI knew that I had gained my point; and it was with a tremor in my voice\nthat I replied.  'I had thought we might carry them between us to the\ncorner of Euston Road,' said I, 'where, even at this late hour, we may\nstill find a cab.'\n\n'Very good,' was his reply; and he immediately hoisted the heavier of my\ntrunks upon his shoulder, and taking one handle of the second, signed to\nme to help him at the other end.  In this order we made good our retreat\nfrom the house, and without the least adventure, drew pretty near to the\ncorner of Euston Road.  Before a house, where there was a light still\nburning, my companion paused.  'Let us here,' said he, 'set down our\nboxes, while we go forward to the end of the street in quest of a cab.\nBy doing so, we can still keep an eye upon their safety, and we avoid the\nvery extraordinary figure we should otherwise present--a young man, a\nyoung lady, and a mass of baggage, standing castaway at midnight on the\nstreets of London.'  So it was done, and the event proved him to be wise;\nfor long before there was any word of a cab, a policeman appeared upon\nthe scene, turned upon us the full glare of his lantern, and hung\nsuspiciously behind us in a doorway.\n\n'There seem to be no cabs about, policeman,' said my champion, with\naffected cheerfulness.  But the constable's answer was ungracious; and as\nfor the offer of a cigar, with which this rebuff was most unwisely\nfollowed up, he refused it point-blank, and without the least civility.\nThe young gentleman looked at me with a warning grimace, and there we\ncontinued to stand, on the edge of the pavement, in the beating rain, and\nwith the policeman still silently watching our movements from the\ndoorway.\n\nAt last, and after a delay that seemed interminable, a four-wheeler\nappeared lumbering along in the mud, and was instantly hailed by my\ncompanion.  'Just pull up here, will you?' he cried.  'We have some\nbaggage up the street.'\n\nAnd now came the hitch of our adventure; for when the policeman, still\nclosely following us, beheld my two boxes lying in the rain, he arose\nfrom mere suspicion to a kind of certitude of something evil.  The light\nin the house had been extinguished; the whole frontage of the street was\ndark; there was nothing to explain the presence of these unguarded\ntrunks; and no two innocent people were ever, I believe, detected in such\nquestionable circumstances.\n\n'Where have these things come from?' asked the policeman, flashing his\nlight full into my champion's face.\n\n'Why, from that house, of course,' replied the young gentleman, hastily\nshouldering a trunk.\n\nThe policeman whistled and turned to look at the dark windows; he then\ntook a step towards the door, as though to knock, a course which had\ninfallibly proved our ruin; but seeing us already hurrying down the\nstreet under our double burthen, thought better or worse of it, and\nfollowed in our wake.\n\n'For God's sake,' whispered my companion, 'tell me where to drive to.'\n\n'Anywhere,' I replied with anguish.  'I have no idea.  Anywhere you\nlike.'\n\nThus it befell that, when the boxes had been stowed, and I had already\nentered the cab, my deliverer called out in clear tones the address of\nthe house in which we are now seated.  The policeman, I could see, was\nstaggered.  This neighbourhood, so retired, so aristocratic, was far from\nwhat he had expected.  For all that, he took the number of the cab, and\nspoke for a few seconds and with a decided manner in the cabman's ear.\n\n'What can he have said?' I gasped, as soon as the cab had rolled away.\n\n'I can very well imagine,' replied my champion; 'and I can assure you\nthat you are now condemned to go where I have said; for, should we\nattempt to change our destination by the way, the jarvey will drive us\nstraight to a police-office.  Let me compliment you on your nerves,' he\nadded.  'I have had, I believe, the most horrible fright of my\nexistence.'\n\nBut my nerves, which he so much misjudged, were in so strange a disarray\nthat speech was now become impossible; and we made the drive\nthenceforward in unbroken silence.  When we arrived before the door of\nour destination, the young gentleman alighted, opened it with a pass-key\nlike one who was at home, bade the driver carry the trunks into the hall,\nand dismissed him with a handsome fee.  He then led me into this\ndining-room, looking nearly as you behold it, but with certain marks of\nbachelor occupancy, and hastened to pour out a glass of wine, which he\ninsisted on my drinking.  As soon as I could find my voice, 'In God's\nname,' I cried, 'where am I?'\n\nHe told me I was in his house, where I was very welcome, and had no more\nurgent business than to rest myself and recover my spirits.  As he spoke\nhe offered me another glass of wine, of which, indeed, I stood in great\nwant, for I was faint, and inclined to be hysterical.  Then he sat down\nbeside the fire, lit another cigar, and for some time observed me\ncuriously in silence.\n\n'And now,' said he, 'that you have somewhat restored yourself, will you\nbe kind enough to tell me in what sort of crime I have become a partner?\nAre you murderer, smuggler, thief, or only the harmless and domestic\nmoonlight flitter?'\n\nI had been already shocked by his lighting a cigar without permission,\nfor I had not forgotten the one he threw away on our first meeting; and\nnow, at these explicit insults, I resolved at once to reconquer his\nesteem.  The judgment of the world I have consistently despised, but I\nhad already begun to set a certain value on the good opinion of my\nentertainer.  Beginning with a note of pathos, but soon brightening into\nmy habitual vivacity and humour, I rapidly narrated the circumstances of\nmy birth, my flight, and subsequent misfortunes.  He heard me to an end\nin silence, gravely smoking.  'Miss Fanshawe,' said he, when I had done,\n'you are a very comical and most enchanting creature; and I can see\nnothing for it but that I should return to-morrow morning and satisfy\nyour landlady's demands.'\n\n'You strangely misinterpret my confidence,' was my reply; 'and if you had\nat all appreciated my character, you would understand that I can take no\nmoney at your hands.'\n\n'Your landlady will doubtless not be so particular,' he returned; 'nor do\nI at all despair of persuading even your unconquerable self.  I desire\nyou to examine me with critical indulgence.  My name is Henry Luxmore,\nLord Southwark's second son.  I possess nine thousand a year, the house\nin which we are now sitting, and seven others in the best neighbourhoods\nin town.  I do not believe I am repulsive to the eye, and as for my\ncharacter, you have seen me under trial.  I think you simply the most\noriginal of created beings; I need not tell you what you know very well,\nthat you are ravishingly pretty; and I have nothing more to add, except\nthat, foolish as it may appear, I am already head over heels in love with\nyou.'\n\n'Sir,' said I, 'I am prepared to be misjudged; but while I continue to\naccept your hospitality that fact alone should be enough to protect me\nfrom insult.'\n\n'Pardon me,' said he: 'I offer you marriage.'  And leaning back in his\nchair he replaced his cigar between his lips.\n\nI own I was confounded by an offer, not only so unprepared, but couched\nin terms so singular.  But he knew very well how to obtain his purposes,\nfor he was not only handsome in person, but his very coolness had a\ncharm; and to make a long story short, a fortnight later I became the\nwife of the Honourable Henry Luxmore.\n\nFor nearly twenty years I now led a life of almost perfect quiet.  My\nHenry had his weaknesses; I was twice driven to flee from his roof, but\nnot for long; for though he was easily over-excited, his nature was\nplacable below the surface, and with all his faults, I loved him\ntenderly.  At last he was taken from me; and such is the power of\nself-deception, and so strange are the whims of the dying, he actually\nassured me, with his latest breath, that he forgave the violence of my\ntemper!\n\nThere was but one pledge of the marriage, my daughter Clara.  She had,\nindeed, inherited a shadow of her father's failing; but in all things\nelse, unless my partial eyes deceived me, she derived her qualities from\nme, and might be called my moral image.  On my side, whatever else I may\nhave done amiss, as a mother I was above reproach.  Here, then, was\nsurely every promise for the future; here, at last, was a relation in\nwhich I might hope to taste repose.  But it was not to be.  You will\nhardly credit me when I inform you that she ran away from home; yet such\nwas the case.  Some whim about oppressed nationalities--Ireland, Poland,\nand the like--has turned her brain; and if you should anywhere encounter\na young lady (I must say, of remarkable attractions) answering to the\nname of Luxmore, Lake, or Fonblanque (for I am told she uses these\nindifferently, as well as many others), tell her, from me, that I forgive\nher cruelty, and though I will never more behold her face, I am at any\ntime prepared to make her a liberal allowance.\n\nOn the death of Mr. Luxmore, I sought oblivion in the details of\nbusiness.  I believe I have mentioned that seven mansions, besides this,\nformed part of Mr. Luxmore's property: I have found them seven white\nelephants.  The greed of tenants, the dishonesty of solicitors, and the\nincapacity that sits upon the bench, have combined together to make these\nhouses the burthen of my life.  I had no sooner, indeed, begun to look\ninto these matters for myself, than I discovered so many injustices and\nmet with so much studied incivility, that I was plunged into a long\nseries of lawsuits, some of which are pending to this day.  You must have\nheard my name already; I am the Mrs. Luxmore of the Law Reports: a\nstrange destiny, indeed, for one born with an almost cowardly desire for\npeace!  But I am of the stamp of those who, when they have once begun a\ntask, will rather die than leave their duty unfulfilled.  I have met with\nevery obstacle: insolence and ingratitude from my own lawyers; in my\nadversaries, that fault of obstinacy which is to me perhaps the most\ndistasteful in the calendar; from the bench, civility indeed--always, I\nmust allow, civility--but never a spark of independence, never that\nknowledge of the law and love of justice which we have a right to look\nfor in a judge, the most august of human officers.  And still, against\nall these odds, I have undissuadably persevered.\n\nIt was after the loss of one of my innumerable cases (a subject on which\nI will not dwell) that it occurred to me to make a melancholy pilgrimage\nto my various houses.  Four were at that time tenantless and closed, like\npillars of salt, commemorating the corruption of the age and the decline\nof private virtue.  Three were occupied by persons who had wearied me by\nevery conceivable unjust demand and legal subterfuge--persons whom, at\nthat very hour, I was moving heaven and earth to turn into the street.\nThis was perhaps the sadder spectacle of the two; and my heart grew hot\nwithin me to behold them occupying, in my very teeth, and with an\ninsolent ostentation, these handsome structures which were as much mine\nas the flesh upon my body.\n\nOne more house remained for me to visit, that in which we now are.  I had\nlet it (for at that period I lodged in a hotel, the life that I have\nalways preferred) to a Colonel Geraldine, a gentleman attached to Prince\nFlorizel of Bohemia, whom you must certainly have heard of; and I had\nsupposed, from the character and position of my tenant, that here, at\nleast, I was safe against annoyance.  What was my surprise to find this\nhouse also shuttered and apparently deserted!  I will not deny that I was\noffended; I conceived that a house, like a yacht, was better to be kept\nin commission; and I promised myself to bring the matter before my\nsolicitor the following morning.  Meanwhile the sight recalled my fancy\nnaturally to the past; and yielding to the tender influence of sentiment,\nI sat down opposite the door upon the garden parapet.  It was August, and\na sultry afternoon, but that spot is sheltered, as you may observe by\ndaylight, under the branches of a spreading chestnut; the square, too,\nwas deserted; there was a sound of distant music in the air; and all\ncombined to plunge me into that most agreeable of states, which is\nneither happiness nor sorrow, but shares the poignancy of both.\n\nFrom this I was recalled by the arrival of a large van, very handsomely\nappointed, drawn by valuable horses, mounted by several men of an\nappearance more than decent, and bearing on its panels, instead of a\ntrader's name, a coat-of-arms too modest to be deciphered from where I\nsat.  It drew up before my house, the door of which was immediately\nopened by one of the men.  His companions--I counted seven of them in\nall--proceeded, with disciplined activity, to take from the van and carry\ninto the house a variety of hampers, bottle-baskets, and boxes, such as\nare designed for plate and napery.  The windows of the dining-room were\nthrown widely open, as though to air it; and I saw some of those within\nlaying the table for a meal.  Plainly, I concluded, my tenant was about\nto return; and while still determined to submit to no aggression on my\nrights, I was gratified by the number and discipline of his attendants,\nand the quiet profusion that appeared to reign in his establishment.  I\nwas still so thinking when, to my extreme surprise, the windows and\nshutters of the dining-room were once more closed; the men began to\nreappear from the interior and resume their stations on the van; the last\nclosed the door behind his exit; the van drove away; and the house was\nonce more left to itself, looking blindly on the square with shuttered\nwindows, as though the whole affair had been a vision.\n\nIt was no vision, however; for, as I rose to my feet, and thus brought my\neyes a little nearer to the level of the fanlight over the door, I saw\nthat, though the day had still some hours to run, the hall lamps had been\nlighted and left burning.  Plainly, then, guests were expected, and were\nnot expected before night.  For whom, I asked myself with indignation,\nwere such secret preparations likely to be made?  Although no prude, I am\na woman of decided views upon morality; if my house, to which my husband\nhad brought me, was to serve in the character of a _petite maison_, I saw\nmyself forced, however unwillingly, into a new course of litigation; and,\ndetermined to return and know the worst, I hastened to my hotel for\ndinner.\n\nI was at my post by ten.  The night was clear and quiet; the moon rode\nvery high and put the lamps to shame; and the shadow below the chestnut\nwas black as ink.  Here, then, I ensconced myself on the low parapet,\nwith my back against the railings, face to face with the moonlit front of\nmy old home, and ruminating gently on the past.  Time fled; eleven struck\non all the city clocks; and presently after I was aware of the approach\nof a gentleman of stately and agreeable demeanour.  He was smoking as he\nwalked; his light paletot, which was open, did not conceal his evening\nclothes; and he bore himself with a serious grace that immediately\nawakened my attention.  Before the door of this house he took a pass-key\nfrom his pocket, quietly admitted himself, and disappeared into the\nlamplit hall.\n\nHe was scarcely gone when I observed another and a much younger man\napproaching hastily from the opposite side of the square.  Considering\nthe season of the year and the genial mildness of the night, he was\nsomewhat closely muffled up; and as he came, for all his hurry, he kept\nlooking nervously behind him.  Arrived before my door, he halted and set\none foot upon the step, as though about to enter; then, with a sudden\nchange, he turned and began to hurry away; halted a second time, as if in\npainful indecision; and lastly, with a violent gesture, wheeled about,\nreturned straight to the door, and rapped upon the knocker.  He was\nalmost immediately admitted by the first arrival.\n\nMy curiosity was now broad awake.  I made myself as small as I could in\nthe very densest of the shadow, and waited for the sequel.  Nor had I\nlong to wait.  From the same side of the square a second young man made\nhis appearance, walking slowly and softly, and like the first, muffled to\nthe nose.  Before the house he paused, looked all about him with a swift\nand comprehensive glance; and seeing the square lie empty in the moon and\nlamplight, leaned far across the area railings and appeared to listen to\nwhat was passing in the house.  From the dining-room there came the\nreport of a champagne cork, and following upon that, the sound of rich\nand manly laughter.  The listener took heart of grace, produced a key,\nunlocked the area gate, shut it noiselessly behind him, and descended the\nstair.  Just when his head had reached the level of the pavement, he\nturned half round and once more raked the square with a suspicious\neyeshot.  The mufflings had fallen lower round his neck; the moon shone\nfull upon him; and I was startled to observe the pallor and passionate\nagitation of his face.\n\nI could remain no longer passive.  Persuaded that something deadly was\nafoot, I crossed the roadway and drew near the area railings.  There was\nno one below; the man must therefore have entered the house, with what\npurpose I dreaded to imagine.  I have at no part of my career lacked\ncourage; and now, finding the area gate was merely laid to, I pushed it\ngently open and descended the stairs.  The kitchen door of the house,\nlike the area gate, was closed but not fastened.  It flashed upon me that\nthe criminal was thus preparing his escape; and the thought, as it\nconfirmed the worst of my suspicions, lent me new resolve.  I entered the\nhouse; and being now quite reckless of my life, I shut and locked the\ndoor.\n\nFrom the dining-room above I could hear the pleasant tones of a voice in\neasy conversation.  On the ground floor all was not only profoundly\nsilent, but the darkness seemed to weigh upon my eyes.  Here, then, I\nstood for some time, having thrust myself uncalled into the utmost peril,\nand being destitute of any power to help or interfere.  Nor will I deny\nthat fear had begun already to assail me, when I became aware, all at\nonce and as though by some immediate but silent incandescence, of a\ncertain glimmering of light upon the passage floor.  Towards this I\ngroped my way with infinite precaution; and having come at length as far\nas the angle of the corridor, beheld the door of the butler's pantry\nstanding just ajar and a narrow thread of brightness falling from the\nchink.  Creeping still closer, I put my eye to the aperture.  The man sat\nwithin upon a chair, listening, I could see, with the most rapt\nattention.  On a table before him he had laid a watch, a pair of steel\nrevolvers, and a bull's-eye lantern.  For one second many contradictory\ntheories and projects whirled together in my head; the next, I had\nslammed the door and turned the key upon the malefactor.  Surprised at my\nown decision, I stood and panted, leaning on the wall.  From within the\npantry not a sound was to be heard; the man, whatever he was, had\naccepted his fate without a struggle, and now, as I hugged myself to\nfancy, sat frozen with terror and looking for the worst to follow.  I\npromised myself that he should not be disappointed; and the better to\ncomplete my task, I turned to ascend the stairs.\n\nThe situation, as I groped my way to the first floor, appealed to me\nsuddenly by my strong sense of humour.  Here was I, the owner of the\nhouse, burglariously present in its walls; and there, in the dining-room,\nwere two gentlemen, unknown to me, seated complacently at supper, and\nonly saved by my promptitude from some surprising or deadly interruption.\nIt were strange if I could not manage to extract the matter of amusement\nfrom so unusual a situation.\n\nBehind this dining-room, there is a small apartment intended for a\nlibrary.  It was to this that I cautiously groped my way; and you will\nsee how fortune had exactly served me.  The weather, I have said, was\nsultry; in order to ventilate the dining-room and yet preserve the\nuninhabited appearance of the mansion to the front, the window of the\nlibrary had been widely opened, and the door of communication between the\ntwo apartments left ajar.  To this interval I now applied my eye.\n\nWax tapers, set in silver candlesticks, shed their chastened brightness\non the damask of the tablecloth and the remains of a cold collation of\nthe rarest delicacy.  The two gentlemen had finished supper, and were now\ntrifling with cigars and maraschino; while in a silver spirit lamp,\ncoffee of the most captivating fragrance was preparing in the fashion of\nthe East.  The elder of the two, he who had first arrived, was placed\ndirectly facing me; the other was set on his left hand.  Both, like the\nman in the butler's pantry, seemed to be intently listening; and on the\nface of the second I thought I could perceive the marks of fear.  Oddly\nenough, however, when they came to speak, the parts were found to be\nreversed.\n\n'I assure you,' said the elder gentleman, 'I not only heard the slamming\nof a door, but the sound of very guarded footsteps.'\n\n'Your highness was certainly deceived,' replied the other.  'I am endowed\nwith the acutest hearing, and I can swear that not a mouse has rustled.'\nYet the pallor and contraction of his features were in total discord with\nthe tenor of his words.\n\nHis highness (whom, of course, I readily divined to be Prince Florizel)\nlooked at his companion for the least fraction of a second; and though\nnothing shook the easy quiet of his attitude, I could see that he was far\nfrom being duped.  'It is well,' said he; 'let us dismiss the topic.  And\nnow, sir, that I have very freely explained the sentiments by which I am\ndirected, let me ask you, according to your promise, to imitate my\nfrankness.'\n\n'I have heard you,' replied the other, 'with great interest.'\n\n'With singular patience,' said the prince politely.\n\n'Ay, your highness, and with unlooked-for sympathy,' returned the young\nman.  'I know not how to tell the change that has befallen me.  You have,\nI must suppose, a charm, to which even your enemies are subject.'  He\nlooked at the clock on the mantelpiece and visibly blanched.  'So late!'\nhe cried.  'Your highness--God knows I am now speaking from the\nheart--before it be too late, leave this house!'\n\nThe prince glanced once more at his companion, and then very deliberately\nshook the ash from his cigar.  'That is a strange remark,' said he; 'and\n_a propos de bottes_, I never continue a cigar when once the ash is\nfallen; the spell breaks, the soul of the flavour flies away, and there\nremains but the dead body of tobacco; and I make it a rule to throw away\nthat husk and choose another.'  He suited the action to the words.\n\n'Do not trifle with my appeal,' resumed the young man, in tones that\ntrembled with emotion.  'It is made at the price of my honour and to the\nperil of my life.  Go--go now! lose not a moment; and if you have any\nkindness for a young man, miserably deceived indeed, but not devoid of\nbetter sentiments, look not behind you as you leave.'\n\n'Sir,' said the prince, 'I am here upon your honour; assure you upon mine\nthat I shall continue to rely upon that safeguard.  The coffee is ready;\nI must again trouble you, I fear.'  And with a courteous movement of the\nhand, he seemed to invite his companion to pour out the coffee.\n\nThe unhappy young man rose from his seat.  'I appeal to you,' he cried,\n'by every holy sentiment, in mercy to me, if not in pity to yourself,\nbegone before it is too late.'\n\n'Sir,' replied the prince, 'I am not readily accessible to fear; and if\nthere is one defect to which I must plead guilty, it is that of a curious\ndisposition.  You go the wrong way about to make me leave this house, in\nwhich I play the part of your entertainer; and, suffer me to add, young\nman, if any peril threaten us, it was of your contriving, not of mine.'\n\n'Alas, you do not know to what you condemn me,' cried the other.  'But I\nat least will have no hand in it.'  With these words he carried his hand\nto his pocket, hastily swallowed the contents of a phial, and, with the\nvery act, reeled back and fell across his chair upon the floor.  The\nprince left his place and came and stood above him, where he lay\nconvulsed upon the carpet.  'Poor moth!' I heard his highness murmur.\n'Alas, poor moth! must we again inquire which is the more fatal--weakness\nor wickedness?  And can a sympathy with ideas, surely not ignoble in\nthemselves, conduct a man to this dishonourable death?'\n\nBy this time I had pushed the door open and walked into the room.  'Your\nhighness,' said I, 'this is no time for moralising; with a little\npromptness we may save this creature's life; and as for the other, he\nneed cause you no concern, for I have him safely under lock and key.'\n\nThe prince had turned about upon my entrance, and regarded me certainly\nwith no alarm, but with a profundity of wonder which almost robbed me of\nmy self-possession.  'My dear madam,' he cried at last, 'and who the\ndevil are you?'\n\nI was already on the floor beside the dying man.  I had, of course, no\nidea with what drug he had attempted his life, and I was forced to try\nhim with a variety of antidotes.  Here were both oil and vinegar, for the\nprince had done the young man the honour of compounding for him one of\nhis celebrated salads; and of each of these I administered from a quarter\nto half a pint, with no apparent efficacy.  I next plied him with the hot\ncoffee, of which there may have been near upon a quart.\n\n'Have you no milk?' I inquired.\n\n'I fear, madam, that milk has been omitted,' returned the prince.\n\n'Salt, then,' said I; 'salt is a revulsive.  Pass the salt.'\n\n'And possibly the mustard?' asked his highness, as he offered me the\ncontents of the various salt-cellars poured together on a plate.\n\n'Ah,' cried I, 'the thought is excellent!  Mix me about half a pint of\nmustard, drinkably dilute.'\n\nWhether it was the salt or the mustard, or the mere combination of so\nmany subversive agents, as soon as the last had been poured over his\nthroat, the young sufferer obtained relief.\n\n'There!' I exclaimed, with natural triumph, 'I have saved a life!'\n\n'And yet, madam,' returned the prince, 'your mercy may be cruelty\ndisguised.  Where the honour is lost, it is, at least, superfluous to\nprolong the life.'\n\n'If you had led a life as changeable as mine, your highness,' I replied,\n'you would hold a very different opinion.  For my part, and after\nwhatever extremity of misfortune or disgrace, I should still count\nto-morrow worth a trial.'\n\n'You speak as a lady, madam,' said the prince; 'and for such you speak\nthe truth.  But to men there is permitted such a field of license, and\nthe good behaviour asked of them is at once so easy and so little, that\nto fail in that is to fall beyond the reach of pardon.  But will you\nsuffer me to repeat a question, put to you at first, I am afraid, with\nsome defect of courtesy; and to ask you once more, who you are and how I\nhave the honour of your company?'\n\n'I am the proprietor of the house in which we stand,' said I.\n\n'And still I am at fault,' returned the prince.\n\nBut at that moment the timepiece on the mantel-shelf began to strike the\nhour of twelve; and the young man, raising himself upon one elbow, with\nan expression of despair and horror that I have never seen excelled,\ncried lamentably, 'Midnight! oh, just God!'  We stood frozen to our\nplaces, while the tingling hammer of the timepiece measured the remaining\nstrokes; nor had we yet stirred, so tragic had been the tones of the\nyoung man, when the various bells of London began in turn to declare the\nhour.  The timepiece was inaudible beyond the walls of the chamber where\nwe stood; but the second pulsation of Big Ben had scarcely throbbed into\nthe night, before a sharp detonation rang about the house.  The prince\nsprang for the door by which I had entered; but quick as he was, I yet\ncontrived to intercept him.\n\n'Are you armed?' I cried.\n\n'No, madam,' replied he.  'You remind me appositely; I will take the\npoker.'\n\n'The man below,' said I, 'has two revolvers.  Would you confront him at\nsuch odds?'\n\nHe paused, as though staggered in his purpose.\n\n'And yet, madam,' said he, 'we cannot continue to remain in ignorance of\nwhat has passed.'\n\n'No!' cried I.  'And who proposes it?  I am as curious as yourself, but\nlet us rather send for the police; or, if your highness dreads a scandal,\nfor some of your own servants.'\n\n'Nay, madam,' he replied, smiling, 'for so brave a lady, you surprise me.\nWould you have me, then, send others where I fear to go myself?'\n\n'You are perfectly right,' said I, 'and I was entirely wrong.  Go, in\nGod's name, and I will hold the candle!'\n\nTogether, therefore, we descended to the lower story, he carrying the\npoker, I the light; and together we approached and opened the door of the\nbutler's pantry.  In some sort, I believe, I was prepared for the\nspectacle that met our eyes; I was prepared, that is, to find the villain\ndead, but the rude details of such a violent suicide I was unable to\nendure.  The prince, unshaken by horror as he had remained unshaken by\nalarm, assisted me with the most respectful gallantry to regain the\ndining-room.\n\nThere we found our patient, still, indeed, deadly pale, but vastly\nrecovered and already seated on a chair.  He held out both his hands with\na most pitiful gesture of interrogation.\n\n'He is dead,' said the prince.\n\n'Alas!' cried the young man, 'and it should be I!  What do I do, thus\nlingering on the stage I have disgraced, while he, my sure comrade,\nblameworthy indeed for much, but yet the soul of fidelity, has judged and\nslain himself for an involuntary fault?  Ah, sir,' said he, 'and you too,\nmadam, without whose cruel help I should be now beyond the reach of my\naccusing conscience, you behold in me the victim equally of my own faults\nand virtues.  I was born a hater of injustice; from my most tender years\nmy blood boiled against heaven when I beheld the sick, and against men\nwhen I witnessed the sorrows of the poor; the pauper's crust stuck in my\nthroat when I sat down to eat my dainties, and the cripple child has set\nme weeping.  What was there in that but what was noble? and yet observe\nto what a fall these thoughts have led me!  Year after year this passion\nfor the lost besieged me closer.  What hope was there in kings? what hope\nin these well-feathered classes that now roll in money?  I had observed\nthe course of history; I knew the burgess, our ruler of to-day, to be\nbase, cowardly, and dull; I saw him, in every age, combine to pull down\nthat which was immediately above and to prey upon those that were below;\nhis dulness, I knew, would ultimately bring about his ruin; I knew his\ndays were numbered, and yet how was I to wait? how was I to let the poor\nchild shiver in the rain?  The better days, indeed, were coming, but the\nchild would die before that.  Alas, your highness, in surely no\nungenerous impatience I enrolled myself among the enemies of this unjust\nand doomed society; in surely no unnatural desire to keep the fires of my\nphilanthropy alight, I bound myself by an irrevocable oath.\n\n'That oath is all my history.  To give freedom to posterity I had\nforsworn my own.  I must attend upon every signal; and soon my father\ncomplained of my irregular hours and turned me from his house.  I was\nengaged in betrothal to an honest girl; from her also I had to part, for\nshe was too shrewd to credit my inventions and too innocent to be\nentrusted with the truth.  Behold me, then, alone with conspirators!\nAlas! as the years went on, my illusions left me.  Surrounded as I was by\nthe fervent disciples and apologists of revolution, I beheld them daily\nadvance in confidence and desperation; I beheld myself, upon the other\nhand, and with an almost equal regularity, decline in faith.  I had\nsacrificed all to further that cause in which I still believed; and daily\nI began to grow in doubts if we were advancing it indeed.  Horrible was\nthe society with which we warred, but our own means were not less\nhorrible.\n\n'I will not dwell upon my sufferings; I will not pause to tell you how,\nwhen I beheld young men still free and happy, married, fathers of\nchildren, cheerfully toiling at their work, my heart reproached me with\nthe greatness and vanity of my unhappy sacrifice.  I will not describe to\nyou how, worn by poverty, poor lodging, scanty food, and an unquiet\nconscience, my health began to fail, and in the long nights, as I\nwandered bedless in the rainy streets, the most cruel sufferings of the\nbody were added to the tortures of my mind.  These things are not\npersonal to me; they are common to all unfortunates in my position.  An\noath, so light a thing to swear, so grave a thing to break: an oath,\ntaken in the heat of youth, repented with what sobbings of the heart, but\nyet in vain repented, as the years go on: an oath, that was once the very\nutterance of the truth of God, but that falls to be the symbol of a\nmeaningless and empty slavery; such is the yoke that many young men\njoyfully assume, and under whose dead weight they live to suffer worse\nthan death.\n\n'It is not that I was patient.  I have begged to be released; but I knew\ntoo much, and I was still refused.  I have fled; ay, and for the time\nsuccessfully.  I reached Paris.  I found a lodging in the Rue St.\nJacques, almost opposite the Val de Grace.  My room was mean and bare,\nbut the sun looked into it towards evening; it commanded a peep of a\ngreen garden; a bird hung by a neighbour's window and made the morning\nbeautiful; and I, who was sick, might lie in bed and rest myself: I, who\nwas in full revolt against the principles that I had served, was now no\nlonger at the beck of the council, and was no longer charged with\nshameful and revolting tasks.  Oh! what an interval of peace was that!  I\nstill dream, at times, that I can hear the note of my neighbour's bird.\n\n'My money was running out, and it became necessary that I should find\nemployment.  Scarcely had I been three days upon the search, ere I\nthought that I was being followed.  I made certain of the features of the\nman, which were quite strange to me, and turned into a small cafe, where\nI whiled away an hour, pretending to read the papers, but inwardly\nconvulsed with terror.  When I came forth again into the street, it was\nquite empty, and I breathed again; but alas, I had not turned three\ncorners, when I once more observed the human hound pursuing me.  Not an\nhour was to be lost; timely submission might yet preserve a life which\notherwise was forfeit and dishonoured; and I fled, with what speed you\nmay conceive, to the Paris agency of the society I served.\n\n'My submission was accepted.  I took up once more the hated burthen of\nthat life; once more I was at the call of men whom I despised and hated,\nwhile yet I envied and admired them.  They at least were wholehearted in\nthe things they purposed; but I, who had once been such as they, had\nfallen from the brightness of my faith, and now laboured, like a\nhireling, for the wages of a loathed existence.  Ay, sir, to that I was\ncondemned; I obeyed to continue to live, and lived but to obey.\n\n'The last charge that was laid upon me was the one which has to-night so\ntragically ended.  Boldly telling who I was, I was to request from your\nhighness, on behalf of my society, a private audience, where it was\ndesigned to murder you.  If one thing remained to me of my old\nconvictions, it was the hate of kings; and when this task was offered me,\nI took it gladly.  Alas, sir, you triumphed.  As we supped, you gained\nupon my heart.  Your character, your talents, your designs for our\nunhappy country, all had been misrepresented.  I began to forget you were\na prince; I began, all too feelingly, to remember that you were a man.\nAs I saw the hour approach, I suffered agonies untold; and when, at last,\nwe heard the slamming of the door which announced in my unwilling ears\nthe arrival of the partner of my crime, you will bear me out with what\ninstancy I besought you to depart.  You would not, alas! and what could\nI?  Kill you, I could not; my heart revolted, my hand turned back from\nsuch a deed.  Yet it was impossible that I should suffer you to stay; for\nwhen the hour struck and my companion came, true to his appointment, and\nhe, at least, true to our design, I could neither suffer you to be killed\nnor yet him to be arrested.  From such a tragic passage, death, and death\nalone, could save me; and it is no fault of mine if I continue to exist.\n\n'But you, madam,' continued the young man, addressing himself more\ndirectly to myself, 'were doubtless born to save the prince and to\nconfound our purposes.  My life you have prolonged; and by turning the\nkey on my companion, you have made me the author of his death.  He heard\nthe hour strike; he was impotent to help; and thinking himself forfeit to\nhonour, thinking that I should fall alone upon his highness and perish\nfor lack of his support, he has turned his pistol on himself.'\n\n'You are right,' said Prince Florizel: 'it was in no ungenerous spirit\nthat you brought these burthens on yourself; and when I see you so nobly\nto blame, so tragically punished, I stand like one reproved.  For is it\nnot strange, madam, that you and I, by practising accepted and\ninconsiderable virtues, and commonplace but still unpardonable faults,\nshould stand here, in the sight of God, with what we call clean hands and\nquiet consciences; while this poor youth, for an error that I could\nalmost envy him, should be sunk beyond the reach of hope?\n\n'Sir,' resumed the prince, turning to the young man, 'I cannot help you;\nmy help would but unchain the thunderbolt that overhangs you; and I can\nbut leave you free.'\n\n'And, sir,' said I, 'as this house belongs to me, I will ask you to have\nthe kindness to remove the body.  You and your conspirators, it appears\nto me, can hardly in civility do less.'\n\n'It shall be done,' said the young man, with a dismal accent.\n\n'And you, dear madam,' said the prince, 'you, to whom I owe my life, how\ncan I serve you?'\n\n'Your highness,' I said, 'to be very plain, this is my favourite house,\nbeing not only a valuable property, but endeared to me by various\nassociations.  I have endless troubles with tenants of the ordinary\nclass: and at first applauded my good fortune when I found one of the\nstation of your Master of the Horse.  I now begin to think otherwise:\ndangers set a siege about great personages; and I do not wish my tenement\nto share these risks.  Procure me the resiliation of the lease, and I\nshall feel myself your debtor.'\n\n'I must tell you, madam,' replied his highness, 'that Colonel Geraldine\nis but a cloak for myself; and I should be sorry indeed to think myself\nso unacceptable a tenant.'\n\n'Your highness,' said I, 'I have conceived a sincere admiration for your\ncharacter; but on the subject of house property, I cannot allow the\ninterference of my feelings.  I will, however, to prove to you that there\nis nothing personal in my request, here solemnly engage my word that I\nwill never put another tenant in this house.'\n\n'Madam,' said Florizel, 'you plead your cause too charmingly to be\nrefused.'\n\nThereupon we all three withdrew.  The young man, still reeling in his\nwalk, departed by himself to seek the assistance of his\nfellow-conspirators; and the prince, with the most attentive gallantry,\nlent me his escort to the door of my hotel.  The next day, the lease was\ncancelled; nor from that hour to this, though sometimes regretting my\nengagement, have I suffered a tenant in this house.\n\n\n\n\n_THE SUPERFLUOUS MANSION_\n(_Continued_).\n\n\nAs soon as the old lady had finished her relation, Somerset made haste to\noffer her his compliments.\n\n'Madam,' said he, 'your story is not only entertaining but instructive;\nand you have told it with infinite vivacity.  I was much affected towards\nthe end, as I held at one time very liberal opinions, and should\ncertainly have joined a secret society if I had been able to find one.\nBut the whole tale came home to me; and I was the better able to feel for\nyou in your various perplexities, as I am myself of somewhat hasty\ntemper.'\n\n'I do not understand you,' said Mrs. Luxmore, with some marks of\nirritation.  'You must have strangely misinterpreted what I have told\nyou.  You fill me with surprise.'\n\nSomerset, alarmed by the old lady's change of tone and manner, hurried to\nrecant.\n\n'Dear Mrs. Luxmore,' said he, 'you certainly misconstrue my remark.  As a\nman of somewhat fiery humour, my conscience repeatedly pricked me when I\nheard what you had suffered at the hands of persons similarly\nconstituted.'\n\n'Oh, very well indeed,' replied the old lady; 'and a very proper spirit.\nI regret that I have met with it so rarely.'\n\n'But in all this,' resumed the young man, 'I perceive nothing that\nconcerns myself.'\n\n'I am about to come to that,' she returned.  'And you have already before\nyou, in the pledge I gave Prince Florizel, one of the elements of the\naffair.  I am a woman of the nomadic sort, and when I have no case before\nthe courts I make it a habit to visit continental spas: not that I have\never been ill; but then I am no longer young, and I am always happy in a\ncrowd.  Well, to come more shortly to the point, I am now on the wing for\nEvian; this incubus of a house, which I must leave behind and dare not\nlet, hangs heavily upon my hands; and I propose to rid myself of that\nconcern, and do you a very good turn into the bargain, by lending you the\nmansion, with all its fittings, as it stands.  The idea was sudden; it\nappealed to me as humorous: and I am sure it will cause my relatives, if\nthey should ever hear of it, the keenest possible chagrin.  Here, then,\nis the key; and when you return at two to-morrow afternoon, you will find\nneither me nor my cats to disturb you in your new possession.'\n\nSo saying, the old lady arose, as if to dismiss her visitor; but\nSomerset, looking somewhat blankly on the key, began to protest.\n\n'Dear Mrs. Luxmore,' said he, 'this is a most unusual proposal.  You know\nnothing of me, beyond the fact that I displayed both impudence and\ntimidity.  I may be the worst kind of scoundrel; I may sell your\nfurniture--'\n\n'You may blow up the house with gunpowder, for what I care!' cried Mrs.\nLuxmore.  'It is in vain to reason.  Such is the force of my character\nthat, when I have one idea clearly in my head, I do not care two straws\nfor any side consideration.  It amuses me to do it, and let that suffice.\nOn your side, you may do what you please--let apartments, or keep a\nprivate hotel; on mine, I promise you a full month's warning before I\nreturn, and I never fail religiously to keep my promises.'\n\nThe young man was about to renew his protest, when he observed a sudden\nand significant change in the old lady's countenance.\n\n'If I thought you capable of disrespect!' she cried.\n\n'Madam,' said Somerset, with the extreme fervour of asseveration, 'madam,\nI accept.  I beg you to understand that I accept with joy and gratitude.'\n\n'Ah well,' returned Mrs. Luxmore, 'if I am mistaken, let it pass.  And\nnow, since all is comfortably settled, I wish you a good-night.'\n\nThereupon, as if to leave him no room for repentance, she hurried\nSomerset out of the front door, and left him standing, key in hand, upon\nthe pavement.\n\nThe next day, about the hour appointed, the young man found his way to\nthe square, which I will here call Golden Square, though that was not its\nname.  What to expect, he knew not; for a man may live in dreams, and yet\nbe unprepared for their realisation.  It was already with a certain pang\nof surprise that he beheld the mansion, standing in the eye of day, a\nsolid among solids.  The key, upon trial, readily opened the front door;\nhe entered that great house, a privileged burglar; and, escorted by the\nechoes of desertion, rapidly reviewed the empty chambers.  Cats, servant,\nold lady, the very marks of habitation, like writing on a slate, had been\nin these few hours obliterated.  He wandered from floor to floor, and\nfound the house of great extent; the kitchen offices commodious and well\nappointed; the rooms many and large; and the drawing-room, in particular,\nan apartment of princely size and tasteful decoration.  Although the day\nwithout was warm, genial, and sunny, with a ruffling wind from the\nquarter of Torquay, a chill, as it were, of suspended animation inhabited\nthe house.  Dust and shadows met the eye; and but for the ominous\nprocession of the echoes, and the rumour of the wind among the garden\ntrees, the ear of the young man was stretched in vain.\n\nBehind the dining-room, that pleasant library, referred to by the old\nlady in her tale, looked upon the flat roofs and netted cupolas of the\nkitchen quarters; and on a second visit, this room appeared to greet him\nwith a smiling countenance.  He might as well, he thought, avoid the\nexpense of lodging: the library, fitted with an iron bedstead which he\nhad remarked, in one of the upper chambers, would serve his purpose for\nthe night; while in the dining-room, which was large, airy, and\nlightsome, looking on the square and garden, he might very agreeably pass\nhis days, cook his meals, and study to bring himself to some proficiency\nin that art of painting which he had recently determined to adopt.  It\ndid not take him long to make the change: he had soon returned to the\nmansion with his modest kit; and the cabman who brought him was readily\ninduced, by the young man's pleasant manner and a small gratuity, to\nassist him in the installation of the iron bed.  By six in the evening,\nwhen Somerset went forth to dine, he was able to look back upon the\nmansion with a sense of pride and property.  Four-square it stood, of an\nimposing frontage, and flanked on either side by family hatchments.  His\neye, from where he stood whistling in the key, with his back to the\ngarden railings, reposed on every feature of reality; and yet his own\npossession seemed as flimsy as a dream.\n\nIn the course of a few days, the genteel inhabitants of the square began\nto remark the customs of their neighbour.  The sight of a young gentleman\ndiscussing a clay pipe, about four o'clock of the afternoon, in the\ndrawing-room balcony of so discreet a mansion; and perhaps still more,\nhis periodical excursion to a decent tavern in the neighbourhood, and his\nunabashed return, nursing the full tankard: had presently raised to a\nhigh pitch the interest and indignation of the liveried servants of the\nsquare.  The disfavour of some of these gentlemen at first proceeded to\nthe length of insult; but Somerset knew how to be affable with any class\nof men; and a few rude words merrily accepted, and a few glasses amicably\nshared, gained for him the right of toleration.\n\nThe young man had embraced the art of Raphael, partly from a notion of\nits ease, partly from an inborn distrust of offices.  He scorned to bear\nthe yoke of any regular schooling; and proceeded to turn one half of the\ndining-room into a studio for the reproduction of still life.  There he\namassed a variety of objects, indiscriminately chosen from the kitchen,\nthe drawing-room, and the back garden; and there spent his days in\nsmiling assiduity.  Meantime, the great bulk of empty building overhead\nlay, like a load, upon his imagination.  To hold so great a stake and to\ndo nothing, argued some defect of energy; and he at length determined to\nact upon the hint given by Mrs. Luxmore herself, and to stick, with\nwafers, in the window of the dining-room, a small handbill announcing\nfurnished lodgings.  At half-past six of a fine July morning, he affixed\nthe bill, and went forth into the square to study the result.  It seemed,\nto his eye, promising and unpretentious; and he returned to the\ndrawing-room balcony, to consider, over a studious pipe, the knotty\nproblem of how much he was to charge.\n\nThereupon he somewhat relaxed in his devotion to the art of painting.\nIndeed, from that time forth, he would spend the best part of the day in\nthe front balcony, like the attentive angler poring on his float; and the\nbetter to support the tedium, he would frequently console himself with\nhis clay pipe.  On several occasions, passers-by appeared to be arrested\nby the ticket, and on several others ladies and gentlemen drove to the\nvery doorstep by the carriageful; but it appeared there was something\nrepulsive in the appearance of the house; for with one accord, they would\ncast but one look upward, and hastily resume their onward progress or\ndirect the driver to proceed.  Somerset had thus the mortification of\nactually meeting the eye of a large number of lodging-seekers; and though\nhe hastened to withdraw his pipe, and to compose his features to an air\nof invitation, he was never rewarded by so much as an inquiry.  'Can\nthere,' he thought, 'be anything repellent in myself?'  But a candid\nexamination in one of the pier-glasses of the drawing-room led him to\ndismiss the fear.\n\nSomething, however, was amiss.  His vast and accurate calculations on the\nfly-leaves of books, or on the backs of playbills, appeared to have been\nan idle sacrifice of time.  By these, he had variously computed the\nweekly takings of the house, from sums as modest as five-and-twenty\nshillings, up to the more majestic figure of a hundred pounds; and yet,\nin despite of the very elements of arithmetic, here he was making\nliterally nothing.\n\nThis incongruity impressed him deeply and occupied his thoughtful leisure\non the balcony; and at last it seemed to him that he had detected the\nerror of his method.  'This,' he reflected, 'is an age of generous\ndisplay: the age of the sandwich-man, of Griffiths, of Pears' legendary\nsoap, and of Eno's fruit salt, which, by sheer brass and notoriety, and\nthe most disgusting pictures I ever remember to have seen, has overlaid\nthat comforter of my childhood, Lamplough's pyretic saline.  Lamplough\nwas genteel, Eno was omnipresent; Lamplough was trite, Eno original and\nabominably vulgar; and here have I, a man of some pretensions to\nknowledge of the world, contented myself with half a sheet of note-paper,\na few cold words which do not directly address the imagination, and the\nadornment (if adornment it may be called) of four red wafers!  Am I,\nthen, to sink with Lamplough, or to soar with Eno?  Am I to adopt that\nmodesty which is doubtless becoming in a duke? or to take hold of the red\nfacts of life with the emphasis of the tradesman and the poet?'\n\nPursuant upon these meditations, he procured several sheets of the very\nlargest size of drawing-paper; and laying forth his paints, proceeded to\ncompose an ensign that might attract the eye, and at the same time, in\nhis own phrase, directly address the imagination of the passenger.\nSomething taking in the way of colour, a good, savoury choice of words,\nand a realistic design setting forth the life a lodger might expect to\nlead within the walls of that palace of delight: these, he perceived,\nmust be the elements of his advertisement.  It was possible, upon the one\nhand, to depict the sober pleasures of domestic life, the evening fire,\nblond-headed urchins and the hissing urn; but on the other, it was\npossible (and he almost felt as if it were more suited to his muse) to\nset forth the charms of an existence somewhat wider in its range or,\nboldly say, the paradise of the Mohammedan.  So long did the artist waver\nbetween these two views, that, before he arrived at a conclusion, he had\nfinally conceived and completed both designs.  With the proverbially\ntender heart of the parent, he found himself unable to sacrifice either\nof these offsprings of his art; and decided to expose them on alternate\ndays.  'In this way,' he thought, 'I shall address myself indifferently\nto all classes of the world.'\n\nThe tossing of a penny decided the only remaining point; and the more\nimaginative canvas received the suffrages of fortune, and appeared first\nin the window of the mansion.  It was of a high fancy, the legend\neloquently writ, the scheme of colour taking and bold; and but for the\nimperfection of the artist's drawing, it might have been taken for a\nmodel of its kind.  As it was, however, when viewed from his favourite\npoint against the garden railings, and with some touch of distance, it\ncaused a pleasurable rising of the artist's heart.  'I have thrown away,'\nhe ejaculated, 'an invaluable motive; and this shall be the subject of my\nfirst academy picture.'\n\nThe fate of neither of these works was equal to its merit.  A crowd would\ncertainly, from time to time, collect before the area-railings; but they\ncame to jeer and not to speculate; and those who pushed their inquiries\nfurther, were too plainly animated by the spirit of derision.  The racier\nof the two cartoons displayed, indeed, no symptom of attractive merit;\nand though it had a certain share of that success called scandalous,\nfailed utterly of its effect.  On the day, however, of the second\nappearance of the companion work, a real inquirer did actually present\nhimself before the eyes of Somerset.\n\nThis was a gentlemanly man, with some marks of recent merriment, and his\nvoice under inadequate control.\n\n'I beg your pardon,' said he, 'but what is the meaning of your\nextraordinary bill?'\n\n'I beg yours,' returned Somerset hotly.  'Its meaning is sufficiently\nexplicit.'  And being now, from dire experience, fearful of ridicule, he\nwas preparing to close the door, when the gentleman thrust his cane into\nthe aperture.\n\n'Not so fast, I beg of you,' said he.  'If you really let apartments,\nhere is a possible tenant at your door; and nothing would give me greater\npleasure than to see the accommodation and to learn your terms.'\n\nHis heart joyously beating, Somerset admitted the visitor, showed him\nover the various apartments, and, with some return of his persuasive\neloquence, expounded their attractions.  The gentleman was particularly\npleased by the elegant proportions of the drawing-room.\n\n'This,' he said, 'would suit me very well.  What, may I ask, would be\nyour terms a week, for this floor and the one above it?'\n\n'I was thinking,' returned Somerset, 'of a hundred pounds.'\n\n'Surely not,' exclaimed the gentleman.\n\n'Well, then,' returned Somerset, 'fifty.'\n\nThe gentleman regarded him with an air of some amazement.  'You seem to\nbe strangely elastic in your demands,' said he.  'What if I were to\nproceed on your own principle of division, and offer twenty-five?'\n\n'Done!' cried Somerset; and then, overcome by a sudden embarrassment,\n'You see,' he added apologetically, 'it is all found money for me.'\n\n'Really?' said the stranger, looking at him all the while with growing\nwonder.  'Without extras, then?'\n\n'I--I suppose so,' stammered the keeper of the lodging-house.\n\n'Service included?' pursued the gentleman.\n\n'Service?' cried Somerset.  'Do you mean that you expect me to empty your\nslops?'\n\nThe gentleman regarded him with a very friendly interest.  'My dear\nfellow,' said he, 'if you take my advice, you will give up this\nbusiness.'  And thereupon he resumed his hat and took himself away.\n\nThis smarting disappointment produced a strong effect on the artist of\nthe cartoons; and he began with shame to eat up his rosier illusions.\nFirst one and then the other of his great works was condemned, withdrawn\nfrom exhibition, and relegated, as a mere wall-picture, to the decoration\nof the dining-room.  Their place was taken by a replica of the original\nwafered announcement, to which, in particularly large letters, he had\nadded the pithy rubric: '_No service_.'  Meanwhile he had fallen into\nsomething as nearly bordering on low spirits as was consistent with his\ndisposition; depressed, at once by the failure of his scheme, the\nlaughable turn of his late interview, and the judicial blindness of the\npublic to the merit of the twin cartoons.\n\nPerhaps a week had passed before he was again startled by the note of the\nknocker.  A gentleman of a somewhat foreign and somewhat military air,\nyet closely shaven and wearing a soft hat, desired in the politest terms\nto visit the apartments.  He had (he explained) a friend, a gentleman in\ntender health, desirous of a sedate and solitary life, apart from\ninterruptions and the noises of the common lodging-house.  'The unusual\nclause,' he continued, 'in your announcement, particularly struck me.\n\"This,\" I said, \"is the place for Mr. Jones.\"  You are yourself, sir, a\nprofessional gentleman?' concluded the visitor, looking keenly in\nSomerset's face.\n\n'I am an artist,' replied the young man lightly.\n\n'And these,' observed the other, taking a side glance through the open\ndoor of the dining-room, which they were then passing, 'these are some of\nyour works.  Very remarkable.'  And he again and still more sharply\npeered into the countenance of the young man.\n\nSomerset, unable to suppress a blush, made the more haste to lead his\nvisitor upstairs and to display the apartments.\n\n'Excellent,' observed the stranger, as he looked from one of the back\nwindows.  'Is that a mews behind, sir?  Very good.  Well, sir: see here.\nMy friend will take your drawing-room floor; he will sleep in the back\ndrawing-room; his nurse, an excellent Irish widow, will attend on all his\nwants and occupy a garret; he will pay you the round sum of ten dollars a\nweek; and you, on your part, will engage to receive no other lodger?  I\nthink that fair.'\n\nSomerset had scarcely words in which to clothe his gratitude and joy.\n\n'Agreed,' said the other; 'and to spare you trouble, my friend will bring\nsome men with him to make the changes.  You will find him a retiring\ninmate, sir; receives but few, and rarely leaves the house, except at\nnight.'\n\n'Since I have been in this house,' returned Somerset, 'I have myself,\nunless it were to fetch beer, rarely gone abroad except in the evening.\nBut a man,' he added, 'must have some amusement.'\n\nAn hour was then agreed on; the gentleman departed; and Somerset sat down\nto compute in English money the value of the figure named.  The result of\nthis investigation filled him with amazement and disgust; but it was now\ntoo late; nothing remained but to endure; and he awaited the arrival of\nhis tenant, still trying, by various arithmetical expedients, to obtain a\nmore favourable quotation for the dollar.  With the approach of dusk,\nhowever, his impatience drove him once more to the front balcony.  The\nnight fell, mild and airless; the lamps shone around the central darkness\nof the garden; and through the tall grove of trees that intervened, many\nwarmly illuminated windows on the farther side of the square, told their\ntale of white napery, choice wine, and genial hospitality.  The stars\nwere already thickening overhead, when the young man's eyes alighted on a\nprocession of three four-wheelers, coasting round the garden railing and\nbound for the Superfluous Mansion.  They were laden with formidable\nboxes; moved in a military order, one following another; and, by the\nextreme slowness of their advance, inspired Somerset with the most\nserious ideas of his tenant's malady.\n\nBy the time he had the door open, the cabs had drawn up beside the\npavement; and from the two first, there had alighted the military\ngentleman of the morning and two very stalwart porters.  These proceeded\ninstantly to take possession of the house; with their own hands, and\nfirmly rejecting Somerset's assistance, they carried in the various\ncrates and boxes; with their own hands dismounted and transferred to the\nback drawing-room the bed in which the tenant was to sleep; and it was\nnot until the bustle of arrival had subsided, and the arrangements were\ncomplete, that there descended, from the third of the three vehicles, a\ngentleman of great stature and broad shoulders, leaning on the shoulder\nof a woman in a widow's dress, and himself covered by a long cloak and\nmuffled in a coloured comforter.\n\nSomerset had but a glimpse of him in passing; he was soon shut into the\nback drawing-room; the other men departed; silence redescended on the\nhouse; and had not the nurse appeared a little before half-past ten, and,\nwith a strong brogue, asked if there were a decent public-house in the\nneighbourhood, Somerset might have still supposed himself to be alone in\nthe Superfluous Mansion.\n\nDay followed day; and still the young man had never come by speech or\nsight of his mysterious lodger.  The doors of the drawing-room flat were\nnever open; and although Somerset could hear him moving to and fro, the\ntall man had never quitted the privacy of his apartments.  Visitors,\nindeed, arrived; sometimes in the dusk, sometimes at intempestuous hours\nof night or morning; men, for the most part; some meanly attired, some\ndecently; some loud, some cringing; and yet all, in the eyes of Somerset,\ndispleasing.  A certain air of fear and secrecy was common to them all;\nthey were all voluble, he thought, and ill at ease; even the military\ngentleman proved, on a closer inspection, to be no gentleman at all; and\nas for the doctor who attended the sick man, his manners were not\nsuggestive of a university career.  The nurse, again, was scarcely a\ndesirable house-fellow.  Since her arrival, the fall of whisky in the\nyoung man's private bottle was much accelerated; and though never\ncommunicative, she was at times unpleasantly familiar.  When asked about\nthe patient's health, she would dolorously shake her head, and declare\nthat the poor gentleman was in a pitiful condition.\n\nYet somehow Somerset had early begun to entertain the notion that his\ncomplaint was other than bodily.  The ill-looking birds that gathered to\nthe house, the strange noises that sounded from the drawing-room in the\ndead hours of night, the careless attendance and intemperate habits of\nthe nurse, the entire absence of correspondence, the entire seclusion of\nMr. Jones himself, whose face, up to that hour, he could not have sworn\nto in a court of justice--all weighed unpleasantly upon the young man's\nmind.  A sense of something evil, irregular and underhand, haunted and\ndepressed him; and this uneasy sentiment was the more firmly rooted in\nhis mind, when, in the fulness of time, he had an opportunity of\nobserving the features of his tenant.  It fell in this way.  The young\nlandlord was awakened about four in the morning by a noise in the hall.\nLeaping to his feet, and opening the door of the library, he saw the tall\nman, candle in hand, in earnest conversation with the gentleman who had\ntaken the rooms.  The faces of both were strongly illuminated; and in\nthat of his tenant, Somerset could perceive none of the marks of disease,\nbut every sign of health, energy, and resolution.  While he was still\nlooking, the visitor took his departure; and the invalid, having\ncarefully fastened the front door, sprang upstairs without a trace of\nlassitude.\n\nThat night upon his pillow, Somerset began to kindle once more into the\nhot fit of the detective fever; and the next morning resumed the practice\nof his art with careless hand and an abstracted mind.  The day was\ndestined to be fertile in surprises; nor had he long been seated at the\neasel ere the first of these occurred.  A cab laden with baggage drew up\nbefore the door; and Mrs. Luxmore in person rapidly mounted the steps and\nbegan to pound upon the knocker.  Somerset hastened to attend the\nsummons.\n\n'My dear fellow,' she said, with the utmost gaiety, 'here I come dropping\nfrom the moon.  I am delighted to find you faithful; and I have no doubt\nyou will be equally pleased to be restored to liberty.'\n\nSomerset could find no words, whether of protest or welcome; and the\nspirited old lady pushed briskly by him and paused on the threshold of\nthe dining-room.  The sight that met her eyes was one well calculated to\ninspire astonishment.  The mantelpiece was arrayed with saucepans and\nempty bottles; on the fire some chops were frying; the floor was littered\nfrom end to end with books, clothes, walking-canes and the materials of\nthe painter's craft; but what far outstripped the other wonders of the\nplace was the corner which had been arranged for the study of still-life.\nThis formed a sort of rockery; conspicuous upon which, according to the\nprinciples of the art of composition, a cabbage was relieved against a\ncopper kettle, and both contrasted with the mail of a boiled lobster.\n\n'My gracious goodness!' cried the lady of the house; and then, turning in\nwrath on the young man, 'From what rank in life are you sprung?' she\ndemanded.  'You have the exterior of a gentleman; but from the\nastonishing evidences before me, I should say you can only be a\ngreengrocer's man.  Pray, gather up your vegetables, and let me see no\nmore of you.'\n\n'Madam,' babbled Somerset, 'you promised me a month's warning.'\n\n'That was under a misapprehension,' returned the old lady.  'I now give\nyou warning to leave at once.'\n\n'Madam,' said the young man, 'I wish I could; and indeed, as far as I am\nconcerned, it might be done.  But then, my lodger!'\n\n'Your lodger?' echoed Mrs. Luxmore.\n\n'My lodger: why should I deny it?' returned Somerset.  'He is only by the\nweek.'\n\nThe old lady sat down upon a chair.  'You have a lodger?--you?' she\ncried.  'And pray, how did you get him?'\n\n'By advertisement,' replied the young man. 'O madam, I have not lived\nunobservantly.  I adopted'--his eyes involuntarily shifted to the\ncartoons--'I adopted every method.'\n\nHer eyes had followed his; for the first time in Somerset's experience,\nshe produced a double eye-glass; and as soon as the full merit of the\nworks had flashed upon her, she gave way to peal after peal of her\ntrilling and soprano laughter.\n\n'Oh, I think you are perfectly delicious!' she cried.  'I do hope you had\nthem in the window.  M'Pherson,' she continued, crying to her maid, who\nhad been all this time grimly waiting in the hall, 'I lunch with Mr.\nSomerset.  Take the cellar key and bring some wine.'\n\nIn this gay humour she continued throughout the luncheon; presented\nSomerset with a couple of dozen of wine, which she made M'Pherson bring\nup from the cellar--'as a present, my dear,' she said, with another burst\nof tearful merriment, 'for your charming pictures, which you must be sure\nto leave me when you go;' and finally, protesting that she dared not\nspoil the absurdest houseful of madmen in the whole of London, departed\n(as she vaguely phrased it) for the continent of Europe.\n\nShe was no sooner gone, than Somerset encountered in the corridor the\nIrish nurse; sober, to all appearance, and yet a prey to singularly\nstrong emotion.  It was made to appear, from her account, that Mr. Jones\nhad already suffered acutely in his health from Mrs. Luxmore's visit, and\nthat nothing short of a full explanation could allay the invalid's\nuneasiness.  Somerset, somewhat staring, told what he thought fit of the\naffair.\n\n'Is that all?' cried the woman.  'As God sees you, is that all?'\n\n'My good woman,' said the young man, 'I have no idea what you can be\ndriving at.  Suppose the lady were my friend's wife, suppose she were my\nfairy godmother, suppose she were the Queen of Portugal; and how should\nthat affect yourself or Mr. Jones?'\n\n'Blessed Mary!' cried the nurse, 'it's he that will be glad to hear it!'\n\nAnd immediately she fled upstairs.\n\nSomerset, on his part, returned to the dining-room, and with a very\nthoughtful brow and ruminating many theories, disposed of the remainder\nof the bottle.  It was port; and port is a wine, sole among its equals\nand superiors, that can in some degree support the competition of\ntobacco.  Sipping, smoking, and theorising, Somerset moved on from\nsuspicion to suspicion, from resolve to resolve, still growing braver and\nrosier as the bottle ebbed.  He was a sceptic, none prouder of the name;\nhe had no horror at command, whether for crimes or vices, but beheld and\nembraced the world, with an immoral approbation, the frequent consequence\nof youth and health.  At the same time, he felt convinced that he dwelt\nunder the same roof with secret malefactors; and the unregenerate\ninstinct of the chase impelled him to severity.  The bottle had run low;\nthe summer sun had finally withdrawn; and at the same moment, night and\nthe pangs of hunger recalled him from his dreams.\n\nHe went forth, and dined in the Criterion: a dinner in consonance, not so\nmuch with his purse, as with the admirable wine he had discussed.  What\nwith one thing and another, it was long past midnight when he returned\nhome.  A cab was at the door; and entering the hall, Somerset found\nhimself face to face with one of the most regular of the few who visited\nMr. Jones: a man of powerful figure, strong lineaments, and a chin-beard\nin the American fashion.  This person was carrying on one shoulder a\nblack portmanteau, seemingly of considerable weight.  That he should find\na visitor removing baggage in the dead of night, recalled some odd\nstories to the young man's memory; he had heard of lodgers who thus\ngradually drained away, not only their own effects, but the very\nfurniture and fittings of the house that sheltered them; and now, in a\nmood between pleasantry and suspicion, and aping the manner of a\ndrunkard, he roughly bumped against the man with the chin-beard and\nknocked the portmanteau from his shoulder to the floor.  With a face\nstruck suddenly as white as paper, the man with the chin-beard called\nlamentably on the name of his maker, and fell in a mere heap on the mat\nat the foot of the stairs.  At the same time, though only for a single\ninstant, the heads of the sick lodger and the Irish nurse popped out like\nrabbits over the banisters of the first floor; and on both the same scare\nand pallor were apparent.\n\nThe sight of this incredible emotion turned Somerset to stone, and he\ncontinued speechless, while the man gathered himself together, and, with\nthe help of the handrail and audibly thanking God, scrambled once more\nupon his feet.\n\n'What in Heaven's name ails you?' gasped the young man as soon as he\ncould find words and utterance.\n\n'Have you a drop of brandy?' returned the other.  'I am sick.'\n\nSomerset administered two drams, one after the other, to the man with the\nchin-beard; who then, somewhat restored, began to confound himself in\napologies for what he called his miserable nervousness, the result, he\nsaid, of a long course of dumb ague; and having taken leave with a hand\nthat still sweated and trembled, he gingerly resumed his burthen and\ndeparted.\n\nSomerset retired to bed but not to sleep.  What, he asked himself, had\nbeen the contents of the black portmanteau?  Stolen goods? the carcase of\none murdered? or--and at the thought he sat upright in bed--an infernal\nmachine?  He took a solemn vow that he would set these doubts at rest;\nand with the next morning, installed himself beside the dining-room\nwindow, vigilant with eye; and ear, to await and profit by the earliest\nopportunity.\n\nThe hours went heavily by.  Within the house there was no circumstance of\nnovelty; unless it might be that the nurse more frequently made little\njourneys round the corner of the square, and before afternoon was\nsomewhat loose of speech and gait.  A little after six, however, there\ncame round the corner of the gardens a very handsome and elegantly\ndressed young woman, who paused a little way off, and for some time, and\nwith frequent sighs, contemplated the front of the Superfluous Mansion.\nIt was not the first time that she had thus stood afar and looked upon\nit, like our common parents at the gates of Eden; and the young man had\nalready had occasion to remark the lively slimness of her carriage, and\nhad already been the butt of a chance arrow from her eye.  He hailed her\ncoming, then, with pleasant feelings, and moved a little nearer to the\nwindow to enjoy the sight.  What was his surprise, however, when, as if\nwith a sensible effort, she drew near, mounted the steps and tapped\ndiscreetly at the door!  He made haste to get before the Irish nurse, who\nwas not improbably asleep, and had the satisfaction to receive this\ngracious visitor in person.\n\nShe inquired for Mr. Jones; and then, without transition, asked the young\nman if he were the person of the house (and at the words, he thought he\ncould perceive her to be smiling), 'because,' she added, 'if you are, I\nshould like to see some of the other rooms.'  Somerset told her he was\nunder an engagement to receive no other lodgers; but she assured him that\nwould be no matter, as these were friends of Mr. Jones's.  'And,' she\ncontinued, moving suddenly to the dining-room door, 'let us begin here.'\nSomerset was too late to prevent her entering, and perhaps he lacked the\ncourage to essay.  'Ah!' she cried, 'how changed it is!'\n\n'Madam,' cried the young man, 'since your entrance, it is I who have the\nright to say so.'\n\nShe received this inane compliment with a demure and conscious droop of\nthe eyelids, and gracefully steering her dress among the mingled litter,\nnow with a smile, now with a sigh, reviewed the wonders of the two\napartments.  She gazed upon the cartoons with sparkling eyes, and a\nheightened colour, and in a somewhat breathless voice, expressed a high\nopinion of their merits.  She praised the effective disposition of the\nrockery, and in the bedroom, of which Somerset had vainly endeavoured to\ndefend the entry, she fairly broke forth in admiration.  'How simple and\nmanly!' she cried: 'none of that effeminacy of neatness, which is so\ndetestable in a man!'  Hard upon this, telling him, before he had time to\nreply, that she very well knew her way, and would trouble him no further,\nshe took her leave with an engaging smile, and ascended the staircase\nalone.\n\nFor more than an hour the young lady remained closeted with Mr. Jones;\nand at the end of that time, the night being now come completely, they\nleft the house in company.  This was the first time since the arrival of\nhis lodger, that Somerset had found himself alone with the Irish widow;\nand without the loss of any more time than was required by decency, he\nstepped to the foot of the stairs and hailed her by her name.  She came\ninstantly, wreathed in weak smiles and with a nodding head; and when the\nyoung man politely offered to introduce her to the treasures of his art,\nshe swore that nothing could afford her greater pleasure, for, though she\nhad never crossed the threshold, she had frequently observed his\nbeautiful pictures through the door.  On entering the dining-room, the\nsight of a bottle and two glasses prepared her to be a gentle critic; and\nas soon as the pictures had been viewed and praised, she was easily\npersuaded to join the painter in a single glass.  'Here,' she said, 'are\nmy respects; and a pleasure it is, in this horrible house, to see a\ngentleman like yourself, so affable and free, and a very nice painter, I\nam sure.'  One glass so agreeably prefaced, was sure to lead to the\nacceptance of a second; at the third, Somerset was free to cease from the\naffectation of keeping her company; and as for the fourth, she asked it\nof her own accord.  'For indeed,' said she, 'what with all these clocks\nand chemicals, without a drop of the creature life would be impossible\nentirely.  And you seen yourself that even M'Guire was glad to beg for\nit.  And even himself, when he is downhearted with all these cruel\ndisappointments, though as temperate a man as any child, will be\nsometimes crying for a glass of it.  And I'll thank you for a thimbleful\nto settle what I got.'  Soon after, she began with tears to narrate the\ndeathbed dispositions and lament the trifling assets of her husband.\nThen she declared she heard 'the master' calling her, rose to her feet,\nmade but one lurch of it into the still-life rockery, and with her head\nupon the lobster, fell into stertorous slumbers.\n\nSomerset mounted at once to the first story, and opened the door of the\ndrawing-room, which was brilliantly lit by several lamps.  It was a great\napartment; looking on the square with three tall windows, and joined by a\npair of ample folding-doors to the next room; elegant in proportion,\npapered in sea-green, furnished in velvet of a delicate blue, and adorned\nwith a majestic mantelpiece of variously tinted marbles.  Such was the\nroom that Somerset remembered; that which he now beheld was changed in\nalmost every feature: the furniture covered with a figured chintz; the\nwalls hung with a rhubarb-coloured paper, and diversified by the\ncurtained recesses for no less than seven windows.  It seemed to himself\nthat he must have entered, without observing the transition, into the\nadjoining house.  Presently from these more specious changes, his eye\ncondescended to the many curious objects with which the floor was\nlittered.  Here were the locks of dismounted pistols; clocks and\nclockwork in every stage of demolition, some still busily ticking, some\nreduced to their dainty elements; a great company of carboys, jars and\nbottles; a carpenter's bench and a laboratory-table.\n\nThe back drawing-room, to which Somerset proceeded, had likewise\nundergone a change.  It was transformed to the exact appearance of a\ncommon lodging-house bedroom; a bed with green curtains occupied one\ncorner; and the window was blocked by the regulation table and mirror.\nThe door of a small closet here attracted the young man's attention; and\nstriking a vesta, he opened it and entered.  On a table several wigs and\nbeards were lying spread; about the walls hung an incongruous display of\nsuits and overcoats; and conspicuous among the last the young man\nobserved a large overall of the most costly sealskin.  In a flash his\nmind reverted to the advertisement in the _Standard_ newspaper.  The\ngreat height of his lodger, the disproportionate breadth of his\nshoulders, and the strange particulars of his instalment, all pointed to\nthe same conclusion.\n\nThe vesta had now burned to his fingers; and taking the coat upon his\narm, Somerset hastily returned to the lighted drawing-room.  There, with\na mixture of fear and admiration, he pored upon its goodly proportions\nand the regularity and softness of the pile.  The sight of a large\npier-glass put another fancy in his head.  He donned the fur-coat; and\nstanding before the mirror in an attitude suggestive of a Russian prince,\nhe thrust his hands into the ample pockets.  There his fingers\nencountered a folded journal.  He drew it out, and recognised the type\nand paper of the _Standard_; and at the same instant, his eyes alighted\non the offer of two hundred pounds.  Plainly then, his lodger, now no\nlonger mysterious, had laid aside his coat on the very day of the\nappearance of the advertisement.\n\nHe was thus standing, the tell-tale coat upon his back, the incriminating\npaper in his hand, when the door opened and the tall lodger, with a firm\nbut somewhat pallid face, stepped into the room and closed the door again\nbehind him.  For some time, the two looked upon each other in perfect\nsilence; then Mr. Jones moved forward to the table, took a seat, and\nstill without once changing the direction of his eyes, addressed the\nyoung man.\n\n'You are right,' he said.  'It is for me the blood money is offered.  And\nnow what will you do?'\n\nIt was a question to which Somerset was far from being able to reply.\nTaken as he was at unawares, masquerading in the man's own coat, and\nsurrounded by a whole arsenal of diabolical explosives, the keeper of the\nlodging-house was silenced.\n\n'Yes,' resumed the other, 'I am he.  I am that man, whom with impotent\nhate and fear, they still hunt from den to den, from disguise to\ndisguise.  Yes, my landlord, you have it in your power, if you be poor,\nto lay the basis of your fortune; if you be unknown, to capture honour at\none snatch.  You have hocussed an innocent widow; and I find you here in\nmy apartment, for whose use I pay you in stamped money, searching my\nwardrobe, and your hand--shame, sir!--your hand in my very pocket.  You\ncan now complete the cycle of your ignominious acts, by what will be at\nonce the simplest, the safest, and the most remunerative.'  The speaker\npaused as if to emphasise his words; and then, with a great change of\ntone and manner, thus resumed: 'And yet, sir, when I look upon your face,\nI feel certain that I cannot be deceived: certain that in spite of all, I\nhave the honour and pleasure of speaking to a gentleman.  Take off my\ncoat, sir--which but cumbers you.  Divest yourself of this confusion:\nthat which is but thought upon, thank God, need be no burthen to the\nconscience; we have all harboured guilty thoughts: and if it flashed into\nyour mind to sell my flesh and blood, my anguish in the dock, and the\nsweat of my death agony--it was a thought, dear sir, you were as\nincapable of acting on, as I of any further question of your honour.'  At\nthese words, the speaker, with a very open, smiling countenance, like a\nforgiving father, offered Somerset his hand.\n\nIt was not in the young man's nature to refuse forgiveness or dissect\ngenerosity.  He instantly, and almost without thought, accepted the\nproffered grasp.\n\n'And now,' resumed the lodger, 'now that I hold in mine your loyal hand,\nI lay by my apprehensions, I dismiss suspicion, I go further--by an\neffort of will, I banish the memory of what is past.  How you came here,\nI care not: enough that you are here--as my guest.  Sit ye down; and let\nus, with your good permission, improve acquaintance over a glass of\nexcellent whisky.'\n\nSo speaking, he produced glasses and a bottle: and the pair pledged each\nother in silence.\n\n'Confess,' observed the smiling host, 'you were surprised at the\nappearance of the room.'\n\n'I was indeed,' said Somerset; 'nor can I imagine the purpose of these\nchanges.'\n\n'These,' replied the conspirator, 'are the devices by which I continue to\nexist.  Conceive me now, accused before one of your unjust tribunals;\nconceive the various witnesses appearing, and the singular variety of\ntheir reports!  One will have visited me in this drawing-room as it\noriginally stood; a second finds it as it is to-night; and to-morrow or\nnext day, all may have been changed.  If you love romance (as artists\ndo), few lives are more romantic than that of the obscure individual now\naddressing you.  Obscure yet famous.  Mine is an anonymous, infernal\nglory.  By infamous means, I work towards my bright purpose.  I found the\nliberty and peace of a poor country, desperately abused; the future\nsmiles upon that land; yet, in the meantime, I lead the existence of a\nhunted brute, work towards appalling ends, and practice hell's\ndexterities.'\n\nSomerset, glass in hand, contemplated the strange fanatic before him, and\nlistened to his heated rhapsody, with indescribable bewilderment.  He\nlooked him in the face with curious particularity; saw there the marks of\neducation; and wondered the more profoundly.\n\n'Sir,' he said--'for I know not whether I should still address you as Mr.\nJones--'\n\n'Jones, Breitman, Higginbotham, Pumpernickel, Daviot, Henderland, by all\nor any of these you may address me,' said the plotter; 'for all I have at\nsome time borne.  Yet that which I most prize, that which is most feared,\nhated, and obeyed, is not a name to be found in your directories; it is\nnot a name current in post-offices or banks; and, indeed, like the\ncelebrated clan M'Gregor, I may justly describe myself as being nameless\nby day.  But,' he continued, rising to his feet, 'by night, and among my\ndesperate followers, I am the redoubted Zero.'\n\nSomerset was unacquainted with the name, but he politely expressed\nsurprise and gratification.  'I am to understand,' he continued, 'that,\nunder this alias, you follow the profession of a dynamiter?' {176}\n\nThe plotter had resumed his seat and now replenished the glasses.\n\n'I do,' he said.  'In this dark period of time, a star--the star of\ndynamite--has risen for the oppressed; and among those who practise its\nuse, so thick beset with dangers and attended by such incredible\ndifficulties and disappointments, few have been more assiduous, and not\nmany--'  He paused, and a shade of embarrassment appeared upon his\nface--'not many have been more successful than myself.'\n\n'I can imagine,' observed Somerset, 'that, from the sweeping consequences\nlooked for, the career is not devoid of interest.  You have, besides,\nsome of the entertainment of the game of hide and seek.  But it would\nstill seem to me--I speak as a layman--that nothing could be simpler or\nsafer than to deposit an infernal machine and retire to an adjacent\ncounty to await the painful consequences.'\n\n'You speak, indeed,' returned the plotter, with some evidence of warmth,\n'you speak, indeed, most ignorantly.  Do you make nothing, then, of such\na peril as we share this moment?  Do you think it nothing to occupy a\nhouse like this one, mined, menaced, and, in a word, literally tottering\nto its fall?'\n\n'Good God!' ejaculated Somerset.\n\n'And when you speak of ease,' pursued Zero, 'in this age of scientific\nstudies, you fill me with surprise.  Are you not aware that chemicals are\nproverbially fickle as woman, and clockwork as capricious as the very\ndevil?  Do you see upon my brow these furrows of anxiety?  Do you observe\nthe silver threads that mingle with my hair?  Clockwork, clockwork has\nstamped them on my brow--chemicals have sprinkled them upon my locks!\nNo, Mr. Somerset,' he resumed, after a moment's pause, his voice still\nquivering with sensibility, 'you must not suppose the dynamiter's life to\nbe all gold.  On the contrary, you cannot picture to yourself the\nbloodshot vigils and the staggering disappointments of a life like mine.\nI have toiled (let us say) for months, up early and down late; my bag is\nready, my clock set; a daring agent has hurried with white face to\ndeposit the instrument of ruin; we await the fall of England, the\nmassacre of thousands, the yell of fear and execration; and lo! a snap\nlike that of a child's pistol, an offensive smell, and the entire loss of\nso much time and plant!  If,' he concluded, musingly, 'we had been merely\nable to recover the lost bags, I believe with but a touch or two, I could\nhave remedied the peccant engine.  But what with the loss of plant and\nthe almost insuperable scientific difficulties of the task, our friends\nin France are almost ready to desert the chosen medium.  They propose,\ninstead, to break up the drainage system of cities and sweep off whole\npopulations with the devastating typhoid pestilence: a tempting and a\nscientific project: a process, indiscriminate indeed, but of idyllical\nsimplicity.  I recognise its elegance; but, sir, I have something of the\npoet in my nature; something, possibly, of the tribune.  And, for my\nsmall part, I shall remain devoted to that more emphatic, more striking,\nand (if you please) more popular method, of the explosive bomb.  Yes,' he\ncried, with unshaken hope, 'I will still continue, and, I feel it in my\nbosom, I shall yet succeed.'\n\n'Two things I remark,' said Somerset.  'The first somewhat staggers me.\nHave you, then--in all this course of life, which you have sketched so\nvividly--have you not once succeeded?'\n\n'Pardon me,' said Zero.  'I have had one success.  You behold in me the\nauthor of the outrage of Red Lion Court.'\n\n'But if I remember right,' objected Somerset, 'the thing was a _fiasco_.\nA scavenger's barrow and some copies of the _Weekly Budget_--these were\nthe only victims.'\n\n'You will pardon me again,' returned Zero with positive asperity: 'a\nchild was injured.'\n\n'And that fitly brings me to my second point,' said Somerset.  'For I\nobserved you to employ the word \"indiscriminate.\"  Now, surely, a\nscavenger's barrow and a child (if child there were) represent the very\nacme and top pin-point of indiscriminate, and, pardon me, of ineffectual\nreprisal.'\n\n'Did I employ the word?' asked Zero.  'Well, I will not defend it.  But\nfor efficiency, you touch on graver matters; and before entering upon so\nvast a subject, permit me once more to fill our glasses.  Disputation is\ndry work,' he added, with a charming gaiety of manner.\n\nOnce more accordingly the pair pledged each other in a stalwart grog; and\nZero, leaning back with an air of some complacency, proceeded more\nlargely to develop his opinions.\n\n'The indiscriminate?' he began.  'War, my dear sir, is indiscriminate.\nWar spares not the child; it spares not the barrow of the harmless\nscavenger.  No more,' he concluded, beaming, 'no more do I.  Whatever may\nstrike fear, whatever may confound or paralyse the activities of the\nguilty nation, barrow or child, imperial Parliament or excursion steamer,\nis welcome to my simple plans.  You are not,' he inquired, with a shade\nof sympathetic interest, 'you are not, I trust, a believer?'\n\n'Sir, I believe in nothing,' said the young man.\n\n'You are then,' replied Zero, 'in a position to grasp my argument.  We\nagree that humanity is the object, the glorious triumph of humanity; and\nbeing pledged to labour for that end, and face to face with the banded\nopposition of kings, parliaments, churches, and the members of the force,\nwho am I--who are we, dear sir--to affect a nicety about the tools\nemployed?  You might, perhaps, expect us to attack the Queen, the\nsinister Gladstone, the rigid Derby, or the dexterous Granville; but\nthere you would be in error.  Our appeal is to the body of the people; it\nis these that we would touch and interest.  Now, sir, have you observed\nthe English housemaid?'\n\n'I should think I had,' cried Somerset.\n\n'From a man of taste and a votary of art, I had expected it,' returned\nthe conspirator politely.  'A type apart; a very charming figure; and\nthoroughly adapted to our ends.  The neat cap, the clean print, the\ncomely person, the engaging manner; her position between classes, parents\nin one, employers in another; the probability that she will have at least\none sweet-heart, whose feelings we shall address:--yes, I have a\nleaning--call it, if you will, a weakness--for the housemaid.  Not that I\nwould be understood to despise the nurse.  For the child is a very\ninteresting feature: I have long since marked out the child as the\nsensitive point in society.'  He wagged his head, with a wise, pensive\nsmile.  'And talking, sir, of children and of the perils of our trade,\nlet me now narrate to you a little incident of an explosive bomb, that\nfell out some weeks ago under my own observation.  It fell out thus.'\n\nAnd Zero, leaning back in his chair, narrated the following simple tale.\n\n\n\n_ZERO'S TALE OF THE EXPLOSIVE BOMB_. {182}\n\n\nI dined by appointment with one of our most trusted agents, in a private\nchamber at St. James's Hall.  You have seen the man: it was M'Guire, the\nmost chivalrous of creatures, but not himself expert in our contrivances.\nHence the necessity of our meeting; for I need not remind you what\nenormous issues depend upon the nice adjustment of the engine.  I set our\nlittle petard for half an hour, the scene of action being hard by; and\nthe better to avert miscarriage, employed a device, a recent invention of\nmy own, by which the opening of the Gladstone bag in which the bomb was\ncarried, should instantly determine the explosion.  M'Guire was somewhat\ndashed by this arrangement, which was new to him: and pointed out, with\nexcellent, clear good sense, that should he be arrested, it would\nprobably involve him in the fall of our opponents.  But I was not to be\nmoved, made a strong appeal to his patriotism, gave him a good glass of\nwhisky, and despatched him on his glorious errand.\n\nOur objective was the effigy of Shakespeare in Leicester Square: a spot,\nI think, admirably chosen; not only for the sake of the dramatist, still\nvery foolishly claimed as a glory by the English race, in spite of his\ndisgusting political opinions; but from the fact that the seats in the\nimmediate neighbourhood are often thronged by children, errand-boys,\nunfortunate young ladies of the poorer class and infirm old men--all\nclasses making a direct appeal to public pity, and therefore suitable\nwith our designs.  As M'Guire drew near his heart was inflamed by the\nmost noble sentiment of triumph.  Never had he seen the garden so\ncrowded; children, still stumbling in the impotence of youth, ran to and\nfro, shouting and playing, round the pedestal; an old, sick pensioner sat\nupon the nearest bench, a medal on his breast, a stick with which he\nwalked (for he was disabled by wounds) reclining on his knee.  Guilty\nEngland would thus be stabbed in the most delicate quarters; the moment\nhad, indeed, been well selected; and M'Guire, with a radiant provision of\nthe event, drew merrily nearer.  Suddenly his eye alighted on the burly\nform of a policeman, standing hard by the effigy in an attitude of watch.\nMy bold companion paused; he looked about him closely; here and there, at\ndifferent points of the enclosure, other men stood or loitered, affecting\nan abstraction, feigning to gaze upon the shrubs, feigning to talk,\nfeigning to be weary and to rest upon the benches.  M'Guire was no child\nin these affairs; he instantly divined one of the plots of the\nMachiavellian Gladstone.\n\nA chief difficulty with which we have to deal, is a certain nervousness\nin the subaltern branches of the corps; as the hour of some design draws\nnear, these chicken-souled conspirators appear to suffer some revulsion\nof intent; and frequently despatch to the authorities, not indeed\nspecific denunciations, but vague anonymous warnings.  But for this\npurely accidental circumstance, England had long ago been an historical\nexpression.  On the receipt of such a letter, the Government lay a trap\nfor their adversaries, and surround the threatened spot with hirelings.\nMy blood sometimes boils in my veins, when I consider the case of those\nwho sell themselves for money in such a cause.  True, thanks to the\ngenerosity of our supporters, we patriots receive a very comfortable\nstipend; I myself, of course, touch a salary which puts me quite beyond\nthe reach of any peddling, mercenary thoughts; M'Guire, again, ere he\njoined our ranks, was on the brink of starving, and now, thank God!\nreceives a decent income.  That is as it should be; the patriot must not\nbe diverted from his task by any base consideration; and the distinction\nbetween our position and that of the police is too obvious to be stated.\n\nPlainly, however, our Leicester Square design had been divulged; the\nGovernment had craftily filled the place with minions; even the pensioner\nwas not improbably a hireling in disguise; and our emissary, without\nother aid or protection than the simple apparatus in his bag, found\nhimself confronted by force; brutal force; that strong hand which was a\ncharacter of the ages of oppression.  Should he venture to deposit the\nmachine, it was almost certain that he would be observed and arrested; a\ncry would arise; and there was just a fear that the police might not be\npresent in sufficient force, to protect him from the savagery of the mob.\nThe scheme must be delayed.  He stood with his bag on his arm, pretending\nto survey the front of the Alhambra, when there flashed into his mind a\nthought to appal the bravest.  The machine was set; at the appointed\nhour, it must explode; and how, in the interval, was he to be rid of it?\n\nPut yourself, I beseech you, into the body of that patriot.  There he\nwas, friendless and helpless; a man in the very flower of life, for he is\nnot yet forty; with long years of happiness before him; and now\ncondemned, in one moment, to a cruel and revolting death by dynamite!\nThe square, he said, went round him like a thaumatrope; he saw the\nAlhambra leap into the air like a balloon; and reeled against the\nrailing.  It is probable he fainted.\n\nWhen he came to himself, a constable had him by the arm.\n\n'My God!' he cried.\n\n'You seem to be unwell, sir,' said the hireling.\n\n'I feel better now,' cried poor M'Guire: and with uneven steps, for the\npavement of the square seemed to lurch and reel under his footing, he\nfled from the scene of this disaster.  Fled?  Alas, from what was he\nfleeing?  Did he not carry that from which he fled along with him? and\nhad he the wings of the eagle, had he the swiftness of the ocean winds,\ncould he have been rapt into the uttermost quarters of the earth, how\nshould he escape the ruin that he carried?  We have heard of living men\nwho have been fettered to the dead; the grievance, soberly considered, is\nno more than sentimental; the case is but a flea-bite to that of him who\nshould be linked, like poor M'Guire, to an explosive bomb.\n\nA thought struck him in Green Street, like a dart through his liver:\nsuppose it were the hour already.  He stopped as though he had been shot,\nand plucked his watch out.  There was a howling in his ears, as loud as a\nwinter tempest; his sight was now obscured as if by a cloud, now, as by a\nlightning flash, would show him the very dust upon the street.  But so\nbrief were these intervals of vision, and so violently did the watch\nvibrate in his hands, that it was impossible to distinguish the numbers\non the dial.  He covered his eyes for a few seconds; and in that space,\nit seemed to him that he had fallen to be a man of ninety.  When he\nlooked again, the watch-plate had grown legible: he had twenty minutes.\nTwenty minutes, and no plan!\n\nGreen Street, at that time, was very empty; and he now observed a little\ngirl of about six drawing near to him, and as she came, kicking in front\nof her, as children will, a piece of wood.  She sang, too; and something\nin her accent recalling him to the past, produced a sudden clearness in\nhis mind.  Here was a God-sent opportunity!\n\n'My dear,' said he, 'would you like a present of a pretty bag?'\n\nThe child cried aloud with joy and put out her hands to take it.  She had\nlooked first at the bag, like a true child; but most unfortunately,\nbefore she had yet received the fatal gift, her eyes fell directly on\nM'Guire; and no sooner had she seen the poor gentleman's face, than she\nscreamed out and leaped backward, as though she had seen the devil.\nAlmost at the same moment a woman appeared upon the threshold of a\nneighbouring shop, and called upon the child in anger.  'Come here,\ncolleen,' she said, 'and don't be plaguing the poor old gentleman!'  With\nthat she re-entered the house, and the child followed her, sobbing aloud.\n\nWith the loss of this hope M'Guire's reason swooned within him.  When\nnext he awoke to consciousness, he was standing before St.\nMartin's-in-the-Fields, wavering like a drunken man; the passers-by\nregarding him with eyes in which he read, as in a glass, an image of the\nterror and horror that dwelt within his own.\n\n'I am afraid you are very ill, sir,' observed a woman, stopping and\ngazing hard in his face.  'Can I do anything to help you?'\n\n'Ill?' said M'Guire.  'O God!'  And then, recovering some shadow of his\nself-command, 'Chronic, madam,' said he: 'a long course of the dumb ague.\nBut since you are so compassionate--an errand that I lack the strength to\ncarry out,' he gasped--'this bag to Portman Square.  Oh, compassionate\nwoman, as you hope to be saved, as you are a mother, in the name of your\nbabes that wait to welcome you at home, oh, take this bag to Portman\nSquare!  I have a mother, too,' he added, with a broken voice.  'Number\n19, Portman Square.'\n\nI suppose he had expressed himself with too much energy of voice; for the\nwoman was plainly taken with a certain fear of him.  'Poor gentleman!'\nsaid she.  'If I were you, I would go home.'  And she left him standing\nthere in his distress.\n\n'Home!' thought M'Guire, 'what a derision!'  What home was there for him,\nthe victim of philanthropy?  He thought of his old mother, of his happy\nyouth; of the hideous, rending pang of the explosion; of the possibility\nthat he might not be killed, that he might be cruelly mangled, crippled\nfor life, condemned to lifelong pains, blinded perhaps, and almost surely\ndeafened.  Ah, you spoke lightly of the dynamiter's peril; but even\nwaiving death, have you realised what it is for a fine, brave young man\nof forty, to be smitten suddenly with deafness, cut off from all the\nmusic of life, and from the voice of friendship, and love?  How little do\nwe realise the sufferings of others!  Even your brutal Government, in the\nheyday of its lust for cruelty, though it scruples not to hound the\npatriot with spies, to pack the corrupt jury, to bribe the hangman, and\nto erect the infamous gallows, would hesitate to inflict so horrible a\ndoom: not, I am well aware, from virtue, not from philanthropy, but with\nthe fear before it of the withering scorn of the good.\n\nBut I wander from M'Guire.  From this dread glance into the past and\nfuture, his thoughts returned at a bound upon the present.  How had he\nwandered there? and how long--oh, heavens! how long had he been about it?\nHe pulled out his watch; and found that but three minutes had elapsed.\nIt seemed too bright a thing to be believed.  He glanced at the church\nclock; and sure enough, it marked an hour four minutes faster than the\nwatch.\n\nOf all that he endured, M'Guire declares that pang was the most desolate.\nTill then, he had had one friend, one counsellor, in whom he plenarily\ntrusted; by whose advertisement, he numbered the minutes that remained to\nhim of life; on whose sure testimony, he could tell when the time was\ncome to risk the last adventure, to cast the bag away from him, and take\nto flight.  And now in what was he to place reliance?  His watch was\nslow; it might be losing time; if so, in what degree?  What limit could\nhe set to its derangement? and how much was it possible for a watch to\nlose in thirty minutes?  Five? ten? fifteen?  It might be so; already, it\nseemed years since he had left St. James's Hall on this so promising\nenterprise; at any moment, then, the blow was to be looked for.\n\nIn the face of this new distress, the wild disorder of his pulses settled\ndown; and a broken weariness succeeded, as though he had lived for\ncenturies and for centuries been dead.  The buildings and the people in\nthe street became incredibly small, and far-away, and bright; London\nsounded in his ears stilly, like a whisper; and the rattle of the cab\nthat nearly charged him down, was like a sound from Africa.  Meanwhile,\nhe was conscious of a strange abstraction from himself; and heard and\nfelt his footfalls on the ground, as those of a very old, small, debile\nand tragically fortuned man, whom he sincerely pitied.\n\nAs he was thus moving forward past the National Gallery, in a medium, it\nseemed, of greater rarity and quiet than ordinary air, there slipped into\nhis mind the recollection of a certain entry in Whitcomb Street hard by,\nwhere he might perhaps lay down his tragic cargo unremarked.  Thither,\nthen, he bent his steps, seeming, as he went, to float above the\npavement; and there, in the mouth of the entry, he found a man in a\nsleeved waistcoat, gravely chewing a straw.  He passed him by, and twice\npatrolled the entry, scouting for the barest chance; but the man had\nfaced about and continued to observe him curiously.\n\nAnother hope was gone.  M'Guire reissued from the entry, still followed\nby the wondering eyes of the man in the sleeved waistcoat.  He once more\nconsulted his watch: there were but fourteen minutes left to him.  At\nthat, it seemed as if a sudden, genial heat were spread about his brain;\nfor a second or two, he saw the world as red as blood; and thereafter\nentered into a complete possession of himself, with an incredible\ncheerfulness of spirits, prompting him to sing and chuckle as he walked.\nAnd yet this mirth seemed to belong to things external; and within, like\na black and leaden-heavy kernel, he was conscious of the weight upon his\nsoul.\n\n    I care for nobody, no, not I,\n    And nobody cares for me,\n\nhe sang, and laughed at the appropriate burthen, so that the passengers\nstared upon him on the street.  And still the warmth seemed to increase\nand to become more genial.  What was life? he considered, and what he,\nM'Guire?  What even Erin, our green Erin?  All seemed so incalculably\nlittle that he smiled as he looked down upon it.  He would have given\nyears, had he possessed them, for a glass of spirits; but time failed,\nand he must deny himself this last indulgence.\n\nAt the corner of the Haymarket, he very jauntily hailed a hansom cab;\njumped in; bade the fellow drive him to a part of the Embankment, which\nhe named; and as soon as the vehicle was in motion, concealed the bag as\ncompletely as he could under the vantage of the apron, and once more drew\nout his watch.  So he rode for five interminable minutes, his heart in\nhis mouth at every jolt, scarce able to possess his terrors, yet fearing\nto wake the attention of the driver by too obvious a change of plan, and\nwilling, if possible, to leave him time to forget the Gladstone bag.\n\nAt length, at the head of some stairs on the Embankment, he hailed; the\ncab was stopped; and he alighted--with how glad a heart!  He thrust his\nhand into his pocket.  All was now over; he had saved his life; nor that\nalone, but he had engineered a striking act of dynamite; for what could\nbe more pictorial, what more effective, than the explosion of a hansom\ncab, as it sped rapidly along the streets of London.  He felt in one\npocket; then in another.  The most crushing seizure of despair descended\non his soul; and struck into abject dumbness, he stared upon the driver.\nHe had not one penny.\n\n'Hillo,' said the driver, 'don't seem well.'\n\n'Lost my money,' said M'Guire, in tones so faint and strange that they\nsurprised his hearing.\n\nThe man looked through the trap.  'I dessay,' said he: 'you've left your\nbag.'\n\nM'Guire half unconsciously fetched it out; and looking on that black\ncontinent at arm's length, withered inwardly and felt his features\nsharpen as with mortal sickness.\n\n'This is not mine,' said he.  'Your last fare must have left it.  You had\nbetter take it to the station.'\n\n'Now look here,' returned the cabman: 'are you off your chump? or am I?'\n\n'Well, then, I'll tell you what,' exclaimed M'Guire; 'you take it for\nyour fare!'\n\n'Oh, I dessay,' replied the driver.  'Anything else?  What's _in_ your\nbag?  Open it, and let me see.'\n\n'No, no,' returned M'Guire.  'Oh no, not that.  It's a surprise; it's\nprepared expressly: a surprise for honest cabmen.'\n\n'No, you don't,' said the man, alighting from his perch, and coming very\nclose to the unhappy patriot.  'You're either going to pay my fare, or\nget in again and drive to the office.'\n\nIt was at this supreme hour of his distress, that M'Guire spied the stout\nfigure of one Godall, a tobacconist of Rupert Street, drawing near along\nthe Embankment.  The man was not unknown to him; he had bought of his\nwares, and heard him quoted for the soul of liberality; and such was now\nthe nearness of his peril, that even at such a straw of hope, he clutched\nwith gratitude.\n\n'Thank God!' he cried.  'Here comes a friend of mine.  I'll borrow.'  And\nhe dashed to meet the tradesman.  'Sir,' said he, 'Mr. Godall, I have\ndealt with you--you doubtless know my face--calamities for which I cannot\nblame myself have overwhelmed me.  Oh, sir, for the love of innocence,\nfor the sake of the bonds of humanity, and as you hope for mercy at the\nthrone of grace, lend me two-and-six!'\n\n'I do not recognise your face,' replied Mr. Godall; 'but I remember the\ncut of your beard, which I have the misfortune to dislike.  Here, sir, is\na sovereign; which I very willingly advance to you, on the single\ncondition that you shave your chin.'\n\nM'Guire grasped the coin without a word; cast it to the cabman, calling\nout to him to keep the change; bounded down the steps, flung the bag far\nforth into the river, and fell headlong after it.  He was plucked from a\nwatery grave, it is believed, by the hands of Mr. Godall.  Even as he was\nbeing hoisted dripping to the shore, a dull and choked explosion shook\nthe solid masonry of the Embankment, and far out in the river a momentary\nfountain rose and disappeared.\n\n\n\n\n_THE SUPERFLUOUS MANSION_\n(_Continued_)\n\n\nSomerset in vain strove to attach a meaning to these words.  He had, in\nthe meanwhile, applied himself assiduously to the flagon; the plotter\nbegan to melt in twain, and seemed to expand and hover on his seat; and\nwith a vague sense of nightmare, the young man rose unsteadily to his\nfeet, and, refusing the proffer of a third grog, insisted that the hour\nwas late and he must positively get to bed.\n\n'Dear me,' observed Zero, 'I find you very temperate.  But I will not be\noppressive.  Suffice it that we are now fast friends; and, my dear\nlandlord, _au revoir_!'\n\nSo saying the plotter once more shook hands; and with the politest\nceremonies, and some necessary guidance, conducted the bewildered young\ngentleman to the top of the stair.\n\nPrecisely, how he got to bed, was a point on which Somerset remained in\nutter darkness; but the next morning when, at a blow, he started broad\nawake, there fell upon his mind a perfect hurricane of horror and wonder.\nThat he should have suffered himself to be led into the semblance of\nintimacy with such a man as his abominable lodger, appeared, in the cold\nlight of day, a mystery of human weakness.  True, he was caught in a\nsituation that might have tested the aplomb of Talleyrand.  That was\nperhaps a palliation; but it was no excuse.  For so wholesale a\ncapitulation of principle, for such a fall into criminal familiarity, no\nexcuse indeed was possible; nor any remedy, but to withdraw at once from\nthe relation.\n\nAs soon as he was dressed, he hurried upstairs, determined on a rupture.\nZero hailed him with the warmth of an old friend.\n\n'Come in,' he cried, 'dear Mr. Somerset!  Come in, sit down, and, without\nceremony, join me at my morning meal.'\n\n'Sir,' said Somerset, 'you must permit me first to disengage my honour.\nLast night, I was surprised into a certain appearance of complicity; but\nonce for all, let me inform you that I regard you and your machinations\n\\with unmingled horror and disgust, and I will leave no stone unturned to\ncrush your vile conspiracy.'\n\n'My dear fellow,' replied Zero, with an air of some complacency, 'I am\nwell accustomed to these human weaknesses.  Disgust?  I have felt it\nmyself; it speedily wears off.  I think none the worse, I think the more\nof you, for this engaging frankness.  And in the meanwhile, what are you\nto do?  You find yourself, if I interpret rightly, in very much the same\nsituation as Charles the Second (possibly the least degraded of your\nBritish sovereigns) when he was taken into the confidence of the thief.\nTo denounce me, is out of the question; and what else can you attempt?\nNo, dear Mr. Somerset, your hands are tied; and you find yourself\ncondemned, under pain of behaving like a cad, to be that same charming\nand intellectual companion who delighted me last night.'\n\n'At least,' cried Somerset, 'I can, and do, order you to leave this\nhouse.'\n\n'Ah!' cried the plotter, 'but there I fail to follow you.  You may, if\nyou please, enact the part of Judas; but if, as I suppose, you recoil\nfrom that extremity of meanness, I am, on my side, far too intelligent to\nleave these lodgings, in which I please myself exceedingly, and from\nwhich you lack the power to drive me.  No, no, dear sir; here I am, and\nhere I propose to stay.'\n\n'I repeat,' cried Somerset, beside himself with a sense of his own\nweakness, 'I repeat that I give you warning.  I am the master of this\nhouse; and I emphatically give you warning.'\n\n'A week's warning?' said the imperturbable conspirator.  'Very well: we\nwill talk of it a week from now.  That is arranged; and in the meanwhile,\nI observe my breakfast growing cold.  Do, dear Mr. Somerset, since you\nfind yourself condemned, for a week at least, to the society of a very\ninteresting character, display some of that open favour, some of that\ninterest in life's obscurer sides, which stamp the character of the true\nartist.  Hang me, if you will, to-morrow; but to-day show yourself\ndivested of the scruples of the burgess, and sit down pleasantly to share\nmy meal.'\n\n'Man!' cried Somerset, 'do you understand my sentiments?'\n\n'Certainly,' replied Zero; 'and I respect them!  Would you be outdone in\nsuch a contest? will you alone be partial? and in this nineteenth\ncentury, cannot two gentlemen of education agree to differ on a point of\npolitics?  Come, sir: all your hard words have left me smiling; judge\nthen, which of us is the philosopher!'\n\nSomerset was a young man of a very tolerant disposition and by nature\neasily amenable to sophistry.  He threw up his hands with a gesture of\ndespair, and took the seat to which the conspirator invited him.  The\nmeal was excellent; the host not only affable, but primed with curious\ninformation.  He seemed, indeed, like one who had too long endured the\ntorture of silence, to exult in the most wholesale disclosures.  The\ninterest of what he had to tell was great; his character, besides,\ndeveloped step by step; and Somerset, as the time fled, not only outgrew\nsome of the discomfort of his false position, but began to regard the\nconspirator with a familiarity that verged upon contempt.  In any\ncircumstances, he had a singular inability to leave the society in which\nhe found himself; company, even if distasteful, held him captive like a\nlimed sparrow; and on this occasion, he suffered hour to follow hour, was\neasily persuaded to sit down once more to table, and did not even attempt\nto withdraw till, on the approach of evening, Zero, with many apologies,\ndismissed his guest.  His fellow-conspirators, the dynamiter handsomely\nexplained, as they were unacquainted with the sterling qualities of the\nyoung man, would be alarmed at the sight of a strange face.\n\nAs soon as he was alone, Somerset fell back upon the humour of the\nmorning.  He raged at the thought of his facility; he paced the\ndining-room, forming the sternest resolutions for the future; he wrung\nthe hand which had been dishonoured by the touch of an assassin; and\namong all these whirling thoughts, there flashed in from time to time,\nand ever with a chill of fear, the thought of the confounded ingredients\nwith which the house was stored.  A powder magazine seemed a secure\nsmoking-room alongside of the Superfluous Mansion.\n\nHe sought refuge in flight, in locomotion, in the flowing bowl.  As long\nas the bars were open, he travelled from one to another, seeking light,\nsafety, and the companionship of human faces; when these resources failed\nhim, he fell back on the belated baked-potato man; and at length, still\npacing the streets, he was goaded to fraternise with the police.  Alas,\nwith what a sense of guilt he conversed with these guardians of the law;\nhow gladly had he wept upon their ample bosoms; and how the secret\nfluttered to his lips and was still denied an exit!  Fatigue began at\nlast to triumph over remorse; and about the hour of the first milkman, he\nreturned to the door of the mansion; looked at it with a horrid\nexpectation, as though it should have burst that instant into flames;\ndrew out his key, and when his foot already rested on the steps, once\nmore lost heart and fled for repose to the grisly shelter of a\ncoffee-shop.\n\nIt was on the stroke of noon when he awoke.  Dismally searching in his\npockets, he found himself reduced to half-a-crown; and when he had paid\nthe price of his distasteful couch, saw himself obliged to return to the\nSuperfluous Mansion.  He sneaked into the hall and stole on tiptoe to the\ncupboard where he kept his money.  Yet half a minute, he told himself,\nand he would be free for days from his obseding lodger, and might decide\nat leisure on the course he should pursue.  But fate had otherwise\ndesigned: there came a tap at the door and Zero entered.\n\n'Have I caught you?' he cried, with innocent gaiety.  'Dear fellow, I was\ngrowing quite impatient.'  And on the speaker's somewhat stolid face,\nthere came a glow of genuine affection.  'I am so long unused to have a\nfriend,' he continued, 'that I begin to be afraid I may prove jealous.'\nAnd he wrung the hand of his landlord.\n\nSomerset was, of all men, least fit to deal with such a greeting.  To\nreject these kind advances was beyond his strength.  That he could not\nreturn cordiality for cordiality, was already almost more than he could\ncarry.  That inequality between kind sentiments which, to generous\ncharacters, will always seem to be a sort of guilt, oppressed him to the\nground; and he stammered vague and lying words.\n\n'That is all right,' cried Zero--'that is as it should be--say no more!\nI had a vague alarm; I feared you had deserted me; but I now own that\nfear to have been unworthy, and apologise.  To doubt of your forgiveness\nwere to repeat my sin.  Come, then; dinner waits; join me again and tell\nme your adventures of the night.'\n\nKindness still sealed the lips of Somerset; and he suffered himself once\nmore to be set down to table with his innocent and criminal acquaintance.\nOnce more, the plotter plunged up to the neck in damaging disclosures:\nnow it would be the name and biography of an individual, now the address\nof some important centre, that rose, as if by accident, upon his lips;\nand each word was like another turn of the thumbscrew to his unhappy\nguest.  Finally, the course of Zero's bland monologue led him to the\nyoung lady of two days ago: that young lady, who had flashed on Somerset\nfor so brief a while but with so conquering a charm; and whose engaging\ngrace, communicative eyes, and admirable conduct of the sweeping skirt,\nremained imprinted on his memory.\n\n'You saw her?' said Zero.  'Beautiful, is she not?  She, too, is one of\nours: a true enthusiast: nervous, perhaps, in presence of the chemicals;\nbut in matters of intrigue, the very soul of skill and daring.  Lake,\nFonblanque, de Marly, Valdevia, such are some of the names that she\nemploys; her true name--but there, perhaps, I go too far.  Suffice it,\nthat it is to her I owe my present lodging, and, dear Somerset, the\npleasure of your acquaintance.  It appears she knew the house.  You see\ndear fellow, I make no concealment: all that you can care to hear, I tell\nyou openly.'\n\n'For God's sake,' cried the wretched Somerset, 'hold your tongue!  You\ncannot imagine how you torture me!'\n\nA shade of serious discomposure crossed the open countenance of Zero.\n\n'There are times,' he said, 'when I begin to fancy that you do not like\nme.  Why, why, dear Somerset, this lack of cordiality?  I am depressed;\nthe touchstone of my life draws near; and if I fail'--he gloomily\nnodded--'from all the height of my ambitious schemes, I fall, dear boy,\ninto contempt.  These are grave thoughts, and you may judge my need of\nyour delightful company.  Innocent prattler, you relieve the weight of my\nconcerns.  And yet . . . and yet . . .'  The speaker pushed away his\nplate, and rose from table.  'Follow me,' said he, 'follow me.  My mood\nis on; I must have air, I must behold the plain of battle.'\n\nSo saying, he led the way hurriedly to the top flat of the mansion, and\nthence, by ladder and trap, to a certain leaded platform, sheltered at\none end by a great stalk of chimneys and occupying the actual summit of\nthe roof.  On both sides, it bordered, without parapet or rail, on the\nincline of slates; and, northward above all, commanded an extensive view\nof housetops, and rising through the smoke, the distant spires of\nchurches.\n\n'Here,' cried Zero, 'you behold this field of city, rich, crowded,\nlaughing with the spoil of continents; but soon, how soon, to be laid\nlow!  Some day, some night, from this coign of vantage, you shall perhaps\nbe startled by the detonation of the judgment gun--not sharp and empty\nlike the crack of cannon, but deep-mouthed and unctuously solemn.\nInstantly thereafter, you shall behold the flames break forth.  Ay,' he\ncried, stretching forth his hand, 'ay, that will be a day of retribution.\nThen shall the pallid constable flee side by side with the detected\nthief.  Blaze!' he cried, 'blaze, derided city!  Fall, flatulent\nmonarchy, fall like Dagon!'\n\nWith these words his foot slipped upon the lead; and but for Somerset's\nquickness, he had been instantly precipitated into space.  Pale as a\nsheet, and limp as a pocket-handkerchief, he was dragged from the edge of\ndownfall by one arm; helped, or rather carried, down the ladder; and\ndeposited in safety on the attic landing.  Here he began to come to\nhimself, wiped his brow, and at length, seizing Somerset's hand in both\nof his, began to utter his acknowledgments.\n\n'This seals it,' said he.  'Ours is a life and death connection.  You\nhave plucked me from the jaws of death; and if I were before attracted by\nyour character, judge now of the ardour of my gratitude and love!  But I\nperceive I am still greatly shaken.  Lend me, I beseech you, lend me your\narm as far as my apartment.'\n\nA dram of spirits restored the plotter to something of his customary\nself-possession; and he was standing, glass in hand and genially\nconvalescent, when his eye was attracted by the dejection of the\nunfortunate young man.\n\n'Good heavens, dear Somerset,' he cried, 'what ails you?  Let me offer\nyou a touch of spirits.'\n\nBut Somerset had fallen below the reach of this material comfort.\n\n'Let me be,' he said.  'I am lost; you have caught me in the toils.  Up\nto this moment, I have lived all my life in the most reckless manner, and\ndone exactly what I pleased, with the most perfect innocence.  And\nnow--what am I?  Are you so blind and wooden that you do not see the\nloathing you inspire me with?  Is it possible you can suppose me willing\nto continue to exist upon such terms?  To think,' he cried, 'that a young\nman, guilty of no fault on earth but amiability, should find himself\ninvolved in such a damned imbroglio!'  And placing his knuckles in his\neyes, Somerset rolled upon the sofa.\n\n'My God,' said Zero, 'is this possible?  And I so filled with tenderness\nand interest!  Can it be, dear Somerset, that you are under the empire of\nthese out-worn scruples? or that you judge a patriot by the morality of\nthe religious tract?  I thought you were a good agnostic.'\n\n'Mr. Jones,' said Somerset, 'it is in vain to argue.  I boast myself a\ntotal disbeliever, not only in revealed religion, but in the data,\nmethod, and conclusions of the whole of ethics.  Well! what matters it?\nwhat signifies a form of words?  I regard you as a reptile, whom I would\nrejoice, whom I long, to stamp under my heel.  You would blow up others?\nWell then, understand: I want, with every circumstance of infamy and\nagony, to blow up you!'\n\n'Somerset, Somerset!' said Zero, turning very pale, 'this is wrong; this\nis very wrong.  You pain, you wound me, Somerset.'\n\n'Give me a match!' cried Somerset wildly.  'Let me set fire to this\nincomparable monster!  Let me perish with him in his fall!'\n\n'For God's sake,' cried Zero, clutching hold of the young man, 'for God's\nsake command yourself!  We stand upon the brink; death yawns around us; a\nman--a stranger in this foreign land--one whom you have called your\nfriend--'\n\n'Silence!' cried Somerset, 'you are no friend, no friend of mine.  I look\non you with loathing, like a toad: my flesh creeps with physical\nrepulsion; my soul revolts against the sight of you.'\n\nZero burst into tears.  'Alas!' he sobbed, 'this snaps the last link that\nbound me to humanity.  My friend disowns--he insults me.  I am indeed\naccurst.'\n\nSomerset stood for an instant staggered by this sudden change of front.\nThe next moment, with a despairing gesture, he fled from the room and\nfrom the house.  The first dash of his escape carried him hard upon\nhalf-way to the next police-office: but presently began to droop; and\nbefore he reached the house of lawful intervention, he fell once more\namong doubtful counsels.  Was he an agnostic? had he a right to act?\nAway with such nonsense, and let Zero perish! ran his thoughts.  And then\nagain: had he not promised, had he not shaken hands and broken bread? and\nthat with open eyes? and if so how could he take action, and not forfeit\nhonour?  But honour? what was honour?  A figment, which, in the hot\npursuit of crime, he ought to dash aside.  Ay, but crime?  A figment,\ntoo, which his enfranchised intellect discarded.  All day, he wandered in\nthe parks, a prey to whirling thoughts; all night, patrolled the city;\nand at the peep of day he sat down by the wayside in the neighbourhood of\nPeckham and bitterly wept.  His gods had fallen.  He who had chosen the\nbroad, daylit, unencumbered paths of universal scepticism, found himself\nstill the bondslave of honour.  He who had accepted life from a point of\nview as lofty as the predatory eagle's, though with no design to prey; he\nwho had clearly recognised the common moral basis of war, of commercial\ncompetition, and of crime; he who was prepared to help the escaping\nmurderer or to embrace the impenitent thief, found, to the overthrow of\nall his logic, that he objected to the use of dynamite.  The dawn crept\namong the sleeping villas and over the smokeless fields of city; and\nstill the unfortunate sceptic sobbed over his fall from consistency.\n\nAt length, he rose and took the rising sun to witness.  'There is no\nquestion as to fact,' he cried; 'right and wrong are but figments and the\nshadow of a word; but for all that, there are certain things that I\ncannot do, and there are certain others that I will not stand.'\nThereupon he decided to return to make one last effort of persuasion,\nand, if he could not prevail on Zero to desist from his infernal trade,\nthrow delicacy to the winds, give the plotter an hour's start, and\ndenounce him to the police.  Fast as he went, being winged by this\nresolution, it was already well on in the morning when he came in sight\nof the Superfluous Mansion.  Tripping down the steps, was the young lady\nof the various aliases; and he was surprised to see upon her countenance\nthe marks of anger and concern.\n\n'Madam,' he began, yielding to impulse and with no clear knowledge of\nwhat he was to add.\n\nBut at the sound of his voice she seemed to experience a shock of fear or\nhorror; started back; lowered her veil with a sudden movement; and fled,\nwithout turning, from the square.\n\nHere then, we step aside a moment from following the fortunes of\nSomerset, and proceed to relate the strange and romantic episode of THE\nBROWN BOX.\n\n\n\n\nDESBOROUGH'S ADVENTURE\n\n\n_THE BROWN BOX_\n\n\nMr. Harry Desborough lodged in the fine and grave old quarter of\nBloomsbury, roared about on every side by the high tides of London, but\nitself rejoicing in romantic silences and city peace.  It was in Queen\nSquare that he had pitched his tent, next door to the Children's\nHospital, on your left hand as you go north: Queen Square, sacred to\nhumane and liberal arts, whence homes were made beautiful, where the poor\nwere taught, where the sparrows were plentiful and loud, and where groups\nof patient little ones would hover all day long before the hospital, if\nby chance they might kiss their hand or speak a word to their sick\nbrother at the window.  Desborough's room was on the first floor and\nfronted to the square; but he enjoyed besides, a right by which he often\nprofited, to sit and smoke upon a terrace at the back, which looked down\nupon a fine forest of back gardens, and was in turn commanded by the\nwindows of an empty room.\n\nOn the afternoon of a warm day, Desborough sauntered forth upon this\nterrace, somewhat out of hope and heart, for he had been now some weeks\non the vain quest of situations, and prepared for melancholy and tobacco.\nHere, at least, he told himself that he would be alone; for, like most\nyouths, who are neither rich, nor witty, nor successful, he rather\nshunned than courted the society of other men.  Even as he expressed the\nthought, his eye alighted on the window of the room that looked upon the\nterrace; and to his surprise and annoyance, he beheld it curtained with a\nsilken hanging.  It was like his luck, he thought; his privacy was gone,\nhe could no longer brood and sigh unwatched, he could no longer suffer\nhis discouragement to find a vent in words or soothe himself with\nsentimental whistling; and in the irritation of the moment, he struck his\npipe upon the rail with unnecessary force.  It was an old, sweet,\nseasoned briar-root, glossy and dark with long employment, and justly\ndear to his fancy.  What, then, was his chagrin, when the head snapped\nfrom the stem, leaped airily in space, and fell and disappeared among the\nlilacs of the garden?\n\nHe threw himself savagely into the garden chair, pulled out the\nstory-paper which he had brought with him to read, tore off a fragment of\nthe last sheet, which contains only the answers to correspondents, and\nset himself to roll a cigarette.  He was no master of the art; again and\nagain, the paper broke between his fingers and the tobacco showered upon\nthe ground; and he was already on the point of angry resignation, when\nthe window swung slowly inward, the silken curtain was thrust aside, and\na lady, somewhat strangely attired, stepped forth upon the terrace.\n\n'Senorito,' said she, and there was a rich thrill in her voice, like an\norgan note, 'Senorito, you are in difficulties.  Suffer me to come to\nyour assistance.'\n\nWith the words, she took the paper and tobacco from his unresisting\nhands; and with a facility that, in Desborough's eyes, seemed magical,\nrolled and presented him a cigarette.  He took it, still seated, still\nwithout a word; staring with all his eyes upon that apparition.  Her face\nwas warm and rich in colour; in shape, it was that piquant triangle, so\ninnocently sly, so saucily attractive, so rare in our more northern\nclimates; her eyes were large, starry, and visited by changing lights;\nher hair was partly covered by a lace mantilla, through which her arms,\nbare to the shoulder, gleamed white; her figure, full and soft in all the\nwomanly contours, was yet alive and active, light with excess of life,\nand slender by grace of some divine proportion.\n\n'You do not like my cigarrito, Senor?' she asked.  'Yet it is better made\nthan yours.'  At that she laughed, and her laughter trilled in his ear\nlike music; but the next moment her face fell.  'I see,' she cried.  'It\nis my manner that repels you.  I am too constrained, too cold.  I am\nnot,' she added, with a more engaging air, 'I am not the simple English\nmaiden I appear.'\n\n'Oh!' murmured Harry, filled with inexpressible thoughts.\n\n'In my own dear land,' she pursued, 'things are differently ordered.\nThere, I must own, a girl is bound by many and rigorous restrictions;\nlittle is permitted her; she learns to be distant, she learns to appear\nforbidding.  But here, in free England--oh, glorious liberty!' she cried,\nand threw up her arms with a gesture of inimitable grace--'here there are\nno fetters; here the woman may dare to be herself entirely, and the men,\nthe chivalrous men--is it not written on the very shield of your nation,\n_honi soit_?  Ah, it is hard for me to learn, hard for me to dare to be\nmyself.  You must not judge me yet awhile; I shall end by conquering this\nstiffness, I shall end by growing English.  Do I speak the language\nwell?'\n\n'Perfectly--oh, perfectly!' said Harry, with a fervency of conviction\nworthy of a graver subject.\n\n'Ah, then,' she said, 'I shall soon learn; English blood ran in my\nfather's veins; and I have had the advantage of some training in your\nexpressive tongue.  If I speak already without accent, with my thorough\nEnglish appearance, there is nothing left to change except my manners.'\n\n'Oh no,' said Desborough.  'Oh pray not!  I--madam--'\n\n'I am,' interrupted the lady, 'the Senorita Teresa Valdevia.  The evening\nair grows chill.  Adios, Senorito.'  And before Harry could stammer out a\nword, she had disappeared into her room.\n\nHe stood transfixed, the cigarette still unlighted in his hand.  His\nthoughts had soared above tobacco, and still recalled and beautified the\nimage of his new acquaintance.  Her voice re-echoed in his memory; her\neyes, of which he could not tell the colour, haunted his soul.  The\nclouds had risen at her coming, and he beheld a new-created world.  What\nshe was, he could not fancy, but he adored her.  Her age, he durst not\nestimate; fearing to find her older than himself, and thinking sacrilege\nto couple that fair favour with the thought of mortal changes.  As for\nher character, beauty to the young is always good.  So the poor lad\nlingered late upon the terrace, stealing timid glances at the curtained\nwindow, sighing to the gold laburnums, rapt into the country of romance;\nand when at length he entered and sat down to dine, on cold boiled mutton\nand a pint of ale, he feasted on the food of gods.\n\nNext day when he returned to the terrace, the window was a little ajar,\nand he enjoyed a view of the lady's shoulder, as she sat patiently sewing\nand all unconscious of his presence.  On the next, he had scarce appeared\nwhen the window opened, and the Senorita tripped forth into the sunlight,\nin a morning disorder, delicately neat, and yet somehow foreign,\ntropical, and strange.  In one hand she held a packet.\n\n'Will you try,' she said, 'some of my father's tobacco--from dear Cuba?\nThere, as I suppose you know, all smoke, ladies as well as gentlemen.  So\nyou need not fear to annoy me.  The fragrance will remind me of home.  My\nhome, Senor, was by the sea.'  And as she uttered these few words,\nDesborough, for the first time in his life, realised the poetry of the\ngreat deep.  'Awake or asleep, I dream of it: dear home, dear Cuba!'\n\n'But some day,' said Desborough, with an inward pang, 'some day you will\nreturn?'\n\n'Never!' she cried; 'ah, never, in Heaven's name!'\n\n'Are you then resident for life in England?' he inquired, with a strange\nlightening of spirit.\n\n'You ask too much, for you ask more than I know,' she answered sadly; and\nthen, resuming her gaiety of manner: 'But you have not tried my Cuban\ntobacco,' she said.\n\n'Senorita,' said he, shyly abashed by some shadow of coquetry in her\nmanner, 'whatever comes to me--you--I mean,' he concluded, deeply\nflushing, 'that I have no doubt the tobacco is delightful.'\n\n'Ah, Senor,' she said, with almost mournful gravity, 'you seemed so\nsimple and good, and already you are trying to pay compliments--and\nbesides,' she added, brightening, with a quick upward glance, into a\nsmile, 'you do it so badly!  English gentlemen, I used to hear, could be\nfast friends, respectful, honest friends; could be companions,\ncomforters, if the need arose, or champions, and yet never encroach.  Do\nnot seek to please me by copying the graces of my countrymen.  Be\nyourself: the frank, kindly, honest English gentleman that I have heard\nof since my childhood and still longed to meet.'\n\nHarry, much bewildered, and far from clear as to the manners of the Cuban\ngentlemen, strenuously disclaimed the thought of plagiarism.\n\n'Your national seriousness of bearing best becomes you, Senor,' said the\nlady.  'See!' marking a line with her dainty, slippered foot, 'thus far\nit shall be common ground; there, at my window-sill, begins the\nscientific frontier.  If you choose, you may drive me to my forts; but\nif, on the other hand, we are to be real English friends, I may join you\nhere when I am not too sad; or, when I am yet more graciously inclined,\nyou may draw your chair beside the window and teach me English customs,\nwhile I work.  You will find me an apt scholar, for my heart is in the\ntask.'  She laid her hand lightly upon Harry's arm, and looked into his\neyes.  'Do you know,' said she, 'I am emboldened to believe that I have\nalready caught something of your English aplomb?  Do you not perceive a\nchange, Senor?  Slight, perhaps, but still a change?  Is my deportment\nnot more open, more free, more like that of the dear \"British Miss\" than\nwhen you saw me first?'  She gave a radiant smile; withdrew her hand from\nHarry's arm; and before the young man could formulate in words the\neloquent emotions that ran riot through his brain--with an 'Adios, Senor:\ngood-night, my English friend,' she vanished from his sight behind the\ncurtain.\n\nThe next day Harry consumed an ounce of tobacco in vain upon the neutral\nterrace; neither sight nor sound rewarded him, and the dinner-hour\nsummoned him at length from the scene of disappointment.  On the next it\nrained; but nothing, neither business nor weather, neither prospective\npoverty nor present hardship, could now divert the young man from the\nservice of his lady; and wrapt in a long ulster, with the collar raised,\nhe took his stand against the balustrade, awaiting fortune, the picture\nof damp and discomfort to the eye, but glowing inwardly with tender and\ndelightful ardours.  Presently the window opened, and the fair Cuban,\nwith a smile imperfectly dissembled, appeared upon the sill.\n\n'Come here,' she said, 'here, beside my window.  The small verandah gives\na belt of shelter.'  And she graciously handed him a folding-chair.\n\nAs he sat down, visibly aglow with shyness and delight, a certain\nbulkiness in his pocket reminded him that he was not come empty-handed.\n\n'I have taken the liberty,' said he, 'of bringing you a little book.  I\nthought of you, when I observed it on the stall, because I saw it was in\nSpanish.  The man assured me it was by one of the best authors, and quite\nproper.'  As he spoke, he placed the little volume in her hand.  Her eyes\nfell as she turned the pages, and a flush rose and died again upon her\ncheeks, as deep as it was fleeting.  'You are angry,' he cried in agony.\n'I have presumed.'\n\n'No, Senor, it is not that,' returned the lady.  'I--' and a flood of\ncolour once more mounted to her brow--'I am confused and ashamed because\nI have deceived you.  Spanish,' she began, and paused--'Spanish is, of\ncourse, my native tongue,' she resumed, as though suddenly taking\ncourage; 'and this should certainly put the highest value on your\nthoughtful present; but alas, sir, of what use is it to me?  And how\nshall I confess to you the truth--the humiliating truth--that I cannot\nread?'\n\nAs Harry's eyes met hers in undisguised amazement, the fair Cuban seemed\nto shrink before his gaze.  'Read?' repeated Harry.  'You!'\n\nShe pushed the window still more widely open with a large and noble\ngesture.  'Enter, Senor,' said she.  'The time has come to which I have\nlong looked forward, not without alarm; when I must either fear to lose\nyour friendship, or tell you without disguise the story of my life.'\n\nIt was with a sentiment bordering on devotion, that Harry passed the\nwindow.  A semi-barbarous delight in form and colour had presided over\nthe studied disorder of the room in which he found himself.  It was\nfilled with dainty stuffs, furs and rugs and scarves of brilliant hues,\nand set with elegant and curious trifles-fans on the mantelshelf, an\nantique lamp upon a bracket, and on the table a silver-mounted bowl of\ncocoa-nut about half full of unset jewels.  The fair Cuban, herself a gem\nof colour and the fit masterpiece for that rich frame, motioned Harry to\na seat, and sinking herself into another, thus began her history.\n\n\n\n_STORY OF THE FAIR CUBAN_\n\n\nI am not what I seem.  My father drew his descent, on the one hand, from\ngrandees of Spain, and on the other, through the maternal line, from the\npatriot Bruce.  My mother, too, was the descendant of a line of kings;\nbut, alas! these kings were African.  She was fair as the day: fairer\nthan I, for I inherited a darker strain of blood from the veins of my\nEuropean father; her mind was noble, her manners queenly and\naccomplished; and seeing her more than the equal of her neighbours, and\nsurrounded by the most considerate affection and respect, I grew up to\nadore her, and when the time came, received her last sigh upon my lips,\nstill ignorant that she was a slave, and alas! my father's mistress.  Her\ndeath, which befell me in my sixteenth year, was the first sorrow I had\nknown: it left our home bereaved of its attractions, cast a shade of\nmelancholy on my youth, and wrought in my father a tragic and durable\nchange.  Months went by; with the elasticity of my years, I regained some\nof the simple mirth that had before distinguished me; the plantation\nsmiled with fresh crops; the negroes on the estate had already forgotten\nmy mother and transferred their simple obedience to myself; but still the\ncloud only darkened on the brows of Senor Valdevia.  His absences from\nhome had been frequent even in the old days, for he did business in\nprecious gems in the city of Havana; they now became almost continuous;\nand when he returned, it was but for the night and with the manner of a\nman crushed down by adverse fortune.\n\nThe place where I was born and passed my days was an isle set in the\nCaribbean Sea, some half-hour's rowing from the coasts of Cuba.  It was\nsteep, rugged, and, except for my father's family and plantation,\nuninhabited and left to nature.  The house, a low building surrounded by\nspacious verandahs, stood upon a rise of ground and looked across the sea\nto Cuba.  The breezes blew about it gratefully, fanned us as we lay\nswinging in our silken hammocks, and tossed the boughs and flowers of the\nmagnolia.  Behind and to the left, the quarter of the negroes and the\nwaving fields of the plantation covered an eighth part of the surface of\nthe isle.  On the right and closely bordering on the garden, lay a vast\nand deadly swamp, densely covered with wood, breathing fever, dotted with\nprofound sloughs, and inhabited by poisonous oysters, man-eating crabs,\nsnakes, alligators, and sickly fishes.  Into the recesses of that jungle,\nnone could penetrate but those of African descent; an invisible,\nunconquerable foe lay there in wait for the European; and the air was\ndeath.\n\nOne morning (from which I must date the beginning of my ruinous\nmisfortune) I left my room a little after day, for in that warm climate\nall are early risers, and found not a servant to attend upon my wants.  I\nmade the circuit of the house, still calling: and my surprise had almost\nchanged into alarm, when coming at last into a large verandahed court, I\nfound it thronged with negroes.  Even then, even when I was amongst them,\nnot one turned or paid the least regard to my arrival.  They had eyes and\nears for but one person: a woman, richly and tastefully attired; of\nelegant carriage, and a musical speech; not so much old in years, as worn\nand marred by self-indulgence: her face, which was still attractive,\nstamped with the most cruel passions, her eye burning with the greed of\nevil.  It was not from her appearance, I believe, but from some emanation\nof her soul, that I recoiled in a kind of fainting terror; as we hear of\nplants that blight and snakes that fascinate, the woman shocked and\ndaunted me.  But I was of a brave nature; trod the weakness down; and\nforcing my way through the slaves, who fell back before me in\nembarrassment, as though in the presence of rival mistresses, I asked, in\nimperious tones: 'Who is this person?'\n\nA slave girl, to whom I had been kind, whispered in my ear to have a\ncare, for that was Madam Mendizabal; but the name was new to me.\n\nIn the meanwhile the woman, applying a pair of glasses to her eyes,\nstudied me with insolent particularity from head to foot.\n\n'Young woman,' said she, at last, 'I have had a great experience in\nrefractory servants, and take a pride in breaking them.  You really tempt\nme; and if I had not other affairs, and these of more importance, on my\nhand, I should certainly buy you at your father's sale.'\n\n'Madam--' I began, but my voice failed me.\n\n'Is it possible that you do not know your position?' she returned, with a\nhateful laugh.  'How comical!  Positively, I must buy her.\nAccomplishments, I suppose?' she added, turning to the servants.\n\nSeveral assured her that the young mistress had been brought up like any\nlady, for so it seemed in their inexperience.\n\n'She would do very well for my place of business in Havana,' said the\nSenora Mendizabal, once more studying me through her glasses; 'and I\nshould take a pleasure,' she pursued, more directly addressing myself,\n'in bringing you acquainted with a whip.'  And she smiled at me with a\nsavoury lust of cruelty upon her face.\n\nAt this, I found expression.  Calling by name upon the servants, I bade\nthem turn this woman from the house, fetch her to the boat, and set her\nback upon the mainland.  But with one voice, they protested that they\ndurst not obey, coming close about me, pleading and beseeching me to be\nmore wise; and, when I insisted, rising higher in passion and speaking of\nthis foul intruder in the terms she had deserved, they fell back from me\nas from one who had blasphemed.  A superstitious reverence plainly\nencircled the stranger; I could read it in their changed demeanour, and\nin the paleness that prevailed upon the natural colour of their faces;\nand their fear perhaps reacted on myself.  I looked again at Madam\nMendizabal.  She stood perfectly composed, watching my face through her\nglasses with a smile of scorn; and at the sight of her assured\nsuperiority to all my threats, a cry broke from my lips, a cry of rage,\nfear, and despair, and I fled from the verandah and the house.\n\nI ran I knew not where, but it was towards the beach.  As I went, my head\nwhirled; so strange, so sudden, were these events and insults.  Who was\nshe? what, in Heaven's name, the power she wielded over my obedient\nnegroes?  Why had she addressed me as a slave? why spoken of my father's\nsale?  To all these tumultuary questions I could find no answer; and in\nthe turmoil of my mind, nothing was plain except the hateful leering\nimage of the woman.\n\nI was still running, mad with fear and anger, when I saw my father coming\nto meet me from the landing-place; and with a cry that I thought would\nhave killed me, leaped into his arms and broke into a passion of sobs and\ntears upon his bosom.  He made me sit down below a tall palmetto that\ngrew not far off; comforted me, but with some abstraction in his voice;\nand as soon as I regained the least command upon my feelings, asked me,\nnot without harshness, what this grief betokened.  I was surprised by his\ntone into a still greater measure of composure; and in firm tones, though\nstill interrupted by sobs, I told him there was a stranger in the island,\nat which I thought he started and turned pale; that the servants would\nnot obey me; that the stranger's name was Madam Mendizabal, and, at that,\nhe seemed to me both troubled and relieved; that she had insulted me,\ntreated me as a slave (and here my father's brow began to darken),\nthreatened to buy me at a sale, and questioned my own servants before my\nface; and that, at last, finding myself quite helpless and exposed to\nthese intolerable liberties, I had fled from the house in terror,\nindignation, and amazement.\n\n'Teresa,' said my father, with singular gravity of voice, 'I must make\nto-day a call upon your courage; much must be told you, there is much\nthat you must do to help me; and my daughter must prove herself a woman\nby her spirit.  As for this Mendizabal, what shall I say? or how am I to\ntell you what she is?  Twenty years ago, she was the loveliest of slaves;\nto-day she is what you see her--prematurely old, disgraced by the\npractice of every vice and every nefarious industry, but free, rich,\nmarried, they say, to some reputable man, whom may Heaven assist! and\nexercising among her ancient mates, the slaves of Cuba, an influence as\nunbounded as its reason is mysterious.  Horrible rites, it is supposed,\ncement her empire: the rites of Hoodoo.  Be that as it may, I would have\nyou dismiss the thought of this incomparable witch; it is not from her\nthat danger threatens us; and into her hands, I make bold to promise, you\nshall never fall.'\n\n'Father!' I cried.  'Fall?  Was there any truth, then, in her words?  Am\nI--O father, tell me plain; I can bear anything but this suspense.'\n\n'I will tell you,' he replied, with merciful bluntness.  'Your mother was\na slave; it was my design, so soon as I had saved a competence, to sail\nto the free land of Britain, where the law would suffer me to marry her:\na design too long procrastinated; for death, at the last moment,\nintervened.  You will now understand the heaviness with which your\nmother's memory hangs about my neck.'\n\nI cried out aloud, in pity for my parents; and in seeking to console the\nsurvivor, I forgot myself.\n\n'It matters not,' resumed my father.  'What I have left undone can never\nbe repaired, and I must bear the penalty of my remorse.  But, Teresa,\nwith so cutting a reminder of the evils of delay, I set myself at once to\ndo what was still possible: to liberate yourself.'\n\nI began to break forth in thanks, but he checked me with a sombre\nroughness.\n\n'Your mother's illness,' he resumed, 'had engaged too great a portion of\nmy time; my business in the city had lain too long at the mercy of\nignorant underlings; my head, my taste, my unequalled knowledge of the\nmore precious stones, that art by which I can distinguish, even on the\ndarkest night, a sapphire from a ruby, and tell at a glance in what\nquarter of the earth a gem was disinterred--all these had been too long\nabsent from the conduct of affairs.  Teresa, I was insolvent.'\n\n'What matters that?' I cried.  'What matters poverty, if we be left\ntogether with our love and sacred memories?'\n\n'You do not comprehend,' he said gloomily.  'Slave, as you are,\nyoung--alas! scarce more than child!--accomplished, beautiful with the\nmost touching beauty, innocent as an angel--all these qualities that\nshould disarm the very wolves and crocodiles, are, in the eyes of those\nto whom I stand indebted, commodities to buy and sell.  You are a\nchattel; a marketable thing; and worth--heavens, that I should say such\nwords!--worth money.  Do you begin to see?  If I were to give you\nfreedom, I should defraud my creditors; the manumission would be\ncertainly annulled; you would be still a slave, and I a criminal.'\n\nI caught his hand in mine, kissed it, and moaned in pity for myself, in\nsympathy for my father.\n\n'How I have toiled,' he continued, 'how I have dared and striven to\nrepair my losses, Heaven has beheld and will remember.  Its blessing was\ndenied to my endeavours, or, as I please myself by thinking, but delayed\nto descend upon my daughter's head.  At length, all hope was at an end; I\nwas ruined beyond retrieve; a heavy debt fell due upon the morrow, which\nI could not meet; I should be declared a bankrupt, and my goods, my\nlands, my jewels that I so much loved, my slaves whom I have spoiled and\nrendered happy, and oh! tenfold worse, you, my beloved daughter, would be\nsold and pass into the hands of ignorant and greedy traffickers.  Too\nlong, I saw, had I accepted and profited by this great crime of slavery;\nbut was my daughter, my innocent unsullied daughter, was _she_ to pay the\nprice?  I cried out--no!--I took Heaven to witness my temptation; I\ncaught up this bag and fled.  Close upon my track are the pursuers;\nperhaps to-night, perhaps to-morrow, they will land upon this isle,\nsacred to the memory of the dear soul that bore you, to consign your\nfather to an ignominious prison, and yourself to slavery and dishonour.\nWe have not many hours before us.  Off the north coast of our isle, by\nstrange good fortune, an English yacht has for some days been hovering.\nIt belongs to Sir George Greville, whom I slightly know, to whom ere now\nI have rendered unusual services, and who will not refuse to help in our\nescape.  Or if he did, if his gratitude were in default, I have the power\nto force him.  For what does it mean, my child--what means this\nEnglishman, who hangs for years upon the shores of Cuba, and returns from\nevery trip with new and valuable gems?'\n\n'He may have found a mine,' I hazarded.\n\n'So he declares,' returned my father; 'but the strange gift I have\nreceived from nature, easily transpierced the fable.  He brought me\ndiamonds only, which I bought, at first, in innocence; at a second\nglance, I started; for of these stones, my child, some had first seen the\nday in Africa, some in Brazil; while others, from their peculiar water\nand rude workmanship, I divined to be the spoil of ancient temples.  Thus\nput upon the scent, I made inquiries.  Oh, he is cunning, but I was\ncunninger than he.  He visited, I found, the shop of every jeweller in\ntown; to one he came with rubies, to one with emeralds, to one with\nprecious beryl; to all, with this same story of the mine.  But in what\nmine, what rich epitome of the earth's surface, were there conjoined the\nrubies of Ispahan, the pearls of Coromandel, and the diamonds of\nGolconda?  No, child, that man, for all his yacht and title, that man\nmust fear and must obey me.  To-night, then, as soon as it is dark, we\nmust take our way through the swamp by the path which I shall presently\nshow you; thence, across the highlands of the isle, a track is blazed,\nwhich shall conduct us to the haven on the north; and close by the yacht\nis riding.  Should my pursuers come before the hour at which I look to\nsee them, they will still arrive too late; a trusty man attends on the\nmainland; as soon as they appear, we shall behold, if it be dark, the\nredness of a fire, if it be day, a pillar of smoke, on the opposing\nheadland; and thus warned, we shall have time to put the swamp between\nourselves and danger.  Meantime, I would conceal this bag; I would,\nbefore all things, be seen to arrive at the house with empty hands; a\nblabbing slave might else undo us.  For see!' he added; and holding up\nthe bag, which he had already shown me, he poured into my lap a shower of\nunmounted jewels, brighter than flowers, of every size and colour, and\ncatching, as they fell, upon a million dainty facets, the ardour of the\nsun.\n\nI could not restrain a cry of admiration.\n\n'Even in your ignorant eyes,' pursued my father, 'they command respect.\nYet what are they but pebbles, passive to the tool, cold as death?\nIngrate!' he cried.  'Each one of these--miracles of nature's patience,\nconceived out of the dust in centuries of microscopical activity, each\none is, for you and me, a year of life, liberty, and mutual affection.\nHow, then, should I cherish them! and why do I delay to place them beyond\nreach!  Teresa, follow me.'\n\nHe rose to his feet, and led me to the borders of the great jungle, where\nthey overhung, in a wall of poisonous and dusky foliage, the declivity of\nthe hill on which my father's house stood planted.  For some while he\nskirted, with attentive eyes, the margin of the thicket.  Then, seeming\nto recognise some mark, for his countenance became immediately lightened\nof a load of thought, he paused and addressed me.  'Here,' said he, 'is\nthe entrance of the secret path that I have mentioned, and here you shall\nawait me.  I but pass some hundreds of yards into the swamp to bury my\npoor treasure; as soon as that is safe, I will return.'  It was in vain\nthat I sought to dissuade him, urging the dangers of the place; in vain\nthat I begged to be allowed to follow, pleading the black blood that I\nnow knew to circulate in my veins: to all my appeals he turned a deaf\near, and, bending back a portion of the screen of bushes, disappeared\ninto the pestilential silence of the swamp.\n\nAt the end of a full hour, the bushes were once more thrust aside; and my\nfather stepped from out the thicket, and paused and almost staggered in\nthe first shock of the blinding sunlight.  His face was of a singular\ndusky red; and yet for all the heat of the tropical noon, he did not seem\nto sweat.\n\n'You are tired,' I cried, springing to meet him.  'You are ill.'\n\n'I am tired,' he replied; 'the air in that jungle stifles one; my eyes,\nbesides, have grown accustomed to its gloom, and the strong sunshine\npierces them like knives.  A moment, Teresa, give me but a moment.  All\nshall yet be well.  I have buried the hoard under a cypress, immediately\nbeyond the bayou, on the left-hand margin of the path; beautiful, bright\nthings, they now lie whelmed in slime; you shall find them there, if\nneedful.  But come, let us to the house; it is time to eat against our\njourney of the night: to eat and then to sleep, my poor Teresa: then to\nsleep.'  And he looked upon me out of bloodshot eyes, shaking his head as\nif in pity.\n\nWe went hurriedly, for he kept murmuring that he had been gone too long,\nand that the servants might suspect; passed through the airy stretch of\nthe verandah; and came at length into the grateful twilight of the\nshuttered house.  The meal was spread; the house servants, already\ninformed by the boatmen of the master's return, were all back at their\nposts, and terrified, as I could see, to face me.  My father still\nmurmuring of haste with weary and feverish pertinacity, I hurried at once\nto take my place at table; but I had no sooner left his arm than he\npaused and thrust forth both his hands with a strange gesture of groping.\n'How is this?' he cried, in a sharp, unhuman voice.  'Am I blind?'  I ran\nto him and tried to lead him to the table; but he resisted and stood\nstiffly where he was, opening and shutting his jaws, as if in a painful\neffort after breath.  Then suddenly he raised both hands to his temples,\ncried out, 'My head, my head!' and reeled and fell against the wall.\n\nI knew too well what it must be.  I turned and begged the servants to\nrelieve him.  But they, with one accord, denied the possibility of hope;\nthe master had gone into the swamp, they said, the master must die; all\nhelp was idle.  Why should I dwell upon his sufferings?  I had him\ncarried to a bed, and watched beside him.  He lay still, and at times\nground his teeth, and talked at times unintelligibly, only that one word\nof hurry, hurry, coming distinctly to my ears, and telling me that, even\nin the last struggle with the powers of death, his mind was still\ntortured by his daughter's peril.  The sun had gone down, the darkness\nhad fallen, when I perceived that I was alone on this unhappy earth.\nWhat thought had I of flight, of safety, of the impending dangers of my\nsituation?  Beside the body of my last friend, I had forgotten all except\nthe natural pangs of my bereavement.\n\nThe sun was some four hours above the eastern line, when I was recalled\nto a knowledge of the things of earth, by the entrance of the slave-girl\nto whom I have already referred.  The poor soul was indeed devotedly\nattached to me; and it was with streaming tears that she broke to me the\nimport of her coming.  With the first light of dawn a boat had reached\nour landing-place, and set on shore upon our isle (till now so fortunate)\na party of officers bearing a warrant to arrest my father's person, and a\nman of a gross body and low manners, who declared the island, the\nplantation, and all its human chattels, to be now his own.  'I think,'\nsaid my slave-girl, 'he must be a politician or some very powerful\nsorcerer; for Madam Mendizabal had no sooner seen them coming, than she\ntook to the woods.'\n\n'Fool,' said I, 'it was the officers she feared; and at any rate why does\nthat beldam still dare to pollute the island with her presence?  And O\nCora,' I exclaimed, remembering my grief, 'what matter all these troubles\nto an orphan?'\n\n'Mistress,' said she, 'I must remind you of two things.  Never speak as\nyou do now of Madam Mendizabal; or never to a person of colour; for she\nis the most powerful woman in this world, and her real name even, if one\ndurst pronounce it, were a spell to raise the dead.  And whatever you do,\nspeak no more of her to your unhappy Cora; for though it is possible she\nmay be afraid of the police (and indeed I think that I have heard she is\nin hiding), and though I know that you will laugh and not believe, yet it\nis true, and proved, and known that she hears every word that people\nutter in this whole vast world; and your poor Cora is already deep enough\nin her black books.  She looks at me, mistress, till my blood turns ice.\nThat is the first I had to say; and now for the second: do, pray, for\nHeaven's sake, bear in mind that you are no longer the poor Senor's\ndaughter.  He is gone, dear gentleman; and now you are no more than a\ncommon slave-girl like myself.  The man to whom you belong calls for you;\noh, my dear mistress, go at once!  With your youth and beauty, you may\nstill, if you are winning and obedient, secure yourself an easy life.'\n\nFor a moment I looked on the creature with the indignation you may\nconceive; the next, it was gone: she did but speak after her kind, as the\nbird sings or cattle bellow.  'Go,' said I.  'Go, Cora.  I thank you for\nyour kind intentions.  Leave me alone one moment with my dead father; and\ntell this man that I will come at once.'\n\nShe went: and I, turning to the bed of death, addressed to those deaf\nears the last appeal and defence of my beleaguered innocence.  'Father,'\nI said, 'it was your last thought, even in the pangs of dissolution, that\nyour daughter should escape disgrace.  Here, at your side, I swear to you\nthat purpose shall be carried out; by what means, I know not; by crime,\nif need be; and Heaven forgive both you and me and our oppressors, and\nHeaven help my helplessness!'  Thereupon I felt strengthened as by long\nrepose; stepped to the mirror, ay, even in that chamber of the dead;\nhastily arranged my hair, refreshed my tear-worn eyes, breathed a dumb\nfarewell to the originator of my days and sorrows; and composing my\nfeatures to a smile, went forth to meet my master.\n\nHe was in a great, hot bustle, reviewing that house, once ours, to which\nhe had but now succeeded; a corpulent, sanguine man of middle age,\nsensual, vulgar, humorous, and, if I judged rightly, not ill-disposed by\nnature.  But the sparkle that came into his eye as he observed me enter,\nwarned me to expect the worst.\n\n'Is this your late mistress?' he inquired of the slaves; and when he had\nlearnt it was so, instantly dismissed them.  'Now, my dear,' said he, 'I\nam a plain man: none of your damned Spaniards, but a true blue,\nhard-working, honest Englishman.  My name is Caulder.'\n\n'Thank you, sir,' said I, and curtsied very smartly as I had seen the\nservants.\n\n'Come,' said he, 'this is better than I had expected; and if you choose\nto be dutiful in the station to which it has pleased God to call you, you\nwill find me a very kind old fellow.  I like your looks,' he added,\ncalling me by my name, which he scandalously mispronounced.  'Is your\nhair all your own?' he then inquired with a certain sharpness, and coming\nup to me, as though I were a horse, he grossly satisfied his doubts.  I\nwas all one flame from head to foot, but I contained my righteous anger\nand submitted.  'That is very well,' he continued, chucking me good\nhumouredly under the chin.  'You will have no cause to regret coming to\nold Caulder, eh?  But that is by the way.  What is more to the point is\nthis: your late master was a most dishonest rogue, and levanted with some\nvaluable property that belonged of rights to me.  Now, considering your\nrelation to him, I regard you as the likeliest person to know what has\nbecome of it; and I warn you, before you answer, that my whole future\nkindness will depend upon your honesty.  I am an honest man myself, and\nexpect the same in my servants.'\n\n'Do you mean the jewels?' said I, sinking my voice into a whisper.\n\n'That is just precisely what I do,' said he, and chuckled.\n\n'Hush!' said I.\n\n'Hush?' he repeated.  'And why hush?  I am on my own place, I would have\nyou to know, and surrounded by my own lawful servants.'\n\n'Are the officers gone?' I asked; and oh! how my hopes hung upon the\nanswer!\n\n'They are,' said he, looking somewhat disconcerted.  'Why do you ask?'\n\n'I wish you had kept them,' I answered, solemnly enough, although my\nheart at that same moment leaped with exultation.  'Master, I must not\nconceal from you the truth.  The servants on this estate are in a\ndangerous condition, and mutiny has long been brewing.'\n\n'Why,' he cried, 'I never saw a milder-looking lot of niggers in my\nlife.'  But for all that he turned somewhat pale.\n\n'Did they tell you,' I continued, 'that Madam Mendizabal is on the\nisland? that, since her coming, they obey none but her? that if, this\nmorning, they have received you with even decent civility, it was only by\nher orders--issued with what after-thought I leave you to consider?'\n\n'Madam Jezebel?' said he.  'Well, she is a dangerous devil; the police\nare after her, besides, for a whole series of murders; but after all,\nwhat then?  To be sure, she has a great influence with you coloured folk.\nBut what in fortune's name can be her errand here?'\n\n'The jewels,' I replied.  'Ah, sir, had you seen that treasure, sapphire\nand emerald and opal, and the golden topaz, and rubies red as the\nsunset--of what incalculable worth, of what unequalled beauty to the\neye!--had you seen it, as I have, and alas! as _she_ has--you would\nunderstand and tremble at your danger.'\n\n'She has seen them!' he cried, and I could see by his face, that my\naudacity was justified by its success.\n\nI caught his hand in mine.  'My master,' said I, 'I am now yours; it is\nmy duty, it should be my pleasure, to defend your interests and life.\nHear my advice, then; and, I conjure you, be guided by my prudence.\nFollow me privily; let none see where we are going; I will lead you to\nthe place where the treasure has been buried; that once disinterred, let\nus make straight for the boat, escape to the mainland, and not return to\nthis dangerous isle without the countenance of soldiers.'\n\nWhat free man in a free land would have credited so sudden a devotion?\nBut this oppressor, through the very arts and sophistries he had abused,\nto quiet the rebellion of his conscience and to convince himself that\nslavery was natural, fell like a child into the trap I laid for him.  He\npraised and thanked me; told me I had all the qualities he valued in a\nservant; and when he had questioned me further as to the nature and value\nof the treasure, and I had once more artfully inflamed his greed, bade me\nwithout delay proceed to carry out my plan of action.\n\nFrom a shed in the garden, I took a pick and shovel; and thence, by\ndevious paths among the magnolias, led my master to the entrance of the\nswamp.  I walked first, carrying, as I was now in duty bound, the tools,\nand glancing continually behind me, lest we should be spied upon and\nfollowed.  When we were come as far as the beginning of the path, it\nflashed into my mind I had forgotten meat; and leaving Mr. Caulder in the\nshadow of a tree, I returned alone to the house for a basket of\nprovisions.  Were they for him?  I asked myself.  And a voice within me\nanswered, No. While we were face to face, while I still saw before my\neyes the man to whom I belonged as the hand belongs to the body, my\nindignation held me bravely up.  But now that I was alone, I conceived a\nsickness at myself and my designs that I could scarce endure; I longed to\nthrow myself at his feet, avow my intended treachery, and warn him from\nthat pestilential swamp, to which I was decoying him to die; but my vow\nto my dead father, my duty to my innocent youth, prevailed upon these\nscruples; and though my face was pale and must have reflected the horror\nthat oppressed my spirits, it was with a firm step that I returned to the\nborders of the swamp, and with smiling lips that I bade him rise and\nfollow me.\n\nThe path on which we now entered was cut, like a tunnel, through the\nliving jungle.  On either hand and overhead, the mass of foliage was\ncontinuously joined; the day sparingly filtered through the depth of\nsuper-impending wood; and the air was hot like steam, and heady with\nvegetable odours, and lay like a load upon the lungs and brain.\nUnderfoot, a great depth of mould received our silent footprints; on each\nside, mimosas, as tall as a man, shrank from my passing skirts with a\ncontinuous hissing rustle; and but for these sentient vegetables, all in\nthat den of pestilence was motionless and noiseless.\n\nWe had gone but a little way in, when Mr. Caulder was seized with sudden\nnausea, and must sit down a moment on the path.  My heart yearned, as I\nbeheld him; and I seriously begged the doomed mortal to return upon his\nsteps.  What were a few jewels in the scales with life? I asked.  But no,\nhe said; that witch Madam Jezebel would find them out; he was an honest\nman, and would not stand to be defrauded, and so forth, panting the\nwhile, like a sick dog.  Presently he got to his feet again, protesting\nhe had conquered his uneasiness; but as we again began to go forward, I\nsaw in his changed countenance, the first approaches of death.\n\n'Master,' said I, 'you look pale, deathly pale; your pallor fills me with\ndread.  Your eyes are bloodshot; they are red like the rubies that we\nseek.'\n\n'Wench,' he cried, 'look before you; look at your steps.  I declare to\nHeaven, if you annoy me once again by looking back, I shall remind you of\nthe change in your position.'\n\nA little after, I observed a worm upon the ground, and told, in a\nwhisper, that its touch was death.  Presently a great green serpent,\nvivid as the grass in spring, wound rapidly across the path; and once\nagain I paused and looked back at my companion, with a horror in my eyes.\n'The coffin snake,' said I, 'the snake that dogs its victim like a\nhound.'\n\nBut he was not to be dissuaded.  'I am an old traveller,' said he.  'This\nis a foul jungle indeed; but we shall soon be at an end.'\n\n'Ay,' said I, looking at him, with a strange smile, 'what end?'\n\nThereupon he laughed again and again, but not very heartily; and then,\nperceiving that the path began to widen and grow higher, 'There!' said\nhe.  'What did I tell you?  We are past the worst.'\n\nIndeed, we had now come to the bayou, which was in that place very narrow\nand bridged across by a fallen trunk; but on either hand we could see it\nbroaden out, under a cavern of great arms of trees and hanging creepers:\nsluggish, putrid, of a horrible and sickly stench, floated on by the flat\nheads of alligators, and its banks alive with scarlet crabs.\n\n'If we fall from that unsteady bridge,' said I, 'see, where the caiman\nlies ready to devour us!  If, by the least divergence from the path, we\nshould be snared in a morass, see, where those myriads of scarlet vermin\nscour the border of the thicket!  Once helpless, how they would swarm\ntogether to the assault!  What could man do against a thousand of such\nmailed assailants?  And what a death were that, to perish alive under\ntheir claws.'\n\n'Are you mad, girl?' he cried.  'I bid you be silent and lead on.'\n\nAgain I looked upon him, half relenting; and at that he raised the stick\nthat was in his hand and cruelly struck me on the face.  'Lead on!' he\ncried again.  'Must I be all day, catching my death in this vile slough,\nand all for a prating slave-girl?'\n\nI took the blow in silence, I took it smiling; but the blood welled back\nupon my heart.  Something, I know not what, fell at that moment with a\ndull plunge in the waters of the lagoon, and I told myself it was my pity\nthat had fallen.\n\nOn the farther side, to which we now hastily scrambled, the wood was not\nso dense, the web of creepers not so solidly convolved.  It was possible,\nhere and there, to mark a patch of somewhat brighter daylight, or to\ndistinguish, through the lighter web of parasites, the proportions of\nsome soaring tree.  The cypress on the left stood very visibly forth,\nupon the edge of such a clearing; the path in that place widened broadly;\nand there was a patch of open ground, beset with horrible ant-heaps,\nthick with their artificers.  I laid down the tools and basket by the\ncypress root, where they were instantly blackened over with the crawling\nants; and looked once more in the face of my unconscious victim.\nMosquitoes and foul flies wove so close a veil between us that his\nfeatures were obscured; and the sound of their flight was like the\nturning of a mighty wheel.\n\n'Here,' I said, 'is the spot.  I cannot dig, for I have not learned to\nuse such instruments; but, for your own sake, I beseech you to be swift\nin what you do.'\n\nHe had sunk once more upon the ground, panting like a fish; and I saw\nrising in his face the same dusky flush that had mantled on my father's.\n'I feel ill,' he gasped, 'horribly ill; the swamp turns around me; the\ndrone of these carrion flies confounds me.  Have you not wine?'\n\nI gave him a glass, and he drank greedily.  'It is for you to think,'\nsaid I, 'if you should further persevere.  The swamp has an ill name.'\nAnd at the word I ominously nodded.\n\n'Give me the pick,' said he.  'Where are the jewels buried?'\n\nI told him vaguely; and in the sweltering heat and closeness, and dim\ntwilight of the jungle, he began to wield the pickaxe, swinging it\noverhead with the vigour of a healthy man.  At first, there broke forth\nupon him a strong sweat, that made his face to shine, and in which the\ngreedy insects settled thickly.\n\n'To sweat in such a place,' said I.  'O master, is this wise?  Fever is\ndrunk in through open pores.'\n\n'What do you mean?' he screamed, pausing with the pick buried in the\nsoil.  'Do you seek to drive me mad?  Do you think I do not understand\nthe danger that I run?'\n\n'That is all I want,' said I: 'I only wish you to be swift.'  And then,\nmy mind flitting to my father's deathbed, I began to murmur, scarce above\nmy breath, the same vain repetition of words, 'Hurry, hurry, hurry.'\n\nPresently, to my surprise, the treasure-seeker took them up; and while he\nstill wielded the pick, but now with staggering and uncertain blows,\nrepeated to himself, as it were the burthen of a song, 'Hurry, hurry,\nhurry;' and then again, 'There is no time to lose; the marsh has an ill\nname, ill name;' and then back to 'Hurry, hurry, hurry,' with a dreadful,\nmechanical, hurried, and yet wearied utterance, as a sick man rolls upon\nhis pillow.  The sweat had disappeared; he was now dry, but all that I\ncould see of him, of the same dull brick red.  Presently his pick\nunearthed the bag of jewels; but he did not observe it, and continued\nhewing at the soil.\n\n'Master,' said I, 'there is the treasure.'  He seemed to waken from a\ndream.  'Where?' he cried; and then, seeing it before his eyes, 'Can this\nbe possible?' he added.  'I must be light-headed.  Girl,' he cried\nsuddenly, with the same screaming tone of voice that I had once before\nobserved, 'what is wrong? is this swamp accursed?'\n\n'It is a grave,' I answered.  'You will not go out alive; and as for me,\nmy life is in God's hands.'\n\nHe fell upon the ground like a man struck by a blow, but whether from the\neffect of my words, or from sudden seizure of the malady, I cannot tell.\nPretty soon, he raised his head.  'You have brought me here to die,' he\nsaid; 'at the risk of your own days, you have condemned me.  Why?'\n\n'To save my honour,' I replied.  'Bear me out that I have warned you.\nGreed of these pebbles, and not I, has been your undoer.'\n\nHe took out his revolver and handed it to me.  'You see,' he said, 'I\ncould have killed you even yet.  But I am dying, as you say; nothing\ncould save me; and my bill is long enough already.  Dear me, dear me,' he\nsaid, looking in my face with a curious, puzzled, and pathetic look, like\na dull child at school, 'if there be a judgment afterwards, my bill is\nlong enough.'\n\nAt that, I broke into a passion of weeping, crawled at his feet, kissed\nhis hands, begged his forgiveness, put the pistol back into his grasp and\nbesought him to avenge his death; for indeed, if with my life I could\nhave bought back his, I had not balanced at the cost.  But he was\ndetermined, the poor soul, that I should yet more bitterly regret my act.\n\n'I have nothing to forgive,' said he.  'Dear heaven, what a thing is an\nold fool!  I thought, upon my word, you had taken quite a fancy to me.'\n\nHe was seized, at the same time, with a dreadful, swimming dizziness,\nclung to me like a child, and called upon the name of some woman.\nPresently this spasm, which I watched with choking tears, lessened and\ndied away; and he came again to the full possession of his mind.  'I must\nwrite my will,' he said.  'Get out my pocket-book.'  I did so, and he\nwrote hurriedly on one page with a pencil.  'Do not let my son know,' he\nsaid; 'he is a cruel dog, is my son Philip; do not let him know how you\nhave paid me out;' and then all of a sudden, 'God,' he cried, 'I am\nblind,' and clapped both hands before his eyes; and then again, and in a\ngroaning whisper, 'Don't leave me to the crabs!'  I swore I would be true\nto him so long as a pulse stirred; and I redeemed my promise.  I sat\nthere and watched him, as I had watched my father, but with what\ndifferent, with what appalling thoughts!  Through the long afternoon, he\ngradually sank.  All that while, I fought an uphill battle to shield him\nfrom the swarms of ants and the clouds of mosquitoes: the prisoner of my\ncrime.  The night fell, the roar of insects instantly redoubled in the\ndark arcades of the swamp; and still I was not sure that he had breathed\nhis last.  At length, the flesh of his hand, which I yet held in mine,\ngrew chill between my fingers, and I knew that I was free.\n\nI took his pocket-book and the revolver, being resolved rather to die\nthan to be captured, and laden besides with the basket and the bag of\ngems, set forward towards the north.  The swamp, at that hour of the\nnight, was filled with a continuous din: animals and insects of all\nkinds, and all inimical to life, contributing their parts.  Yet in the\nmidst of this turmoil of sound, I walked as though my eyes were bandaged,\nbeholding nothing.  The soil sank under my foot, with a horrid, slippery\nconsistence, as though I were walking among toads; the touch of the thick\nwall of foliage, by which alone I guided myself, affrighted me like the\ntouch of serpents; the darkness checked my breathing like a gag; indeed,\nI have never suffered such extremes of fear as during that nocturnal\nwalk, nor have I ever known a more sensible relief than when I found the\npath beginning to mount and to grow firmer under foot, and saw, although\nstill some way in front of me, the silver brightness of the moon.\n\nPresently, I had crossed the last of the jungle, and come forth amongst\nnoble and lofty woods, clean rock, the clean, dry dust, the aromatic\nsmell of mountain plants that had been baked all day in sunlight, and the\nexpressive silence of the night.  My negro blood had carried me unhurt\nacross that reeking and pestiferous morass; by mere good fortune, I had\nescaped the crawling and stinging vermin with which it was alive; and I\nhad now before me the easier portion of my enterprise, to cross the isle\nand to make good my arrival at the haven and my acceptance on the English\nyacht.  It was impossible by night to follow such a track as my father\nhad described; and I was casting about for any landmark, and, in my\nignorance, vainly consulting the disposition of the stars, when there\nfell upon my ear, from somewhere far in front, the sound of many voices\nhurriedly singing.\n\nI scarce knew upon what grounds I acted; but I shaped my steps in the\ndirection of that sound; and in a quarter of an hour's walking, came\nunperceived to the margin of an open glade.  It was lighted by the strong\nmoon and by the flames of a fire.  In the midst, there stood a little low\nand rude building, surmounted by a cross: a chapel, as I then remembered\nto have heard, long since desecrated and given over to the rites of\nHoodoo.  Hard by the steps of entrance was a black mass, continually\nagitated and stirring to and fro as if with inarticulate life; and this I\npresently perceived to be a heap of cocks, hares, dogs, and other birds\nand animals, still struggling, but helplessly tethered and cruelly tossed\none upon another.  Both the fire and the chapel were surrounded by a ring\nof kneeling Africans, both men and women.  Now they would raise their\npalms half-closed to heaven, with a peculiar, passionate gesture of\nsupplication; now they would bow their heads and spread their hands\nbefore them on the ground.  As the double movement passed and repassed\nalong the line, the heads kept rising and falling, like waves upon the\nsea; and still, as if in time to these gesticulations, the hurried chant\ncontinued.  I stood spellbound, knowing that my life depended by a hair,\nknowing that I had stumbled on a celebration of the rites of Hoodoo.\n\nPresently, the door of the chapel opened, and there came forth a tall\nnegro, entirely nude, and bearing in his hand the sacrificial knife.  He\nwas followed by an apparition still more strange and shocking: Madam\nMendizabal, naked also, and carrying in both hands and raised to the\nlevel of her face, an open basket of wicker.  It was filled with coiling\nsnakes; and these, as she stood there with the uplifted basket, shot\nthrough the osier grating and curled about her arms.  At the sight of\nthis, the fervour of the crowd seemed to swell suddenly higher; and the\nchant rose in pitch and grew more irregular in time and accent.  Then, at\na sign from the tall negro, where he stood, motionless and smiling, in\nthe moon and firelight, the singing died away, and there began the second\nstage of this barbarous and bloody celebration.  From different parts of\nthe ring, one after another, man or woman, ran forth into the midst;\nducked, with that same gesture of the thrown-up hand, before the\npriestess and her snakes; and with various adjurations, uttered aloud the\nblackest wishes of the heart.  Death and disease were the favours usually\ninvoked: the death or the disease of enemies or rivals; some calling down\nthese plagues upon the nearest of their own blood, and one, to whom I\nswear I had been never less than kind, invoking them upon myself.  At\neach petition, the tall negro, still smiling, picked up some bird or\nanimal from the heaving mass upon his left, slew it with the knife, and\ntossed its body on the ground.  At length, it seemed, it reached the turn\nof the high-priestess.  She set down the basket on the steps, moved into\nthe centre of the ring, grovelled in the dust before the reptiles, and\nstill grovelling lifted up her voice, between speech and singing, and\nwith so great, with so insane a fervour of excitement, as struck a sort\nof horror through my blood.\n\n'Power,' she began, 'whose name we do not utter; power that is neither\ngood nor evil, but below them both; stronger than good, greater than\nevil--all my life long I have adored and served thee.  Who has shed blood\nupon thine altars? whose voice is broken with the singing of thy praises?\nwhose limbs are faint before their age with leaping in thy revels?  Who\nhas slain the child of her body?  I,' she cried, 'I, Metamnbogu!  By my\nown name, I name myself.  I tear away the veil.  I would be served or\nperish.  Hear me, slime of the fat swamp, blackness of the thunder, venom\nof the serpent's udder--hear or slay me!  I would have two things, O\nshapeless one, O horror of emptiness--two things, or die!  The blood of\nmy white-faced husband; oh! give me that; he is the enemy of Hoodoo; give\nme his blood!  And yet another, O racer of the blind winds, O germinator\nin the ruins of the dead, O root of life, root of corruption!  I grow\nold, I grow hideous; I am known, I am hunted for my life: let thy servant\nthen lay by this outworn body; let thy chief priestess turn again to the\nblossom of her days, and be a girl once more, and the desired of all men,\neven as in the past!  And, O lord and master, as I here ask a marvel not\nyet wrought since we were torn from the old land, have I not prepared the\nsacrifice in which thy soul delighteth--the kid without the horns?'\n\nEven as she uttered the words, there was a great rumour of joy through\nall the circle of worshippers; it rose, and fell, and rose again; and\nswelled at last into rapture, when the tall negro, who had stepped an\ninstant into the chapel, reappeared before the door, carrying in his arms\nthe body of the slave-girl, Cora.  I know not if I saw what followed.\nWhen next my mind awoke to a clear knowledge, Cora was laid upon the\nsteps before the serpents; the negro with the knife stood over her; the\nknife rose; and at this I screamed out in my great horror, bidding them,\nin God's name, to pause.\n\nA stillness fell upon the mob of cannibals.  A moment more, and they must\nhave thrown off this stupor, and I infallibly have perished.  But Heaven\nhad designed to save me.  The silence of these wretched men was not yet\nbroken, when there arose, in the empty night, a sound louder than the\nroar of any European tempest, swifter to travel than the wings of any\nEastern wind.  Blackness engulfed the world; blackness, stabbed across\nfrom every side by intricate and blinding lightning.  Almost in the same\nsecond, at one world-swallowing stride, the heart of the tornado reached\nthe clearing.  I heard an agonising crash, and the light of my reason was\noverwhelmed.\n\nWhen I recovered consciousness, the day was come.  I was unhurt; the\ntrees close about me had not lost a bough; and I might have thought at\nfirst that the tornado was a feature in a dream.  It was otherwise\nindeed; for when I looked abroad, I perceived I had escaped destruction\nby a hand's-breadth.  Right through the forest, which here covered hill\nand dale, the storm had ploughed a lane of ruin.  On either hand, the\ntrees waved uninjured in the air of the morning; but in the forthright\ncourse of its advance, the hurricane had left no trophy standing.\nEverything, in that line, tree, man, or animal, the desecrated chapel and\nthe votaries of Hoodoo, had been subverted and destroyed in that brief\nspasm of anger of the powers of air.  Everything, but a yard or two\nbeyond the line of its passage, humble flower, lofty tree, and the poor\nvulnerable maid who now knelt to pay her gratitude to heaven, awoke\nunharmed in the crystal purity and peace of the new day.\n\nTo move by the path of the tornado was a thing impossible to man, so\nwildly were the wrecks of the tall forest piled together by that fugitive\nconvulsion.  I crossed it indeed; with such labour and patience, with so\nmany dangerous slips and falls, as left me, at the further side, bankrupt\nalike of strength and courage.  There I sat down awhile to recruit my\nforces; and as I ate (how should I bless the kindliness of Heaven!) my\neye, flitting to and fro in the colonnade of the great trees, alighted on\na trunk that had been blazed.  Yes, by the directing hand of Providence,\nI had been conducted to the very track I was to follow.  With what a\nlight heart I now set forth, and walking with how glad a step, traversed\nthe uplands of the isle!\n\nIt was hard upon the hour of noon, when I came, all tattered and wayworn,\nto the summit of a steep descent, and looked below me on the sea.  About\nall the coast, the surf, roused by the tornado of the night, beat with a\nparticular fury and made a fringe of snow.  Close at my feet, I saw a\nhaven, set in precipitous and palm-crowned bluffs of rock.  Just outside,\na ship was heaving on the surge, so trimly sparred, so glossily painted,\nso elegant and point-device in every feature, that my heart was seized\nwith admiration.  The English colours blew from her masthead; and from my\nhigh station, I caught glimpses of her snowy planking, as she rolled on\nthe uneven deep, and saw the sun glitter on the brass of her deck\nfurniture.  There, then, was my ship of refuge; and of all my\ndifficulties only one remained: to get on board of her.\n\nHalf an hour later, I issued at last out of the woods on the margin of a\ncove, into whose jaws the tossing and blue billows entered, and along\nwhose shores they broke with a surprising loudness.  A wooded promontory\nhid the yacht; and I had walked some distance round the beach, in what\nappeared to be a virgin solitude, when my eye fell on a boat, drawn into\na natural harbour, where it rocked in safety, but deserted.  I looked\nabout for those who should have manned her; and presently, in the\nimmediate entrance of the wood, spied the red embers of a fire, and,\nstretched around in various attitudes, a party of slumbering mariners.\nTo these I drew near: most were black, a few white; but all were dressed\nwith the conspicuous decency of yachtsmen; and one, from his peaked cap\nand glittering buttons, I rightly divined to be an officer.  Him, then, I\ntouched upon the shoulder.  He started up; the sharpness of his movement\nwoke the rest; and they all stared upon me in surprise.\n\n'What do you want?' inquired the officer.\n\n'To go on board the yacht,' I answered.\n\nI thought they all seemed disconcerted at this; and the officer, with\nsomething of sharpness, asked me who I was.  Now I had determined to\nconceal my name until I met Sir George; and the first name that rose to\nmy lips was that of the Senora Mendizabal.  At the word, there went a\nshock about the little party of seamen; the negroes stared at me with\nindescribable eagerness, the whites themselves with something of a scared\nsurprise; and instantly the spirit of mischief prompted me to add, 'And\nif the name is new to your ears, call me Metamnbogu.'\n\nI had never seen an effect so wonderful.  The negroes threw their hands\ninto the air, with the same gesture I remarked the night before about the\nHoodoo camp-fire; first one, and then another, ran forward and kneeled\ndown and kissed the skirts of my torn dress; and when the white officer\nbroke out swearing and calling to know if they were mad, the coloured\nseamen took him by the shoulders, dragged him on one side till they were\nout of hearing, and surrounded him with open mouths and extravagant\npantomime.  The officer seemed to struggle hard; he laughed aloud, and I\nsaw him make gestures of dissent and protest; but in the end, whether\novercome by reason or simply weary of resistance, he gave in--approached\nme civilly enough, but with something of a sneering manner\nunderneath--and touching his cap, 'My lady,' said he, 'if that is what\nyou are, the boat is ready.'\n\nMy reception on board the _Nemorosa_ (for so the yacht was named) partook\nof the same mingled nature.  We were scarcely within hail of that great\nand elegant fabric, where she lay rolling gunwale under and churning the\nblue sea to snow, before the bulwarks were lined with the heads of a\ngreat crowd of seamen, black, white, and yellow; and these and the few\nwho manned the boat began exchanging shouts in some _lingua franca_\nincomprehensible to me.  All eyes were directed on the passenger; and\nonce more I saw the negroes toss up their hands to heaven, but now as if\nwith passionate wonder and delight.\n\nAt the head of the gangway, I was received by another officer, a\ngentlemanly man with blond and bushy whiskers; and to him I addressed my\ndemand to see Sir George.\n\n'But this is not--' he cried, and paused.\n\n'I know it,' returned the other officer, who had brought me from the\nshore.  'But what the devil can we do?  Look at all the niggers!'\n\nI followed his direction; and as my eye lighted upon each, the poor\nignorant Africans ducked, and bowed, and threw their hands into the air,\nas though in the presence of a creature half divine.  Apparently the\nofficer with the whiskers had instantly come round to the opinion of his\nsubaltern; for he now addressed me with every signal of respect.\n\n'Sir George is at the island, my lady,' said he: 'for which, with your\nladyship's permission, I shall immediately make all sail.  The cabins are\nprepared.  Steward, take Lady Greville below.'\n\nUnder this new name, then, and so captivated by surprise that I could\nneither think nor speak, I was ushered into a spacious and airy cabin,\nhung about with weapons and surrounded by divans.  The steward asked for\nmy commands; but I was by this time so wearied, bewildered, and\ndisturbed, that I could only wave him to leave me to myself, and sink\nupon a pile of cushions.  Presently, by the changed motion of the ship, I\nknew her to be under way; my thoughts, so far from clarifying, grew the\nmore distracted and confused; dreams began to mingle and confound them;\nand at length, by insensible transition, I sank into a dreamless slumber.\n\nWhen I awoke, the day and night had passed, and it was once more morning.\nThe world on which I reopened my eyes swam strangely up and down; the\njewels in the bag that lay beside me chinked together ceaselessly; the\nclock and the barometer wagged to and fro like pendulums; and overhead,\nseamen were singing out at their work, and coils of rope clattering and\nthumping on the deck.  Yet it was long before I had divined that I was at\nsea; long before I had recalled, one after another, the tragical,\nmysterious, and inexplicable events that had brought me where was.\n\nWhen I had done so, I thrust the jewels, which I was surprised to find\nhad been respected, into the bosom of my dress; and seeing a silver bell\nhard by upon a table, rang it loudly.  The steward instantly appeared; I\nasked for food; and he proceeded to lay the table, regarding me the while\nwith a disquieting and pertinacious scrutiny.  To relieve myself of my\nembarrassment, I asked him, with as fair a show of ease as I could\nmuster, if it were usual for yachts to carry so numerous a crew?\n\n'Madam,' said he, 'I know not who you are, nor what mad fancy has induced\nyou to usurp a name and an appalling destiny that are not yours.  I warn\nyou from the soul.  No sooner arrived at the island--'\n\nAt this moment he was interrupted by the whiskered officer, who had\nentered unperceived behind him, and now laid a hand upon his shoulder.\nThe sudden pallor, the deadly and sick fear, that was imprinted on the\nsteward's face, formed a startling addition to his words.\n\n'Parker!' said the officer, and pointed towards the door.\n\n'Yes, Mr. Kentish,' said the steward.  'For God's sake, Mr. Kentish!'\nAnd vanished, with a white face, from the cabin.\n\nThereupon the officer bade me sit down, and began to help me, and join in\nthe meal.  'I fill your ladyship's glass,' said he, and handed me a\ntumbler of neat rum.\n\n'Sir,' cried I, 'do you expect me to drink this?'\n\nHe laughed heartily.  'Your ladyship is so much changed,' said he, 'that\nI no longer expect any one thing more than any other.'\n\nImmediately after, a white seaman entered the cabin, saluted both Mr.\nKentish and myself, and informed the officer there was a sail in sight,\nwhich was bound to pass us very close, and that Mr. Harland was in doubt\nabout the colours.\n\n'Being so near the island?' asked Mr. Kentish.\n\n'That was what Mr. Harland said, sir,' returned the sailor, with a\nscrape.\n\n'Better not, I think,' said Mr. Kentish.  'My compliments to Mr. Harland;\nand if she seem a lively boat, give her the stars and stripes; but if she\nbe dull, and we can easily outsail her, show John Dutchman.  That is\nalways another word for incivility at sea; so we can disregard a hail or\na flag of distress, without attracting notice.'\n\nAs soon as the sailor had gone on deck, I turned to the officer in\nwonder.  'Mr. Kentish, if that be your name,' said I, 'are you ashamed of\nyour own colours?'\n\n'Your ladyship refers to the _Jolly Roger_?' he inquired, with perfect\ngravity; and immediately after, went into peals of laughter.  'Pardon\nme,' said he; 'but here for the first time I recognise your ladyship's\nimpetuosity.'  Nor, try as I pleased, could I extract from him any\nexplanation of this mystery, but only oily and commonplace evasion.\n\nWhile we were thus occupied, the movement of the _Nemorosa_ gradually\nbecame less violent; its speed at the same time diminished; and presently\nafter, with a sullen plunge, the anchor was discharged into the sea.\nKentish immediately rose, offered his arm, and conducted me on deck;\nwhere I found we were lying in a roadstead among many low and rocky\nislets, hovered about by an innumerable cloud of sea-fowl.  Immediately\nunder our board, a somewhat larger isle was green with trees, set with a\nfew low buildings and approached by a pier of very crazy workmanship; and\na little inshore of us, a smaller vessel lay at anchor.\n\nI had scarce time to glance to the four quarters, ere a boat was lowered.\nI was handed in, Kentish took place beside me, and we pulled briskly to\nthe pier.  A crowd of villainous, armed loiterers, both black and white,\nlooked on upon our landing; and again the word passed about among the\nnegroes, and again I was received with prostrations and the same gesture\nof the flung-up hand.  By this, what with the appearance of these men,\nand the lawless, sea-girt spot in which I found myself, my courage began\na little to decline, and clinging to the arm of Mr. Kentish, I begged him\nto tell me what it meant?\n\n'Nay, madam,' he returned, '_you_ know.'  And leading me smartly through\nthe crowd, which continued to follow at a considerable distance, and at\nwhich he still kept looking back, I thought, with apprehension, he\nbrought me to a low house that stood alone in an encumbered yard, opened\nthe door, and begged me to enter.\n\n'But why?' said I.  'I demand to see Sir George.'\n\n'Madam,' returned Mr. Kentish, looking suddenly as black as thunder, 'to\ndrop all fence, I know neither who nor what you are; beyond the fact that\nyou are not the person whose name you have assumed.  But be what you\nplease, spy, ghost, devil, or most ill-judging jester, if you do not\nimmediately enter that house, I will cut you to the earth.'  And even as\nhe spoke, he threw an uneasy glance behind him at the following crowd of\nblacks.\n\nI did not wait to be twice threatened; I obeyed at once, and with a\npalpitating heart; and the next moment, the door was locked from the\noutside and the key withdrawn.  The interior was long, low, and quite\nunfurnished, but filled, almost from end to end, with sugar-cane,\ntar-barrels, old tarry rope, and other incongruous and highly inflammable\nmaterial; and not only was the door locked, but the solitary window\nbarred with iron.\n\nI was by this time so exceedingly bewildered and afraid, that I would\nhave given years of my life to be once more the slave of Mr. Caulder.  I\nstill stood, with my hands clasped, the image of despair, looking about\nme on the lumber of the room or raising my eyes to heaven; when there\nappeared outside the window bars, the face of a very black negro, who\nsigned to me imperiously to draw near.  I did so, and he instantly, and\nwith every mark of fervour, addressed me a long speech in some unknown\nand barbarous tongue.\n\n'I declare,' I cried, clasping my brow, 'I do not understand one\nsyllable.'\n\n'Not?' he said in Spanish.  'Great, great, are the powers of Hoodoo!  Her\nvery mind is changed!  But, O chief priestess, why have you suffered\nyourself to be shut into this cage? why did you not call your slaves at\nonce to your defence?  Do you not see that all has been prepared to\nmurder you? at a spark, this flimsy house will go in flames; and alas!\nwho shall then be the chief priestess? and what shall be the profit of\nthe miracle?'\n\n'Heavens!' cried I, 'can I not see Sir George?  I must, I must, come by\nspeech of him.  Oh, bring me to Sir George!'  And, my terror fairly\nmastering my courage, I fell upon my knees and began to pray to all the\nsaints.\n\n'Lordy!' cried the negro, 'here they come!'  And his black head was\ninstantly withdrawn from the window.\n\n'I never heard such nonsense in my life,' exclaimed a voice.\n\n'Why, so we all say, Sir George,' replied the voice of Mr. Kentish.  'But\nput yourself in our place.  The niggers were near two to one.  And upon\nmy word, if you'll excuse me, sir, considering the notion they have taken\nin their heads, I regard it as precious fortunate for all of us that the\nmistake occurred.'\n\n'This is no question of fortune, sir,' returned Sir George.  'It is a\nquestion of my orders, and you may take my word for it, Kentish, either\nHarland, or yourself, or Parker--or, by George, all three of you!--shall\nswing for this affair.  These are my sentiments.  Give me the key and be\noff.'\n\nImmediately after, the key turned in the lock; and there appeared upon\nthe threshold a gentleman, between forty and fifty, with a very open\ncountenance, and of a stout and personable figure.\n\n'My dear young lady,' said he, 'who the devil may you be?'\n\nI told him all my story in one rush of words.  He heard me, from the\nfirst, with an amazement you can scarcely picture, but when I came to the\ndeath of the Senora Mendizabal in the tornado, he fairly leaped into the\nair.\n\n'My dear child,' he cried, clasping me in his arms, 'excuse a man who\nmight be your father!  This is the best news I ever had since I was born;\nfor that hag of a mulatto was no less a person than my wife.'  He sat\ndown upon a tar-barrel, as if unmanned by joy.  'Dear me,' said he, 'I\ndeclare this tempts me to believe in Providence.  And what,' he added,\n'can I do for you?'\n\n'Sir George,' said I, 'I am already rich: all that I ask is your\nprotection.'\n\n'Understand one thing,' he said, with great energy.  'I will never\nmarry.'\n\n'I had not ventured to propose it,' I exclaimed, unable to restrain my\nmirth; 'I only seek to be conveyed to England, the natural home of the\nescaped slave.'\n\n'Well,' returned Sir George, 'frankly I owe you something for this\nexhilarating news; besides, your father was of use to me.  Now, I have\nmade a small competence in business--a jewel mine, a sort of naval\nagency, et caetera, and I am on the point of breaking up my company, and\nretiring to my place in Devonshire to pass a plain old age, unmarried.\nOne good turn deserves another: if you swear to hold your tongue about\nthis island, these little bonfire arrangements, and the whole episode of\nmy unfortunate marriage, why, I'll carry you home aboard the _Nemorosa_.'\nI eagerly accepted his conditions.\n\n'One thing more,' said he.  'My late wife was some sort of a sorceress\namong the blacks; and they are all persuaded she has come alive again in\nyour agreeable person.  Now, you will have the goodness to keep up that\nfancy, if you please; and to swear to them, on the authority of Hoodoo or\nwhatever his name may be, that I am from this moment quite a sacred\ncharacter.'\n\n'I swear it,' said I, 'by my father's memory; and that is a vow that I\nwill never break.'\n\n'I have considerably better hold on you than any oath,' returned Sir\nGeorge, with a chuckle; 'for you are not only an escaped slave, but have,\nby your own account, a considerable amount of stolen property.'\n\nI was struck dumb; I saw it was too true; in a glance, I recognised that\nthese jewels were no longer mine; with similar quickness, I decided they\nshould be restored, ay, if it cost me the liberty that I had just\nregained.  Forgetful of all else, forgetful of Sir George, who sat and\nwatched me with a smile, I drew out Mr. Caulder's pocket-book and turned\nto the page on which the dying man had scrawled his testament.  How shall\nI describe the agony of happiness and remorse with which I read it! for\nmy victim had not only set me free, but bequeathed to me the bag of\njewels.\n\nMy plain tale draws towards a close.  Sir George and I, in my character\nof his rejuvenated wife, displayed ourselves arm-in-arm among the\nnegroes, and were cheered and followed to the place of embarkation.\nThere, Sir George, turning about, made a speech to his old companions, in\nwhich he thanked and bade them farewell with a very manly spirit; and\ntowards the end of which he fell on some expressions which I still\nremember.  'If any of you gentry lose your money,' he said, 'take care\nyou do not come to me; for in the first place, I shall do my best to have\nyou murdered; and if that fails, I hand you over to the law.  Blackmail\nwon't do for me.  I'll rather risk all upon a cast, than be pulled to\npieces by degrees.  I'll rather be found out and hang, than give a doit\nto one man-jack of you.'  That same night we got under way and crossed to\nthe port of New Orleans, whence, as a sacred trust, I sent the\npocket-book to Mr. Caulder's son.  In a week's time, the men were all\npaid off; new hands were shipped; and the _Nemorosa_ weighed her anchor\nfor Old England.\n\nA more delightful voyage it were hard to fancy.  Sir George, of course,\nwas not a conscientious man; but he had an unaffected gaiety of character\nthat naturally endeared him to the young; and it was interesting to hear\nhim lay out his projects for the future, when he should be returned to\nParliament, and place at the service of the nation his experience of\nmarine affairs.  I asked him, if his notion of piracy upon a private\nyacht were not original.  But he told me, no.  'A yacht, Miss Valdevia,'\nhe observed, 'is a chartered nuisance.  Who smuggles?  Who robs the\nsalmon rivers of the West of Scotland?  Who cruelly beats the keepers if\nthey dare to intervene?  The crews and the proprietors of yachts.  All I\nhave done is to extend the line a trifle, and if you ask me for my\nunbiassed opinion, I do not suppose that I am in the least alone.'\n\nIn short, we were the best of friends, and lived like father and\ndaughter; though I still withheld from him, of course, that respect which\nis only due to moral excellence.\n\nWe were still some days' sail from England, when Sir George obtained,\nfrom an outward-bound ship, a packet of newspapers; and from that fatal\nhour my misfortunes recommenced.  He sat, the same evening, in the cabin,\nreading the news, and making savoury comments on the decline of England\nand the poor condition of the navy, when I suddenly observed him to\nchange countenance.\n\n'Hullo!' said he, 'this is bad; this is deuced bad, Miss Valdevia.  You\nwould not listen to sound sense, you would send that pocket-book to that\nman Caulder's son.'\n\n'Sir George,' said I, 'it was my duty.'\n\n'You are prettily paid for it, at least,' says he; 'and much as I regret\nit, I, for one, am done with you.  This fellow Caulder demands your\nextradition.'\n\n'But a slave,' I returned, 'is safe in England.'\n\n'Yes, by George!' replied the baronet; 'but it's not a slave, Miss\nValdevia, it's a thief that he demands.  He has quietly destroyed the\nwill; and now accuses you of robbing your father's bankrupt estate of\njewels to the value of a hundred thousand pounds.'\n\nI was so much overcome by indignation at this hateful charge and concern\nfor my unhappy fate that the genial baronet made haste to put me more at\nease.\n\n'Do not be cast down,' said he.  'Of course, I wash my hands of you\nmyself.  A man in my position--baronet, old family, and all that--cannot\npossibly be too particular about the company he keeps.  But I am a deuced\ngood-humoured old boy, let me tell you, when not ruffled; and I will do\nthe best I can to put you right.  I will lend you a trifle of ready\nmoney, give you the address of an excellent lawyer in London, and find a\nway to set you on shore unsuspected.'\n\nHe was in every particular as good as his word.  Four days later, the\n_Nemorosa_ sounded her way, under the cloak of a dark night, into a\ncertain haven of the coast of England; and a boat, rowing with muffled\noars, set me ashore upon the beach within a stone's throw of a railway\nstation.  Thither, guided by Sir George's directions, I groped a devious\nway; and finding a bench upon the platform, sat me down, wrapped in a\nman's fur great-coat, to await the coming of the day.  It was still dark\nwhen a light was struck behind one of the windows of the building; nor\nhad the east begun to kindle to the warmer colours of the dawn, before a\nporter carrying a lantern, issued from the door and found himself face to\nface with the unfortunate Teresa.  He looked all about him; in the grey\ntwilight of the dawn, the haven was seen to lie deserted, and the yacht\nhad long since disappeared.\n\n'Who are you?' he cried.\n\n'I am a traveller,' said I.\n\n'And where do you come from?' he asked.\n\n'I am going by the first train to London,' I replied.\n\nIn such manner, like a ghost or a new creation, was Teresa with her bag\nof jewels landed on the shores of England; in this silent fashion,\nwithout history or name, she took her place among the millions of a new\ncountry.\n\nSince then, I have lived by the expedients of my lawyer, lying concealed\nin quiet lodgings, dogged by the spies of Cuba, and not knowing at what\nhour my liberty and honour may be lost.\n\n\n\n\n_THE BROWN BOX_\n(_Concluded_)\n\n\nThe effect of this tale on the mind of Harry Desborough was instant and\nconvincing.  The Fair Cuban had been already the loveliest, she now\nbecame, in his eyes, the most romantic, the most innocent, and the most\nunhappy of her sex.  He was bereft of words to utter what he felt: what\npity, what admiration, what youthful envy of a career so vivid and\nadventurous.  'O madam!' he began; and finding no language adequate to\nthat apostrophe, caught up her hand and wrung it in his own.  'Count upon\nme,' he added, with bewildered fervour; and getting somehow or other out\nof the apartment and from the circle of that radiant sorceress, he found\nhimself in the strange out-of-doors, beholding dull houses, wondering at\ndull passers-by, a fallen angel.  She had smiled upon him as he left, and\nwith how significant, how beautiful a smile!  The memory lingered in his\nheart; and when he found his way to a certain restaurant where music was\nperformed, flutes (as it were of Paradise) accompanied his meal.  The\nstrings went to the melody of that parting smile; they paraphrased and\nglossed it in the sense that he desired; and for the first time in his\nplain and somewhat dreary life, he perceived himself to have a taste for\nmusic.\n\nThe next day, and the next, his meditations moved to that delectable air.\nNow he saw her, and was favoured; now saw her not at all; now saw her and\nwas put by.  The fall of her foot upon the stair entranced him; the books\nthat he sought out and read were books on Cuba, and spoke of her\nindirectly; nay, and in the very landlady's parlour, he found one that\ntold of precisely such a hurricane, and, down to the smallest detail,\nconfirmed (had confirmation been required) the truth of her recital.\nPresently he began to fall into that prettiest mood of a young love, in\nwhich the lover scorns himself for his presumption.  Who was he, the dull\none, the commonplace unemployed, the man without adventure, the impure,\nthe untruthful, to aspire to such a creature made of fire and air, and\nhallowed and adorned by such incomparable passages of life?  What should\nhe do, to be more worthy? by what devotion, call down the notice of these\neyes to so terrene a being as himself?\n\nHe betook himself, thereupon, to the rural privacy of the square, where,\nbeing a lad of a kind heart, he had made himself a circle of\nacquaintances among its shy frequenters, the half-domestic cats and the\nvisitors that hung before the windows of the Children's Hospital.  There\nhe walked, considering the depth of his demerit and the height of the\nadored one's super-excellence; now lighting upon earth to say a pleasant\nword to the brother of some infant invalid; now, with a great heave of\nbreath, remembering the queen of women, and the sunshine of his life.\n\nWhat was he to do?  Teresa, he had observed, was in the habit of leaving\nthe house towards afternoon: she might, perchance, run danger from some\nCuban emissary, when the presence of a friend might turn the balance in\nher favour: how, then, if he should follow her?  To offer his company\nwould seem like an intrusion; to dog her openly were a manifest\nimpertinence; he saw himself reduced to a more stealthy part, which,\nthough in some ways distasteful to his mind, he did not doubt that he\ncould practise with the skill of a detective.\n\nThe next day he proceeded to put his plan in action.  At the corner of\nTottenham Court Road, however, the Senorita suddenly turned back, and met\nhim face to face, with every mark of pleasure and surprise.\n\n'Ah, Senor, I am sometimes fortunate!' she cried.  'I was looking for a\nmessenger;' and with the sweetest of smiles, she despatched him to the\nEast End of London, to an address which he was unable to find.  This was\na bitter pill to the knight-errant; but when he returned at night, worn\nout with fruitless wandering and dismayed by his _fiasco_, the lady\nreceived him with a friendly gaiety, protesting that all was for the\nbest, since she had changed her mind and long since repented of her\nmessage.\n\nNext day he resumed his labours, glowing with pity and courage, and\ndetermined to protect Teresa with his life.  But a painful shock awaited\nhim.  In the narrow and silent Hanway Street, she turned suddenly about\nand addressed him with a manner and a light in her eyes that were new to\nthe young man's experience.\n\n'Do I understand that you follow me, Senor?' she cried.  'Are these the\nmanners of the English gentleman?'\n\nHarry confounded himself in the most abject apologies and prayers to be\nforgiven, vowed to offend no more, and was at length dismissed,\ncrestfallen and heavy of heart.  The check was final; he gave up that\nroad to service; and began once more to hang about the square or on the\nterrace, filled with remorse and love, admirable and idiotic, a fit\nobject for the scorn and envy of older men.  In these idle hours, while\nhe was courting fortune for a sight of the beloved, it fell out naturally\nthat he should observe the manners and appearance of such as came about\nthe house.  One person alone was the occasional visitor of the young\nlady: a man of considerable stature, and distinguished only by the\ndoubtful ornament of a chin-beard in the style of an American deacon.\nSomething in his appearance grated upon Harry; this distaste grew upon\nhim in the course of days; and when at length he mustered courage to\ninquire of the Fair Cuban who this was, he was yet more dismayed by her\nreply.\n\n'That gentleman,' said she, a smile struggling to her face, 'that\ngentleman, I will not attempt to conceal from you, desires my hand in\nmarriage, and presses me with the most respectful ardour.  Alas, what am\nI to say?  I, the forlorn Teresa, how shall I refuse or accept such\nprotestations?'\n\nHarry feared to say more; a horrid pang of jealousy transfixed him; and\nhe had scarce the strength of mind to take his leave with decency.  In\nthe solitude of his own chamber, he gave way to every manifestation of\ndespair.  He passionately adored the Senorita; but it was not only the\nthought of her possible union with another that distressed his soul, it\nwas the indefeasible conviction that her suitor was unworthy.  To a duke,\na bishop, a victorious general, or any man adorned with obvious\nqualities, he had resigned her with a sort of bitter joy; he saw himself\nfollow the wedding party from a great way off; he saw himself return to\nthe poor house, then robbed of its jewel; and while he could have wept\nfor his despair, he felt he could support it nobly.  But this affair\nlooked otherwise.  The man was patently no gentleman; he had a startled,\nskulking, guilty bearing; his nails were black, his eyes evasive; his\nlove perhaps was a pretext; he was perhaps, under this deep disguise, a\nCuban emissary!\n\nHarry swore that he would satisfy these doubts; and the next evening,\nabout the hour of the usual visit, he posted himself at a spot whence his\neye commanded the three issues of the square.\n\nPresently after, a four-wheeler rumbled to the door, and the man with the\nchin-beard alighted, paid off the cabman, and was seen by Harry to enter\nthe house with a brown box hoisted on his back.  Half an hour later, he\ncame forth again without the box, and struck eastward at a rapid walk;\nand Desborough, with the same skill and caution that he had displayed in\nfollowing Teresa, proceeded to dog the steps of her admirer.  The man\nbegan to loiter, studying with apparent interest the wares of the small\nfruiterer or tobacconist; twice he returned hurriedly upon his former\ncourse; and then, as though he had suddenly conquered a moment's\nhesitation, once more set forth with resolute and swift steps in the\ndirection of Lincoln's Inn.  At length, in a deserted by-street, he\nturned; and coming up to Harry with a countenance which seemed to have\nbecome older and whiter, inquired with some severity of speech if he had\nnot had the pleasure of seeing the gentleman before.\n\n'You have, sir,' said Harry, somewhat abashed, but with a good show of\nstoutness; 'and I will not deny that I was following you on purpose.\nDoubtless,' he added, for he supposed that all men's minds must still be\nrunning on Teresa, 'you can divine my reason.'\n\nAt these words, the man with the chin-beard was seized with a palsied\ntremor.  He seemed, for some seconds, to seek the utterance which his\nfear denied him; and then whipping sharply about, he took to his heels at\nthe most furious speed of running.\n\nHarry was at first so taken aback that he neglected to pursue; and by the\ntime he had recovered his wits, his best expedition was only rewarded by\na glimpse of the man with the chin-beard mounting into a hansom, which\nimmediately after disappeared into the moving crowds of Holborn.\n\nPuzzled and dismayed by this unusual behaviour, Harry returned to the\nhouse in Queen Square, and ventured for the first time to knock at the\nfair Cuban's door.  She bade him enter, and he found her kneeling with\nrather a disconsolate air beside a brown wooden trunk.\n\n'Senorita,' he broke out, 'I doubt whether that man's character is what\nhe wishes you to believe.  His manner, when he found, and indeed when I\nadmitted that I was following him, was not the manner of an honest man.'\n\n'Oh!' she cried, throwing up her hands as in desperation, 'Don Quixote,\nDon Quixote, have you again been tilting against windmills?'  And then,\nwith a laugh, 'Poor soul!' she added, 'how you must have terrified him!\nFor know that the Cuban authorities are here, and your poor Teresa may\nsoon be hunted down.  Even yon humble clerk from my solicitor's office\nmay find himself at any moment the quarry of armed spies.'\n\n'A humble clerk!' cried Harry, 'why, you told me yourself that he wished\nto marry you!'\n\n'I thought you English like what you call a joke,' replied the lady\ncalmly.  'As a matter of fact, he is my lawyer's clerk, and has been here\nto-night charged with disastrous news.  I am in sore straits, Senor\nHarry.  Will you help me?'\n\nAt this most welcome word, the young man's heart exulted; and in the\nhope, pride, and self-esteem that kindled with the very thought of\nservice, he forgot to dwell upon the lady's jest.  'Can you ask?' he\ncried.  'What is there that I can do?  Only tell me that.'\n\nWith signs of an emotion that was certainly unfeigned, the fair Cuban\nlaid her hand upon the box.  'This box,' she said, 'contains my jewels,\npapers, and clothes; all, in a word, that still connects me with Cuba and\nmy dreadful past.  They must now be smuggled out of England; or, by the\nopinion of my lawyer, I am lost beyond remedy.  To-morrow, on board the\nIrish packet, a sure hand awaits the box: the problem still unsolved, is\nto find some one to carry it as far as Holyhead, to see it placed on\nboard the steamer, and instantly return to town.  Will you be he?  Will\nyou leave to-morrow by the first train, punctually obey orders, bear\nstill in mind that you are surrounded by Cuban spies; and without so much\nas a look behind you, or a single movement to betray your interest, leave\nthe box where you have put it and come straight on shore? Will you do\nthis, and so save your friend?'\n\n'I do not clearly understand . . .' began Harry.\n\n'No more do I,' replied the Cuban.  'It is not necessary that we should,\nso long as we obey the lawyer's orders.'\n\n'Senorita,' returned Harry gravely, 'I think this, of course, a very\nlittle thing to do for you, when I would willingly do all.  But suffer me\nto say one word.  If London is unsafe for your treasures, it cannot long\nbe safe for you; and indeed, if I at all fathom the plan of your\nsolicitor, I fear I may find you already fled on my return.  I am not\nconsidered clever, and can only speak out plainly what is in my heart:\nthat I love you, and that I cannot bear to lose all knowledge of you.  I\nhope no more than to be your servant; I ask no more than just that I\nshall hear of you.  Oh, promise me so much!'\n\n'You shall,' she said, after a pause.  'I promise you, you shall.'  But\nthough she spoke with earnestness, the marks of great embarrassment and a\nstrong conflict of emotions appeared upon her face.\n\n'I wish to tell you,' resumed Desborough, 'in case of accidents. . . .'\n\n'Accidents!' she cried: 'why do you say that?'\n\n'I do not know,' said he, 'you may be gone before my return, and we may\nnot meet again for long.  And so I wished you to know this: That since\nthe day you gave me the cigarette, you have never once, not once, been\nabsent from my mind; and if it will in any way serve you, you may crumple\nme up like that piece of paper, and throw me on the fire.  I would love\nto die for you.'\n\n'Go!' she said.  'Go now at once.  My brain is in a whirl.  I scarce know\nwhat we are talking.  Go; and good-night; and oh, may you come safe!'\n\nOnce back in his own room a fearful joy possessed the young man's mind;\nand as he recalled her face struck suddenly white and the broken\nutterance of her last words, his heart at once exulted and misgave him.\nLove had indeed looked upon him with a tragic mask; and yet what\nmattered, since at least it was love--since at least she was commoved at\ntheir division?  He got to bed with these parti-coloured thoughts; passed\nfrom one dream to another all night long, the white face of Teresa still\nhaunting him, wrung with unspoken thoughts; and in the grey of the dawn,\nleaped suddenly out of bed, in a kind of horror.  It was already time for\nhim to rise.  He dressed, made his breakfast on cold food that had been\nlaid for him the night before; and went down to the room of his idol for\nthe box.  The door was open; a strange disorder reigned within; the\nfurniture all pushed aside, and the centre of the room left bare of\nimpediment, as though for the pacing of a creature with a tortured mind.\nThere lay the box, however, and upon the lid a paper with these words:\n'Harry, I hope to be back before you go.  Teresa.'\n\nHe sat down to wait, laying his watch before him on the table.  She had\ncalled him Harry: that should be enough, he thought, to fill the day with\nsunshine; and yet somehow the sight of that disordered room still\npoisoned his enjoyment.  The door of the bed-chamber stood gaping open;\nand though he turned aside his eyes as from a sacrilege, he could not but\nobserve the bed had not been slept in.  He was still pondering what this\nshould mean, still trying to convince himself that all was well, when the\nmoving needle of his watch summoned him to set forth without delay.  He\nwas before all things a man of his word; ran round to Southampton Row to\nfetch a cab; and taking the box on the front seat, drove off towards the\nterminus.\n\nThe streets were scarcely awake; there was little to amuse the eye; and\nthe young man's attention centred on the dumb companion of his drive.  A\ncard was nailed upon one side, bearing the superscription: 'Miss Doolan,\npassenger to Dublin.  Glass.  With care.'  He thought with a sentimental\nshock that the fair idol of his heart was perhaps driven to adopt the\nname of Doolan; and as he still studied the card, he was aware of a\ndeadly, black depression settling steadily upon his spirits.  It was in\nvain for him to contend against the tide; in vain that he shook himself\nor tried to whistle: the sense of some impending blow was not to be\naverted.  He looked out; in the long, empty streets, the cab pursued its\nway without a trace of any follower.  He gave ear; and over and above the\njolting of the wheels upon the road, he was conscious of a certain\nregular and quiet sound that seemed to issue from the box.  He put his\near to the cover; at one moment, he seemed to perceive a delicate\nticking: the next, the sound was gone, nor could his closest hearkening\nrecapture it.  He laughed at himself; but still the gloom continued; and\nit was with more than the common relief of an arrival, that he leaped\nfrom the cab before the station.\n\nProbably enough on purpose, Teresa had named an hour some thirty minutes\nearlier than needful; and when Harry had given the box into the charge of\na porter, who sat it on a truck, he proceeded briskly to pace the\nplatform.  Presently the bookstall opened; and the young man was looking\nat the books when he was seized by the arm.  He turned, and, though she\nwas closely veiled, at once recognised the Fair Cuban.\n\n'Where is it?' she asked; and the sound of her voice surprised him.\n\n'It?' he said.  'What?'\n\n'The box.  Have it put on a cab instantly.  I am in fearful haste.'\n\nHe hurried to obey, marvelling at these changes, but not daring to\ntrouble her with questions; and when the cab had been brought round, and\nthe box mounted on the front, she passed a little way off upon the\npavement and beckoned him to follow.\n\n'Now,' said she, still in those mechanical and hushed tones that had at\nfirst affected him, 'you must go on to Holyhead alone; go on board the\nsteamer; and if you see a man in tartan trousers and a pink scarf, say to\nhim that all has been put off: if not,' she added, with a sobbing sigh,\n'it does not matter.  So, good-bye.'\n\n'Teresa,' said Harry, 'get into your cab, and I will go along with you.\nYou are in some distress, perhaps some danger; and till I know the whole,\nnot even you can make me leave you.'\n\n'You will not?' she asked.  'O Harry, it were better!'\n\n'I will not,' said Harry stoutly.\n\nShe looked at him for a moment through her veil; took his hand suddenly\nand sharply, but more as if in fear than tenderness; and still holding\nhim, walked to the cab-door.\n\n'Where are we to drive?' asked Harry.\n\n'Home, quickly,' she answered; 'double fare!'  And as soon as they had\nboth mounted to their places, the vehicle crazily trundled from the\nstation.\n\nTeresa leaned back in a corner.  The whole way Harry could perceive her\ntears to flow under her veil; but she vouchsafed no explanation.  At the\ndoor of the house in Queen Square, both alighted; and the cabman lowered\nthe box, which Harry, glad to display his strength, received upon his\nshoulders.\n\n'Let the man take it,' she whispered.  'Let the man take it.'\n\n'I will do no such thing,' said Harry cheerfully; and having paid the\nfare, he followed Teresa through the door which she had opened with her\nkey.  The landlady and maid were gone upon their morning errands; the\nhouse was empty and still; and as the rattling of the cab died away down\nGloucester Street, and Harry continued to ascend the stair with his\nburthen, he heard close against his shoulders the same faint and muffled\nticking as before.  The lady, still preceding him, opened the door of her\nroom, and helped him to lower the box tenderly in the corner by the\nwindow.\n\n'And now,' said Harry, 'what is wrong?'\n\n'You will not go away?' she cried, with a sudden break in her voice and\nbeating her hands together in the very agony of impatience.  'O Harry,\nHarry, go away!  Oh, go, and leave me to the fate that I deserve!'\n\n'The fate?' repeated Harry.  'What is this?'\n\n'No fate,' she resumed.  'I do not know what I am saying.  But I wish to\nbe alone.  You may come back this evening, Harry; come again when you\nlike; but leave me now, only leave me now!'  And then suddenly, 'I have\nan errand,' she exclaimed; 'you cannot refuse me that!'\n\n'No,' replied Harry, 'you have no errand.  You are in grief or danger.\nLift your veil and tell me what it is.'\n\n'Then,' she said, with a sudden composure, 'you leave but one course open\nto me.'  And raising the veil, she showed him a countenance from which\nevery trace of colour had fled, eyes marred with weeping, and a brow on\nwhich resolve had conquered fear.  'Harry,' she began, 'I am not what I\nseem.'\n\n'You have told me that before,' said Harry, 'several times.'\n\n'O Harry, Harry,' she cried, 'how you shame me!  But this is the God's\ntruth.  I am a dangerous and wicked girl.  My name is Clara Luxmore.  I\nwas never nearer Cuba than Penzance.  From first to last I have cheated\nand played with you.  And what I am I dare not even name to you in words.\nIndeed, until to-day, until the sleepless watches of last night, I never\ngrasped the depth and foulness of my guilt.'\n\nThe young man looked upon her aghast.  Then a generous current poured\nalong his veins.  'That is all one,' he said.  'If you be all you say,\nyou have the greater need of me.'\n\n'Is it possible,' she exclaimed, 'that I have schemed in vain?  And will\nnothing drive you from this house of death?'\n\n'Of death?' he echoed.\n\n'Death!' she cried: 'death!  In that box that you have dragged about\nLondon and carried on your defenceless shoulders, sleep, at the trigger's\nmercy, the destroying energies of dynamite.'\n\n'My God!' cried Harry.\n\n'Ah!' she continued wildly, 'will you flee now?  At any moment you may\nhear the click that sounds the ruin of this building.  I was sure M'Guire\nwas wrong; this morning, before day, I flew to Zero; he confirmed my\nfears; I beheld you, my beloved Harry, fall a victim to my own\ncontrivances.  I knew then I loved you--Harry, will you go now?  Will you\nnot spare me this unwilling crime?'\n\nHarry remained speechless, his eyes fixed upon the box: at last he turned\nto her.\n\n'Is it,' he asked hoarsely, 'an infernal machine?'\n\nHer lips formed the word 'Yes,' which her voice refused to utter.\n\nWith fearful curiosity, he drew near and bent above the box; in that\nstill chamber, the ticking was distinctly audible; and at the measured\nsound, the blood flowed back upon his heart.\n\n'For whom?' he asked.\n\n'What matters it,' she cried, seizing him by the arm.  'If you may still\nbe saved, what matter questions?'\n\n'God in heaven!' cried Harry.  'And the Children's Hospital!  At whatever\ncost, this damned contrivance must be stopped!'\n\n'It cannot,' she gasped.  'The power of man cannot avert the blow.  But\nyou, Harry--you, my beloved--you may still--'\n\nAnd then from the box that lay so quietly in the corner, a sudden catch\nwas audible, like the catch of a clock before it strikes the hour.  For\none second the two stared at each other with lifted brows and stony eyes.\nThen Harry, throwing one arm over his face, with the other clutched the\ngirl to his breast and staggered against the wall.\n\nA dull and startling thud resounded through the room; their eyes blinked\nagainst the coming horror; and still clinging together like drowning\npeople, they fell to the floor.  Then followed a prolonged and strident\nhissing as from the indignant pit; an offensive stench seized them by the\nthroat; the room was filled with dense and choking fumes.\n\nPresently these began a little to disperse: and when at length they drew\nthemselves, all limp and shaken, to a sitting posture, the first object\nthat greeted their vision was the box reposing uninjured in its corner,\nbut still leaking little wreaths of vapour round the lid.\n\n'Oh, poor Zero!' cried the girl, with a strange sobbing laugh.  'Alas,\npoor Zero!  This will break his heart!'\n\n\n\n\n_THE SUPERFLUOUS MANSION_\n(_Concluded_)\n\n\nSomerset ran straight upstairs; the door of the drawing-room, contrary to\nall custom, was unlocked; and bursting in, the young man found Zero\nseated on a sofa in an attitude of singular dejection.  Close beside him\nstood an untasted grog, the mark of strong preoccupation.  The room\nbesides was in confusion: boxes had been tumbled to and fro; the floor\nwas strewn with keys and other implements; and in the midst of this\ndisorder lay a lady's glove.\n\n'I have come,' cried Somerset, 'to make an end of this.  Either you will\ninstantly abandon all your schemes, or (cost what it may) I will denounce\nyou to the police.'\n\n'Ah!' replied Zero, slowly shaking his head.  'You are too late, dear\nfellow!  I am already at the end of all my hopes, and fallen to be a\nlaughing-stock and mockery.  My reading,' he added, with a gentle\ndespondency of manner, 'has not been much among romances; yet I recall\nfrom one a phrase that depicts my present state with critical exactitude;\nand you behold me sitting here \"like a burst drum.\"'\n\n'What has befallen you?' cried Somerset.\n\n'My last batch,' returned the plotter wearily, 'like all the others, is a\nhollow mockery and a fraud.  In vain do I combine the elements; in vain\nadjust the springs; and I have now arrived at such a pitch of\ndisconsideration that (except yourself, dear fellow) I do not know a soul\nthat I can face.  My subordinates themselves have turned upon me.  What\nlanguage have I heard to-day, what illiberality of sentiment, what\npungency of expression!  She came once; I could have pardoned that, for\nshe was moved; but she returned, returned to announce to me this crushing\nblow; and, Somerset, she was very inhumane.  Yes, dear fellow, I have\ndrunk a bitter cup; the speech of females is remarkable for . . . well,\nwell!  Denounce me, if you will; you but denounce the dead.  I am\nextinct.  It is strange how, at this supreme crisis of my life, I should\nbe haunted by quotations from works of an inexact and even fanciful\ndescription; but here,' he added, 'is another: \"Othello's occupation's\ngone.\"  Yes, dear Somerset, it is gone; I am no more a dynamiter; and\nhow, I ask you, after having tasted of these joys, am I to condescend to\na less glorious life?'\n\n'I cannot describe how you relieve me,' returned Somerset, sitting down\non one of several boxes that had been drawn out into the middle of the\nfloor.  'I had conceived a sort of maudlin toleration for your character;\nI have a great distaste, besides, for anything in the nature of a duty;\nand upon both grounds, your news delights me.  But I seem to perceive,'\nhe added, 'a certain sound of ticking in this box.'\n\n'Yes,' replied Zero, with the same slow weariness of manner, 'I have set\nseveral of them going.'\n\n'My God!' cried Somerset, bounding to his feet.\n\n'Machines?'\n\n'Machines!' returned the plotter bitterly.  'Machines indeed!  I blush to\nbe their author.  Alas!' he said, burying his face in his hands, 'that I\nshould live to say it!'\n\n'Madman!' cried Somerset, shaking him by the arm.  'What am I to\nunderstand?  Have you, indeed, set these diabolical contrivances in\nmotion? and do we stay here to be blown up?'\n\n'\"Hoist with his own petard?\"' returned the plotter musingly.  'One more\nquotation: strange!  But indeed my brain is struck with numbness.  Yes,\ndear boy, I have, as you say, put my contrivance in motion.  The one on\nwhich you are sitting, I have timed for half an hour.  Yon other--'\n\n'Half an hour!--' echoed Somerset, dancing with trepidation.  'Merciful\nHeavens, in half an hour?'\n\n'Dear fellow, why so much excitement?' inquired Zero.  'My dynamite is\nnot more dangerous than toffy; had I an only child, I would give it him\nto play with.  You see this brick?' he continued, lifting a cake of the\ninfernal compound from the laboratory-table.  'At a touch it should\nexplode, and that with such unconquerable energy as should bestrew the\nsquare with ruins.  Well now, behold!  I dash it on the floor.'\n\nSomerset sprang forward, and with the strength of the very ecstasy of\nterror, wrested the brick from his possession.  'Heavens!' he cried,\nwiping his brow; and then with more care than ever mother handled her\nfirst-born withal, gingerly transported the explosive to the far end of\nthe apartment: the plotter, his arms once more fallen to his side,\ndispiritedly watching him.\n\n'It was entirely harmless,' he sighed.  'They describe it as burning like\ntobacco.'\n\n'In the name of fortune,' cried Somerset, 'what have I done to you, or\nwhat have you done to yourself, that you should persist in this insane\nbehaviour?  If not for your own sake, then for mine, let us depart from\nthis doomed house, where I profess I have not the heart to leave you; and\nthen, if you will take my advice, and if your determination be sincere,\nyou will instantly quit this city, where no further occupation can detain\nyou.'\n\n'Such, dear fellow, was my own design,' replied the plotter.  'I have, as\nyou observe, no further business here; and once I have packed a little\nbag, I shall ask you to share a frugal meal, to go with me as far as to\nthe station, and see the last of a broken-hearted man.  And yet,' he\nadded, looking on the boxes with a lingering regret, 'I should have liked\nto make quite certain.  I cannot but suspect my underlings of some\nmismanagement; it may be fond, but yet I cherish that idea: it may be the\nweakness of a man of science, but yet,' he cried, rising into some\nenergy, 'I will never, I cannot if I try, believe that my poor dynamite\nhas had fair usage!'\n\n'Five minutes!' said Somerset, glancing with horror at the timepiece.\n'If you do not instantly buckle to your bag, I leave you.'\n\n'A few necessaries,' returned Zero, 'only a few necessaries, dear\nSomerset, and you behold me ready.'\n\nHe passed into the bedroom, and after an interval which seemed to draw\nout into eternity for his unfortunate companion, he returned, bearing in\nhis hand an open Gladstone bag.  His movements were still horribly\ndeliberate, and his eyes lingered gloatingly on his dear boxes, as he\nmoved to and fro about the drawing-room, gathering a few small trifles.\nLast of all, he lifted one of the squares of dynamite.\n\n'Put that down!' cried Somerset.  'If what you say be true, you have no\ncall to load yourself with that ungodly contraband.'\n\n'Merely a curiosity, dear boy,' he said persuasively, and slipped the\nbrick into his bag; 'merely a memento of the past--ah, happy past, bright\npast!  You will not take a touch of spirits? no?  I find you very\nabstemious.  Well,' he added, 'if you have really no curiosity to await\nthe event--'\n\n'I!' cried Somerset.  'My blood boils to get away.'\n\n'Well, then,' said Zero, 'I am ready; I would I could say, willing; but\nthus to leave the scene of my sublime endeavours--'\n\nWithout further parley, Somerset seized him by the arm, and dragged him\ndownstairs; the hall-door shut with a clang on the deserted mansion; and\nstill towing his laggardly companion, the young man sped across the\nsquare in the Oxford Street direction.  They had not yet passed the\ncorner of the garden, when they were arrested by a dull thud of an\nextraordinary amplitude of sound, accompanied and followed by a\nshattering _fracas_.  Somerset turned in time to see the mansion rend in\ntwain, vomit forth flames and smoke, and instantly collapse into its\ncellars.  At the same moment, he was thrown violently to the ground.  His\nfirst glance was towards Zero.  The plotter had but reeled against the\ngarden rail; he stood there, the Gladstone bag clasped tight upon his\nheart, his whole face radiant with relief and gratitude; and the young\nman heard him murmur to himself: '_Nunc dimittis_, _nunc dimittis_!'\n\nThe consternation of the populace was indescribable; the whole of Golden\nSquare was alive with men, women, and children, running wildly to and\nfro, and like rabbits in a warren, dashing in and out of the house doors.\nAnd under favour of this confusion, Somerset dragged away the lingering\nplotter.\n\n'It was grand,' he continued to murmur: 'it was indescribably grand.  Ah,\ngreen Erin, green Erin, what a day of glory! and oh, my calumniated\ndynamite, how triumphantly hast thou prevailed!'\n\nSuddenly a shade crossed his face; and pausing in the middle of the\nfootway, he consulted the dial of his watch.\n\n'Good God!' he cried, 'how mortifying! seven minutes too early!  The\ndynamite surpassed my hopes; but the clockwork, fickle clockwork, has\nonce more betrayed me.  Alas, can there be no success unmixed with\nfailure? and must even this red-letter day be chequered by a shadow?'\n\n'Incomparable ass!' said Somerset, 'what have you done?  Blown up the\nhouse of an unoffending old lady, and the whole earthly property of the\nonly person who is fool enough to befriend you!'\n\n'You do not understand these matters,' replied Zero, with an air of great\ndignity.  'This will shake England to the heart.  Gladstone, the\ntruculent old man, will quail before the pointing finger of revenge.  And\nnow that my dynamite is proved effective--'\n\n'Heavens, you remind me!' ejaculated Somerset.  'That brick in your bag\nmust be instantly disposed of.  But how?  If we could throw it in the\nriver--'\n\n'A torpedo,' cried Zero, brightening, 'a torpedo in the Thames!  Superb,\ndear fellow!  I recognise in you the marks of an accomplished anarch.'\n\n'True!' returned Somerset.  'It cannot so be done; and there is no help\nbut you must carry it away with you.  Come on, then, and let me at once\nconsign you to a train.'\n\n'Nay, nay, dear boy,' protested Zero.  'There is now no call for me to\nleave.  My character is now reinstated; my fame brightens; this is the\nbest thing I have done yet; and I see from here the ovations that await\nthe author of the Golden Square Atrocity.'\n\n'My young friend,' returned the other, 'I give you your choice.  I will\neither see you safe on board a train or safe in gaol.'\n\n'Somerset, this is unlike you!' said the chymist.  'You surprise me,\nSomerset.'\n\n'I shall considerably more surprise you at the next police office,'\nreturned Somerset, with something bordering on rage.  'For on one point\nmy mind is settled: either I see you packed off to America, brick and\nall, or else you dine in prison.'\n\n'You have perhaps neglected one point,' returned the unoffended Zero:\n'for, speaking as a philosopher, I fail to see what means you can employ\nto force me.  The will, my dear fellow--'\n\n'Now, see here,' interrupted Somerset.  'You are ignorant of anything but\nscience, which I can never regard as being truly knowledge; I, sir, have\nstudied life; and allow me to inform you that I have but to raise my hand\nand voice--here in this street--and the mob--'\n\n'Good God in heaven, Somerset,' cried Zero, turning deadly white and\nstopping in his walk, 'great God in heaven, what words are these?  Oh,\nnot in jest, not even in jest, should they be used!  The brutal mob, the\nsavage passions . . . Somerset, for God's sake, a public-house!'\n\nSomerset considered him with freshly awakened curiosity.  'This is very\ninteresting,' said he.  'You recoil from such a death?'\n\n'Who would not?' asked the plotter.\n\n'And to be blown up by dynamite,' inquired the young man, 'doubtless\nstrikes you as a form of euthanasia?'\n\n'Pardon me,' returned Zero: 'I own, and since I have braved it daily in\nmy professional career, I own it even with pride: it is a death unusually\ndistasteful to the mind of man.'\n\n'One more question,' said Somerset: 'you object to Lynch Law? why?'\n\n'It is assassination,' said the plotter calmly, but with eyebrows a\nlittle lifted, as in wonder at the question.\n\n'Shake hands with me,' cried Somerset.  'Thank God, I have now no\nill-feeling left; and though you cannot conceive how I burn to see you on\nthe gallows, I can quite contentedly assist at your departure.'\n\n'I do not very clearly take your meaning,' said Zero, 'but I am sure you\nmean kindly.  As to my departure, there is another point to be\nconsidered.  I have neglected to supply myself with funds; my little all\nhas perished in what history will love to relate under the name of the\nGolden Square Atrocity; and without what is coarsely if vigorously called\nstamps, you must be well aware it is impossible for me to pass the\nocean.'\n\n'For me,' said Somerset, 'you have now ceased to be a man.  You have no\nmore claim upon me than a door scraper; but the touching confusion of\nyour mind disarms me from extremities.  Until to-day, I always thought\nstupidity was funny; I now know otherwise; and when I look upon your\nidiot face, laughter rises within me like a deadly sickness, and the\ntears spring up into my eyes as bitter as blood.  What should this\nportend?  I begin to doubt; I am losing faith in scepticism.  Is it\npossible,' he cried, in a kind of horror of himself--'is it conceivable\nthat I believe in right and wrong?  Already I have found myself, with\nincredulous surprise, to be the victim of a prejudice of personal honour.\nAnd must this change proceed?  Have you robbed me of my youth?  Must I\nfall, at my time of life, into the Common Banker?  But why should I\naddress that head of wood?  Let this suffice.  I dare not let you stay\namong women and children; I lack the courage to denounce you, if by any\nmeans I may avoid it; you have no money: well then, take mine, and go;\nand if ever I behold your face after to-day, that day will be your last.'\n\n'Under the circumstances,' replied Zero, 'I scarce see my way to refuse\nyour offer.  Your expressions may pain, they cannot surprise me; I am\naware our point of view requires a little training, a little moral\nhygiene, if I may so express it; and one of the points that has always\ncharmed me in your character is this delightful frankness.  As for the\nsmall advance, it shall be remitted you from Philadelphia.'\n\n'It shall not,' said Somerset.\n\n'Dear fellow, you do not understand,' returned the plotter.  'I shall now\nbe received with fresh confidence by my superiors; and my experiments\nwill be no longer hampered by pitiful conditions of the purse.'\n\n'What I am now about, sir, is a crime,' replied Somerset; 'and were you\nto roll in wealth like Vanderbilt, I should scorn to be reimbursed of\nmoney I had so scandalously misapplied.  Take it, and keep it.  By\nGeorge, sir, three days of you have transformed me to an ancient Roman.'\n\nWith these words, Somerset hailed a passing hansom; and the pair were\ndriven rapidly to the railway terminus.  There, an oath having been\nexacted, the money changed hands.\n\n'And now,' said Somerset, 'I have bought back my honour with every penny\nI possess.  And I thank God, though there is nothing before me but\nstarvation, I am free from all entanglement with Mr. Zero Pumpernickel\nJones.'\n\n'To starve?' cried Zero.  'Dear fellow, I cannot endure the thought.'\n\n'Take your ticket!' returned Somerset.\n\n'I think you display temper,' said Zero.\n\n'Take your ticket,' reiterated the young man.\n\n'Well,' said the plotter, as he returned, ticket in hand, 'your attitude\nis so strange and painful, that I scarce know if I should ask you to\nshake hands.'\n\n'As a man, no,' replied Somerset; 'but I have no objection to shake hands\nwith you, as I might with a pump-well that ran poison or bell-fire.'\n\n'This is a very cold parting,' sighed the dynamiter; and still followed\nby Somerset, he began to descend the platform.  This was now bustling\nwith passengers; the train for Liverpool was just about to start, another\nhad but recently arrived; and the double tide made movement difficult.\nAs the pair reached the neighbourhood of the bookstall, however, they\ncame into an open space; and here the attention of the plotter was\nattracted by a _Standard_ broadside bearing the words: 'Second Edition:\nExplosion in Golden Square.'  His eye lighted; groping in his pocket for\nthe necessary coin, he sprang forward--his bag knocked sharply on the\ncorner of the stall--and instantly, with a formidable report, the\ndynamite exploded.  When the smoke cleared away the stall was seen much\nshattered, and the stall keeper running forth in terror from the ruins;\nbut of the Irish patriot or the Gladstone bag no adequate remains were to\nbe found.\n\nIn the first scramble of the alarm, Somerset made good his escape, and\ncame out upon the Euston Road, his head spinning, his body sick with\nhunger, and his pockets destitute of coin.  Yet as he continued to walk\nthe pavements, he wondered to find in his heart a sort of peaceful\nexultation, a great content, a sense, as it were, of divine presence and\nthe kindliness of fate; and he was able to tell himself that even if the\nworst befell, he could now starve with a certain comfort since Zero was\nexpunged.\n\nLate in the afternoon, he found himself at the door of Mr. Godall's shop;\nand being quite unmanned by his long fast, and scarce considering what he\ndid, he opened the glass door and entered.\n\n'Ha!' said Mr. Godall, 'Mr. Somerset!  Well, have you met with an\nadventure?  Have you the promised story?  Sit down, if you please; suffer\nme to choose you a cigar of my own special brand; and reward me with a\nnarrative in your best style.'\n\n'I must not take a cigar,' said Somerset.\n\n'Indeed!' said Mr. Godall.  'But now I come to look at you more closely,\nI perceive that you are changed.  My poor boy, I hope there is nothing\nwrong?'\n\nSomerset burst into tears.\n\n\n\n\n_EPILOGUE OF THE CIGAR DIVAN_\n\n\nOn a certain day of lashing rain in the December of last year, and\nbetween the hours of nine and ten in the morning, Mr. Edward Challoner\npioneered himself under an umbrella to the door of the Cigar Divan in\nRupert Street.  It was a place he had visited but once before: the memory\nof what had followed on that visit and the fear of Somerset having\nprevented his return.  Even now, he looked in before he entered; but the\nshop was free of customers.\n\nThe young man behind the counter was so intently writing in a penny\nversion-book, that he paid no heed to Challoner's arrival.  On a second\nglance, it seemed to the latter that he recognised him.\n\n'By Jove,' he thought, 'unquestionably Somerset!'\n\nAnd though this was the very man he had been so sedulously careful to\navoid, his unexplained position at the receipt of custom changed distaste\nto curiosity.\n\n'\"Or opulent rotunda strike the sky,\"' said the shopman to himself, in\nthe tone of one considering a verse.  'I suppose it would be too much to\nsay \"orotunda,\" and yet how noble it were!  \"Or opulent orotunda strike\nthe sky.\"  But that is the bitterness of arts; you see a good effect, and\nsome nonsense about sense continually intervenes.'\n\n'Somerset, my dear fellow,' said Challoner, 'is this a masquerade?'\n\n'What?  Challoner!' cried the shopman.  'I am delighted to see you.  One\nmoment, till I finish the octave of my sonnet: only the octave.'  And\nwith a friendly waggle of the hand, he once more buried himself in the\ncommerce of the Muses.  'I say,' he said presently, looking up, 'you seem\nin wonderful preservation: how about the hundred pounds?'\n\n'I have made a small inheritance from a great aunt in Wales,' replied\nChalloner modestly.\n\n'Ah,' said Somerset, 'I very much doubt the legitimacy of inheritance.\nThe State, in my view, should collar it.  I am now going through a stage\nof socialism and poetry,' he added apologetically, as one who spoke of a\ncourse of medicinal waters.\n\n'And are you really the person of the--establishment?' inquired\nChalloner, deftly evading the word 'shop.'\n\n'A vendor, sir, a vendor,' returned the other, pocketing his poesy.  'I\nhelp old Happy and Glorious.  Can I offer you a weed?'\n\n'Well, I scarcely like . . . ' began Challoner.\n\n'Nonsense, my dear fellow,' cried the shopman.  'We are very proud of the\nbusiness; and the old man, let me inform you, besides being the most\negregious of created beings from the point of view of ethics, is\nliterally sprung from the loins of kings.  \"_De Godall je suis le\nfervent_.\"  There is only one Godall.--By the way,' he added, as\nChalloner lit his cigar, 'how did you get on with the detective trade?'\n\n'I did not try,' said Challoner curtly.\n\n'Ah, well, I did,' returned Somerset, 'and made the most incomparable\nmess of it: lost all my money and fairly covered myself with odium and\nridicule.  There is more in that business, Challoner, than meets the eye;\nthere is more, in fact, in all businesses.  You must believe in them, or\nget up the belief that you believe.  Hence,' he added, 'the recognised\ninferiority of the plumber, for no one could believe in plumbing.'\n\n'_A propos_,' asked Challoner, 'do you still paint?'\n\n'Not now,' replied Paul; 'but I think of taking up the violin.'\n\nChalloner's eye, which had been somewhat restless since the trade of the\ndetective had been named, now rested for a moment on the columns of the\nmorning paper, where it lay spread upon the counter.\n\n'By Jove,' he cried, 'that's odd!'\n\n'What is odd?' asked Paul.\n\n'Oh, nothing,' returned the other: 'only I once met a person called\nM'Guire.'\n\n'So did I!' cried Somerset.  'Is there anything about him?'\n\nChalloner read as follows: '_Mysterious death in Stepney_.  An inquest\nwas held yesterday on the body of Patrick M'Guire, described as a\ncarpenter.  Doctor Dovering stated that he had for some time treated the\ndeceased as a dispensary patient, for sleeplessness, loss of appetite,\nand nervous depression.  There was no cause of death to be found.  He\nwould say the deceased had sunk.  Deceased was not a temperate man, which\ndoubtless accelerated death.  Deceased complained of dumb ague, but\nwitness had never been able to detect any positive disease.  He did not\nknow that he had any family.  He regarded him as a person of unsound\nintellect, who believed himself a member and the victim of some secret\nsociety.  If he were to hazard an opinion, he would say deceased had died\nof fear.'\n\n'And the doctor would be right,' cried Somerset; 'and my dear Challoner,\nI am so relieved to hear of his demise, that I will--Well, after all,' he\nadded, 'poor devil, he was well served.'\n\nThe door at this moment opened, and Desborough appeared upon the\nthreshold.  He was wrapped in a long waterproof, imperfectly supplied\nwith buttons; his boots were full of water, his hat greasy with service;\nand yet he wore the air of one exceeding well content with life.  He was\nhailed by the two others with exclamations of surprise and welcome.\n\n'And did you try the detective business?' inquired Paul.\n\n'No,' returned Harry.  'Oh yes, by the way, I did though: twice, and got\ncaught out both times.  But I thought I should find my--my wife here?' he\nadded, with a kind of proud confusion.\n\n'What? are you married?' cried Somerset.\n\n'Oh yes,' said Harry, 'quite a long time: a month at least.'\n\n'Money?' asked Challoner.\n\n'That's the worst of it,' Desborough admitted.  'We are deadly hard up.\nBut the Pri--- Mr. Godall is going to do something for us.  That is what\nbrings us here.'\n\n'Who was Mrs. Desborough?' said Challoner, in the tone of a man of\nsociety.\n\n'She was a Miss Luxmore,' returned Harry.  'You fellows will be sure to\nlike her, for she is much cleverer than I.  She tells wonderful stories,\ntoo; better than a book.'\n\nAnd just then the door opened, and Mrs. Desborough entered.  Somerset\ncried out aloud to recognise the young lady of the Superfluous Mansion,\nand Challoner fell back a step and dropped his cigar as he beheld the\nsorceress of Chelsea.\n\n'What!' cried Harry, 'do you both know my wife?'\n\n'I believe I have seen her,' said Somerset, a little wildly.\n\n'I think I have met the gentleman,' said Mrs. Desborough sweetly; 'but I\ncannot imagine where it was.'\n\n'Oh no,' cried Somerset fervently: 'I have no notion--I cannot\nconceive--where it could have been.  Indeed,' he continued, growing in\nemphasis, 'I think it highly probable that it's a mistake.'\n\n'And you, Challoner?' asked Harry, 'you seemed to recognise her too.'\n\n'These are both friends of yours, Harry?' said the lady.  'Delighted, I\nam sure.  I do not remember to have met Mr. Challoner.'\n\nChalloner was very red in the face, perhaps from having groped after his\ncigar.  'I do not remember to have had the pleasure,' he responded\nhuskily.\n\n'Well, and Mr. Godall?' asked Mrs. Desborough.\n\n'Are you the lady that has an appointment with old--' began Somerset, and\npaused blushing.  'Because if so,' he resumed, 'I was to announce you at\nonce.'\n\nAnd the shopman raised a curtain, opened a door, and passed into a small\npavilion which had been added to the back of the house.  On the roof, the\nrain resounded musically.  The walls were lined with maps and prints and\na few works of reference.  Upon a table was a large-scale map of Egypt\nand the Soudan, and another of Tonkin, on which, by the aid of coloured\npins, the progress of the different wars was being followed day by day.\nA light, refreshing odour of the most delicate tobacco hung upon the air;\nand a fire, not of foul coal, but of clear-flaming resinous billets,\nchattered upon silver dogs.  In this elegant and plain apartment, Mr.\nGodall sat in a morning muse, placidly gazing at the fire and hearkening\nto the rain upon the roof.\n\n'Ha, my dear Mr. Somerset,' said he, 'and have you since last night\nadopted any fresh political principle?'\n\n'The lady, sir,' said Somerset, with another blush.\n\n'You have seen her, I believe?' returned Mr. Godall; and on Somerset's\nreplying in the affirmative, 'You will excuse me, my dear sir,' he\nresumed, 'if I offer you a hint.  I think it not improbable this lady may\ndesire entirely to forget the past.  From one gentleman to another, no\nmore words are necessary.'\n\nA moment after, he had received Mrs. Desborough with that grave and\ntouching urbanity that so well became him.\n\n'I am pleased, madam, to welcome you to my poor house,' he said; 'and\nshall be still more so, if what were else a barren courtesy and a\npleasure personal to myself, shall prove to be of serious benefit to you\nand Mr. Desborough.'\n\n'Your Highness,' replied Clara, 'I must begin with thanks; it is like\nwhat I have heard of you, that you should thus take up the case of the\nunfortunate; and as for my Harry, he is worthy of all that you can do.'\nShe paused.\n\n'But for yourself?' suggested Mr. Godall--'it was thus you were about to\ncontinue, I believe.'\n\n'You take the words out of my mouth,' she said.  'For myself, it is\ndifferent.'\n\n'I am not here to be a judge of men,' replied the Prince; 'still less of\nwomen.  I am now a private person like yourself and many million others;\nbut I am one who still fights upon the side of quiet.  Now, madam, you\nknow better than I, and God better than you, what you have done to\nmankind in the past; I pause not to inquire; it is with the future I\nconcern myself, it is for the future I demand security.  I would not\nwillingly put arms into the hands of a disloyal combatant; and I dare not\nrestore to wealth one of the levyers of a private and a barbarous war.  I\nspeak with some severity, and yet I pick my terms.  I tell myself\ncontinually that you are a woman; and a voice continually reminds me of\nthe children whose lives and limbs you have endangered.  A woman,' he\nrepeated solemnly--'and children.  Possibly, madam, when you are yourself\na mother, you will feel the bite of that antithesis: possibly when you\nkneel at night beside a cradle, a fear will fall upon you, heavier than\nany shame; and when your child lies in the pain and danger of disease,\nyou shall hesitate to kneel before your Maker.'\n\n'You look at the fault,' she said, 'and not at the excuse.  Has your own\nheart never leaped within you at some story of oppression?  But, alas,\nno! for you were born upon a throne.'\n\n'I was born of woman,' said the Prince; 'I came forth from my mother's\nagony, helpless as a wren, like other nurselings.  This, which you\nforgot, I have still faithfully remembered.  Is it not one of your\nEnglish poets, that looked abroad upon the earth and saw vast\ncircumvallations, innumerable troops manoeuvring, warships at sea and a\ngreat dust of battles on shore; and casting anxiously about for what\nshould be the cause of so many and painful preparations, spied at last,\nin the centre of all, a mother and her babe?  These, madam, are my\npolitics; and the verses, which are by Mr. Coventry Patmore, I have\ncaused to be translated into the Bohemian tongue.  Yes, these are my\npolitics: to change what we can, to better what we can; but still to bear\nin mind that man is but a devil weakly fettered by some generous beliefs\nand impositions, and for no word however nobly sounding, and no cause\nhowever just and pious, to relax the stricture of these bonds.'\n\nThere was a silence of a moment.\n\n'I fear, madam,' resumed the Prince, 'that I but weary you.  My views are\nformal like myself; and like myself, they also begin to grow old.  But I\nmust still trouble you for some reply.'\n\n'I can say but one thing,' said Mrs. Desborough: 'I love my husband.'\n\n'It is a good answer,' returned the Prince; 'and you name a good\ninfluence, but one that need not be conterminous with life.'\n\n'I will not play at pride with such a man as you,' she answered.  'What\ndo you ask of me? not protestations, I am sure.  What shall I say?  I\nhave done much that I cannot defend and that I would not do again.  Can I\nsay more?  Yes: I can say this: I never abused myself with the\nmuddle-headed fairy tales of politics.  I was at least prepared to meet\nreprisals.  While I was levying war myself--or levying murder, if you\nchoose the plainer term--I never accused my adversaries of assassination.\nI never felt or feigned a righteous horror, when a price was put upon my\nlife by those whom I attacked.  I never called the policeman a hireling.\nI may have been a criminal, in short; but I never was a fool.'\n\n'Enough, madam,' returned the Prince: 'more than enough!  Your words are\nmost reviving to my spirits; for in this age, when even the assassin is a\nsentimentalist, there is no virtue greater in my eyes than intellectual\nclarity.  Suffer me, then, to ask you to retire; for by the signal of\nthat bell, I perceive my old friend, your mother, to be close at hand.\nWith her I promise you to do my utmost.'\n\nAnd as Mrs. Desborough returned to the Divan, the Prince, opening a door\nupon the other side, admitted Mrs. Luxmore.\n\n'Madam and my very good friend,' said he, 'is my face so much changed\nthat you no longer recognise Prince Florizel in Mr. Godall?'\n\n'To be sure!' she cried, looking at him through her glasses.  'I have\nalways regarded your Highness as a perfect man; and in your altered\ncircumstances, of which I have already heard with deep regret, I will beg\nyou to consider my respect increased instead of lessened.'\n\n'I have found it so,' returned the Prince, 'with every class of my\nacquaintance.  But, madam, I pray you to be seated.  My business is of a\ndelicate order, and regards your daughter.'\n\n'In that case,' said Mrs. Luxmore, 'you may save yourself the trouble of\nspeaking, for I have fully made up my mind to have nothing to do with\nher.  I will not hear one word in her defence; but as I value nothing so\nparticularly as the virtue of justice, I think it my duty to explain to\nyou the grounds of my complaint.  She deserted me, her natural protector;\nfor years, she has consorted with the most disreputable persons; and to\nfill the cup of her offence, she has recently married.  I refuse to see\nher, or the being to whom she has linked herself.  One hundred and twenty\npounds a year, I have always offered her: I offer it again.  It is what I\nhad myself when I was her age.'\n\n'Very well, madam,' said the Prince; 'and be that so!  But to touch upon\nanother matter: what was the income of the Reverend Bernard Fanshawe?'\n\n'My father?' asked the spirited old lady.  'I believe he had seven\nhundred pounds in the year.'\n\n'You were one, I think, of several?' pursued the Prince.\n\n'Of four,' was the reply.  'We were four daughters; and painful as the\nadmission is to make, a more detestable family could scarce be found in\nEngland.'\n\n'Dear me!' said the Prince.  'And you, madam, have an income of eight\nthousand?'\n\n'Not more than five,' returned the old lady; 'but where on earth are you\nconducting me?'\n\n'To an allowance of one thousand pounds a year,' replied Florizel,\nsmiling.  'For I must not suffer you to take your father for a rule.  He\nwas poor, you are rich.  He had many calls upon his poverty: there are\nnone upon your wealth.  And indeed, madam, if you will let me touch this\nmatter with a needle, there is but one point in common to your two\npositions: that each had a daughter more remarkable for liveliness than\nduty.'\n\n'I have been entrapped into this house,' said the old lady, getting to\nher feet.  'But it shall not avail.  Not all the tobacconists in Europe . . .'\n\n'Ah, madam,' interrupted Florizel, 'before what is referred to as my\nfall, you had not used such language!  And since you so much object to\nthe simple industry by which I live, let me give you a friendly hint.  If\nyou will not consent to support your daughter, I shall be constrained to\nplace that lady behind my counter, where I doubt not she would prove a\ngreat attraction; and your son-in-law shall have a livery and run the\nerrands.  With such young blood my business might be doubled, and I might\nbe bound in common gratitude to place the name of Luxmore beside that of\nGodall.'\n\n'Your Highness,' said the old lady, 'I have been very rude, and you are\nvery cunning.  I suppose the minx is on the premises.  Produce her.'\n\n'Let us rather observe them unperceived,' said the Prince; and so saying\nhe rose and quietly drew back the curtain.\n\nMrs. Desborough sat with her back to them on a chair; Somerset and Harry\nwere hanging on her words with extraordinary interest; Challoner,\nalleging some affair, had long ago withdrawn from the detested\nneighbourhood of the enchantress.\n\n'At that moment,' Mrs. Desborough was saying, 'Mr Gladstone detected the\nfeatures of his cowardly assailant.  A cry rose to his lips: a cry of\nmingled triumph . . .'\n\n'That is Mr. Somerset!' interrupted the spirited old lady, in the highest\nnote of her register.  'Mr. Somerset, what have you done with my\nhouse-property?'\n\n'Madam,' said the Prince, 'let it be mine to give the explanation; and in\nthe meanwhile, welcome your daughter.'\n\n'Well, Clara, how do you do?' said Mrs. Luxmore.  'It appears I am to\ngive you an allowance.  So much the better for you.  As for Mr. Somerset,\nI am very ready to have an explanation; for the whole affair, though\ncostly, was eminently humorous.  And at any rate,' she added, nodding to\nPaul, 'he is a young gentleman for whom I have a great affection, and his\npictures were the funniest I ever saw.'\n\n'I have ordered a collation,' said the Prince.  'Mr. Somerset, as these\nare all your friends, I propose, if you please, that you should join them\nat table.  I will take the shop.'\n\n\n\n\nFootnotes\n\n\n{9}  Hereupon the Arabian author enters on one of his digressions.\nFearing, apparently, that the somewhat eccentric views of Mr. Somerset\nshould throw discredit on a part of truth, he calls upon the English\npeople to remember with more gratitude the services of the police; to\nwhat unobserved and solitary acts of heroism they are called; against\nwhat odds of numbers and of arms, and for how small a reward, either in\nfame or money: matter, it has appeared to the translators, too serious\nfor this place.\n\n{43}  In this name the accent falls upon the _e_; the _s_ is sibilant.\n\n{176}  The Arabian author of the original has here a long passage\nconceived in a style too oriental for the English reader.  We subjoin a\nspecimen, and it seems doubtful whether it should be printed as prose or\nverse: 'Any writard who writes dynamitard shall find in me a\nnever-resting fightard;' and he goes on (if we correctly gather his\nmeaning) to object to such elegant and obviously correct spellings as\nlamp-lightard, corn-dealard, apple-filchard (clearly justified by the\nparallel--pilchard) and opera dancard.  'Dynamitist,' he adds, 'I could\nunderstand.'\n\n{182}  The Arabian author, with that quaint particularity of touch which\nour translation usually praetermits, here registers a somewhat\ninteresting detail.  Zero pronounced the word 'boom;' and the reader, if\nbut for the nonce, will possibly consent to follow him."