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THE MYSTERIES OF LONDON.

THE
MYSTERIES OF LONDON.
BY
GEORGE W. M. REYNOLDS,
AUTHOR OF “FAUST,” “PICKWICK ABROAD,” AND “ROBERT MACAIRE.”

WITH NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS.

VOL. IV.
VOL. II. SECOND SERIES.

LONDON:
G. VICKERS, 334, STRAND.

MDCCCXLVIII.

LONDON
WALTER SULLY, BONNER HOUSE PRINTING OFFICE, SEACOAL LANE.

CONTENTS OF VOL. II.

ILLUSTRATIONS TO VOL. II.
SECOND SERIES.

THE MYSTERIES OF LONDON.

CHAPTER CX.
CONTINUATION OF THE BLACK’S VISITS TO HIS PRISONERS.

Having quitted the dungeon in which Josh Pedler was confined, the Blackamoor proceeded to the next cell; but, instead of opening the door, he merely drew back a small sliding-lid that covered a grated trap, and the faint rays of a light streamed from the inside.

“Tidmarsh,” said the Blackamoor, in a feigned tone, “has your mind grown easier?”

“Yes, sir—oh! yes,” replied the prisoner from the interior of his dungeon. “Since you allowed me a light and good books, I have been comparatively a happy man. I know that I deserve punishment—and it seems to do me good to feel that I am atoning for my offences in this manner. I am not afraid of being alone now; and when I put out my light, I am not afraid of being in the dark.”

“You pray with more composure?” said the Black, interrogatively.

“Yes, sir—I can settle my mind to prayer now,” was the answer; “and I am sure that my prayers are heard. But pray believe, sir, that I never was so wicked—so very wicked as that bad man who kept me for years in his employ. I know that I was too willing an instrument in his hands; and I am sorry for it now. The thing that lays heaviest on my mind, is the share I had in sending poor Tom Rain to the scaffold.”

“You are sorry for that deed?” enquired the Black, in a low and slightly tremulous tone.

“Oh! God, forgive me!” exclaimed Tidmarsh, his voice expressing sincere contrition. “I do indeed deeply—deeply deplore my share in that awful business; and the ghost of poor Tom Rain used to haunt me when I was first here. In fact, Tom Rain was ever uppermost in my thoughts; and—strange though it may seem—it is not the less true, sir, that your voice appeared to penetrate to my very soul, as if it was Tom Rain himself that was speaking to me. But I have got over all those ideas now—since I learnt to pray; and when I grow dull, I read the good books you have lent me. Sometimes I study the Bible; and I find that if I pore over it too much, it makes me melancholy. Then I turn to the Travels and Voyages; and I become tranquil again.”

“Should you not rejoice at any opportunity of retrieving your character—even in your old age—and earning an honest livelihood for yourself?” asked the Black.

“Oh! if such a thing could be!” cried the man, in a tone of exultation. “But, no—it is impossible!” he added, after a pause, and speaking in an altered voice. “I have sinned too deeply in respect to poor Tom Rain, to be able to hope for such happiness. God is punishing me in this world, you being his instrument;—and yet I can scarcely call it punishment, since you treat me with such kindness. There are times when I even wish that I was more severely punished here, so that I might expiate all my sins and feel certain about my fate in another world.”

“God is full of forgiveness, Tidmarsh,” said the Black: “I feel that He is,” he added in a somewhat enthusiastic manner. “The prospect I distantly hinted at in respect to yourself, may possibly become practicable. You are old—but you may still have many years to live; and it would be wrong—it would be detestable not to give you a full opportunity, sooner or later, of enabling you to testify your contrition. But I cannot speak farther on this subject at present. I have brought you some more books: one is a tale—‘The Vicar of Wakefield’—the perusal of which will do you no harm. It will show you how virtue, though suffering for a time, was rewarded at last. In a few days I shall myself visit you again.”

The Black closed the trap, and stood away from the door, which Wilton now opened; and the basket furnished the prisoner with his provisions and also with some volumes of good and beneficial reading.

The visiting-party next proceeded to the cell in which Toby Bunce and his wife were confined together; and here, as in the immediately preceding instance, the Black spoke to them through a sliding trap, from which a light also gleamed.

“For three days have you now been together, after dwelling some time apart,” said the Blackamoor, continuing to speak in a feigned tone; “and I now conjure you to tell me truly whether you would rather be thus in each other’s company, or separated as before?”

“Oh! leave us together, sir—leave us together, I implore you!” cried Mrs. Bunce, in a voice of earnest appeal. “We are now the best friends in the world; and I have promised my husband never to say a cross word unnecessarily to him again.”

“She seems quite an altered woman, sir,” observed Toby. “But then——”

“But then what?” demanded the Black, seeing that the man hesitated.

“Well, sir—I will speak my mind free,” continued Bunce; “because I’m no longer afraid to do so. I was going to say that p’rhaps it is this loneliness in which we are placed that makes Betsy talk as she does; and that if we was to be again together out of doors——”

“You would not find me change, Toby,” interrupted the woman, but not in a querulous manner. “I like to hear you read to me from the Bible, and from the other good books that the gentleman has given us. I wish we had passed more of our time in this way before we got into all this trouble. But, pray, sir,” she added, turning towards the door, “do tell me whether you mean to keep us here all our lives!”

“You must ask me no questions, remember,” said the Black, in a mild but firm tone. “I have told you this before. Learn to subdue all impatience, and to become resigned and enduring. You have made others suffer in the world;—you have been the agents and tools of a wicked man;—and you now see that heaven is punishing you through the means of one who has power thus to treat you.”

“Oh! how I wish that I had never known that detestable Bones?” exclaimed the woman, covering her face with her hands.

“And how I wish that I had stuck to my trade in an honest manner!” cried Toby Bunce, in a voice of unfeigned contrition.

“Think of all that—repeat those sentences to each other—as often as you can,” said the Blackamoor. “In the course of a few days I shall visit you again.”

With these words, he stood back from the door, which Wilton opened; and the two inmates of the dungeon received supplies of wholesome food and moral or instructive books.

The party then proceeded farther along the subterranean passage from which the various cells opened.

“Do you mean, sir, to fulfil your intention of this night visiting him?” enquired Cæsar, addressing his master in a low, faint, and tremulous tone, as if he were a prey to some vague terror.

The Blackamoor did not immediately answer the question; but, placing his hand upon his brow, appeared to reflect profoundly for almost the space of a minute.

Wilton—who seemed acquainted, as well as Cæsar, with all his master’s secrets—likewise surveyed the Black with mingled curiosity and apprehension.

“Yes!” at length exclaimed the mysterious personage; “I will now, for the first time since he has been my prisoner here, hold personal communication with Benjamin Bones!”

The party proceeded in silence to a cell near the extremity of the long subterranean passage; and on reaching it, the Black handed the lamp to Cæsar, at the same time making a sign to that youth and the other dependants to stand back so that no gleam of the light should penetrate into the dungeon when the door was opened. They obeyed in profound silence; and their master immediately entered the cell, closing the door behind him with that rapidity which is exercised by a brute-tamer when introducing himself into the cage of a wild beast.

The interior of the dungeon was as dark as pitch,—so dark, that there was not even that greyish appearance which obscurity frequently wears to eyes accustomed to it. It was a darkness that might be felt,—a darkness which seemed to touch and hang upon the visual organs like a dense black mist.

“Who is it?” demanded the sepulchral voice of Old Death, his tone marked with a subdued ferocity and a sort of savage growling which seemed to denote a rancorous hate and pent-up longings for bitter vengeance against the author or authors of his solitary imprisonment.

“I am the person who keeps you here,” answered the Black, studying to adopt a voice even more feigned and unlike his natural tones than when he was ere now addressing Tidmarsh and the Bunces.

Still that voice had in it some peculiarity which appeared to touch a chord that vibrated to the very core of Old Death’s heart; for he evidently made a starting movement, as he said hoarsely and thickly, “But who are you—a spectre or a living being? Tell me who you are!”

“I am a living being like yourself,” was the reply, delivered in a voice disguised in deeper modulations than before. “Are you afraid of being visited by spectres?”

There was a long pause, during which the deep silence was interrupted only by the heavy breathing of Old Death, as if the utter darkness of the place sate oppressively upon him.

“Are you afraid of spectres, I ask?” demanded the Black, who was leaning with folded arms against the door, and with his eyes in the direction where he presumed Old Death to be seated; though not even the faintest outline of his form could he trace amidst that black obscurity.

“Bring me a light, or let me out—and I will answer all your questions,” cried Benjamin Bones, his anxiety to obtain his freedom giving a cadence of earnest appeal to his voice in spite of the tremendous rage which his bosom cherished against the individual who had proclaimed himself to be his gaoler.

“Do you deserve mercy?—do you merit the indulgence of man?” asked the Black, in a tone profoundly solemn.

“What do you know of me?—who are you?—why did you have me brought here?—and by what right do you keep me in this infernal place?” demanded Old Death, rapidly and savagely.

“Is it not a just retribution which makes you a prisoner in a subterranean where you have often imprisoned others?” said the Black.

“Then ’tis that miscreant Ellingham who has put me here!” exclaimed Bones, in a tone which showed that he was quivering with rage. “Demon!—fiend!—yes—you are Lord Ellingham—I thought I knew your voice, although you tried to disguise it. At the first moment I fancied—but that was stupid,—still it struck me that it was the voice of Tom Rain which spoke. Ha! ha!” the old wretch chuckled with horrible ferocity and savage glee—“I did for him—I did for him! I sent him to the scaffold—I got him hanged—and now he is food for worms! Ellingham—for I know you are Lord Ellingham—I can have the laugh at you, you devil, although you keep me here!”

“Miserable old man,” said the Black, in a tone of deep pity, though still disguised in modulation,—“are you insensible to the whisperings of conscience?”

“Yes—now that you are here!” cried Benjamin Bones, his clothes rustling as if with the trembling nervousness of enraged excitement. “You made me sell you these houses—you took them away from me by force, as it were; and now you keep me a prisoner here. It is all through vengeance that you do it—you who pretended to be above all thoughts or intentions of revenge!”

“As God is my judge, I harbour no such sentiment towards you!” said the Blackamoor, emphatically. “But will you converse tranquilly and calmly with me?”

“Well—I will try,” returned Old Death. “What do you want to say to me?”

“To remind you that you are an old—very old man, and that you cannot hope to live much longer——”

“Fiend! would you kill me in cold blood!” interrupted Bones, in a sort of shrieking, yelling tone that indicated mingled alarm and rage.

“Had I intended to slay you, I might have done it when you were first brought here as my prisoner,” answered the Black. “Rest satisfied on that head——”

“Then you do not mean to kill me?” exclaimed Old Death, with all the hysterical joy of a coward soul, in spite of his natural and still untamed ferocity.

“Heaven forbid!” ejaculated the Blackamoor.

“There—now ’tis the voice of Tom Rain once again!” cried Old Death, evidently shuddering as he spoke. “But, no—I am a fool—you are the Earl! Yes—tell me—are you not the Earl of Ellingham?”

“No matter who I am,” was the solemn reply. “If you ask me questions, I will immediately leave you.”

“No—don’t go for a few minutes!” exclaimed Old Death, imploringly. “I have been here a month,—yes—for I have counted the visits of your men, who come, as they tell me, every night to bring me food,—and I know that I have been here a month. In all that time I have only exchanged a dozen words with human beings—and—and—this solitude is horrible!”

“You have leisure to ponder on all your crimes,” said the Black.

“Who made you my judge?” demanded Old Death, with a return of his ferocity of tone and manner. “If you want me to confess all my sins, and will then set me free, I will do it,” he added in a somewhat ironical way.

“Confession is useless, without true repentance,” observed the Blackamoor. “Besides, all your misdeeds are known to me,—your behaviour to your half-sister, Octavia Manners, years ago—your treatment of poor Jacob Smith—your machinations to destroy Thomas Rainford——”

“Then, by all this, am I convinced that you are the Earl of Ellingham!” cried Old Death. “Ah! my lord,” he immediately added, in a voice which suddenly changed to a tone of earnest appeal, “do not keep me here any longer! Let me go—and I will leave London for ever! Reflect, my lord—I am an old man—a very old man,—you yourself said so just now,—and you are killing me by keeping me here. Send me out of the country—any where you choose, however distant—and I will thank you: but again I say, do not keep me here.”

“When the savage animal goes about preying upon the weak and unwary, he should be placed under restraint,” said the Blackamoor. “You are not repentant, Benjamin Bones! A month have you been here—a month have you been allowed to ponder upon your enormities,—and still your soul is obdurate. Not many minutes have elapsed since you gloried in one of the most infamous deeds of your long and wicked life.”

“I spoke of Tom Rain to annoy you—because I was enraged with you for keeping me here,” returned Old Death, hastily. “There have been moments,” he added, after a short pause, “when I have felt sorry for what I did in that respect. I would not do so over again—no, my lord, I assure you I would not! I wish your poor half-brother was alive now—I would not seek to injure him, even if I had the power.”

“You speak thus because you have been alone and in the dark,” observed the Blackamoor, in a mournful voice: “but were you restored to freedom—to the enjoyment of the light of God’s own sun—and to the possession of the power of following your career of iniquity, you would again glory in that dreadful deed.”

“No,” answered Old Death: “I am sorry for it. I know that my nature is savage and ferocious: but will you tame me by cruelty? And your keeping me here is downright cruelty—and nothing more or less. It makes me vindictive—it makes me feel at times as if I hated you.”

“I shall keep you here, nevertheless, for some time longer—aye, and in the dark,” returned the Blackamoor; “because you seek not to subdue your revengeful feelings. It is terrible to think that so old a man should be so inveterately wicked. Do you know that your gang is broken up—rendered powerless? In the cells of this subterranean are Timothy Splint—Joshua Pedler—Mrs. Bunce and her husband—and your agent, Tidmarsh.”

“Then I have no hope from without!” growled Old Death, his garments again rustling with a movement of savage impatience; and for an instant it struck the Blackamoor that he could see two ferocious eyes gleaming in the dark—but this was doubtless the mere fancy of the moment.

“Yes,—you are beyond the reach of human aid, unless by my will and consent,” said the Blackamoor. “Your late companions or tools in iniquity are all housed safely here;—and, what is more, they are penitent. Listen for a moment, Benjamin Bones; and may the information I am about to give you, prove an instructive lesson. Timothy Splint is at this instant reading the Bible, therein to search for hope and consolation, which God does not deny to the worst sinners when they are truly penitent. Joshua Pedler is occupying himself in writing a letter of advice to a young girl who became his mistress, whom he drove to prostitution, but who is now earning her livelihood in a respectable manner. Tidmarsh deplores the folly which made him your instrument; and he is reading good books. Bunce and his wife are together in the same dungeon; and the woman is rapidly yielding up to her husband that empire which she had usurped. They too regret that they ever knew you; and the Bible is their solace. Of six persons whom I imprisoned in this place which was once your own property, five are already repentant: you, who are the sixth, alone remain obdurate and hardened.”

“And my old friends curse me!” moaned the ancient miscreant, his voice seeming more hollow and sepulchral than ever, as if he were covering his face with his hands. “What—the people who owe so much to me—the Bunces—Tidmarsh——”

“Would not speak to you, unless it were to convert you,” added the Black. “Thus, you perceive, you—who, in the common course of nature, are of all the six the nearest to the threshold of the tomb,—you, who have so many years upon your head, and such deep and manifold crimes to expiate,—you, Benjamin Bones,” continued the warning voice, “are the last to show the slightest—the faintest sign of penitence. Is not this deplorable? And even now you appear to regret that your late companions in crime should be in their hearts thus alienated from you. Doubtless you trusted to the chapter of accidents—to the hazard of chances to enable them to discover your place of imprisonment and effect your rescue?”

Old Death groaned heavily, in spite of himself.

“Yes:—such was your hope—such was your idea,” resumed the Black; “and now you are unmanned by disappointment. Even your friend Jeffreys turned against you—he led you into the snare which I set for you—he will not raise an arm to save you from my power. He does not even know where you are.”

“Then I am abandoned by all the world!” shrieked forth the wretched miscreant, unable to subdue the agonising emotions which this conviction excited within him.

“He who finds himself abandoned by all the world, should throw himself upon his Maker,” said the Blackamoor.

“There—there—’tis the voice of Rainford again!” cried Old Death, evidently seized with ineffable terror. “But, no—no—you are the Earl of Ellingham—you must be the Earl! Yet why do you every now and then imitate the tone of Tom Rain? Is it to frighten me, my lord? Tell me—is it to frighten me?”

“You seem inaccessible to fear of any kind,” answered the Black,—“I mean a fear which may be permanent and salutary. You have occasional qualms of conscience, which you cannot altogether resist, but which almost immediately pass away. Have you no wish to make your peace with heaven? Would you pray with a clergyman, were one to visit you?”

“No:—I am unfit for prayer—I should not have the patience to stand the questioning of a clergyman,” answered Old Death hastily: then, almost immediately afterwards, he said, “But I was wrong to give such a reply! Yes—send me a clergyman—let him bring a light—do any thing to relieve me from this solitude and this darkness. My lord—for I know that you are the Earl of Ellingham—pray take compassion upon me! I am an old—a very old man, my lord; and I cannot endure this confinement. I told you just now that I was sorry for what I did to your brother-in-law; and you know that I cannot recall him to life. Neither will you do so by killing me. Have mercy upon me, then, my lord: let me leave this horrible place——”

“To enter the great world again, and renew your course of crime?” interrupted the Black. “No—Benjamin Bones, that may not be! Let me first become assured that you sincerely and truly repent of your misdeeds—let me be impressed with the conviction that you are sorry for the crimes which have marked your long life,—and then—then, we will speak of ameliorating your condition. For the present, do not consider me as your enemy—do not look upon me as a man acting towards you from vindictive motives only. No:—for were I inclined to vent on you a miserable spite or a fiendish malignity, the means are not deficient. I might keep you without food for days together—but each day your provender is renewed: or I might even kill you outright—and yet I would not violently injure a hair of your head! To-morrow evening I will visit you again: in the meantime endeavour to subdue your feelings so that you may then speak to me without irritation.”

With these words the Black abruptly thrust the door open, and quitted the dungeon; but at that instant Cæsar, who had been pacing up and down with Wilton in the immediate vicinity of that particular cell, was so close to the entrance that the light of the lamp which he carried in his hand streamed full upon the countenance of his master as the latter sprang forth from the deep darkness of Old Death’s prison-house.

The glare for a moment showed the interior of the dungeon; and the Black, mechanically turning his eyes towards the place where he presumed Benjamin Bones to be, caught a rapid glimpse of the hideous old man, seated—or rather crouched on his bed, his hands clasped round his knees, and his form so arched that his knees and chin almost appeared to meet.

In another instant the dungeon-door was closed violently by the Blackamoor, who, as he locked and barred it, said in a low and somewhat reproachful tone to Cæsar, “You should not have been so incautious as to throw the light upon me just as I was leaving the cell. Old Death had time, even in that single moment during which the glare flashed upon my countenance, to observe me distinctly.”

“I am truly sorry, sir, that I should have been go imprudent,” answered Cæsar, in a tone of vexation at his fault. “But it is impossible that he could recognise you.”

“I believe so,” observed the Black: “and therefore we will say no more upon the subject. The old man remains obdurate and hardened,” he continued, still speaking in a low whisper; “and yet I have hopes of him as well as of the others.”

Wilton supplied Benjamin Bones with provisions through the trap in his dungeon-door; and the party then quitted the subterranean by the mode of egress communicating with the house in Red Lion Street, Clerkenwell—for the reader now perceives, as indeed he may long ago have conjectured, that the Black’s dwelling was established in the quarters lately tenanted by Old Death.

CHAPTER CXI.
A CONVERSATION.

Pass we over another month—eight weeks having now elapsed since the six prisoners were first consigned to their dungeons, and four weeks from the date of those visits the description of which has occupied the two proceeding chapters.

It was between nine and ten o’clock in the evening; and the Blackamoor was seated in his apartment, looking over some letters, when Cæsar ushered in Dr. Lascelles.

“Good evening, my dear sir,” said the Blackamoor, shaking the worthy physician cordially by the hand. “Be seated—and Cæsar will bring us a bottle of that claret which you so much admire. I am delighted that you have at length found time to give me an hour or two, in order that I may enter into full and complete explanations of certain matters——”

“I understand—I understand,” interrupted the doctor, good humouredly. “Your theory has proved to me more practical than I expected: but I shall not say any more about it until you have given me all the details of its progress. And before you begin, I must observe that the case which took me out of town six weeks ago, and has kept me at Brighton all the time, has ended most satisfactorily. I have effected a complete cure.”

“I am delighted to hear tidings so glorious from you, doctor,” said the Black. “A case which had baffled all the physicians who had previously been concerned in it, is now conducted to a successful issue by yourself. It will wondrously and deservedly increase your reputation, great as that fame already was.”

“My dear friend,” replied the physician, “without for a moment seeking to recall any thing unpleasant connected with the past, I must inform you that galvanism was the secret of the grand cure which I have effected. But let us pass on to another subject,” exclaimed the doctor hastily, as if considerately turning the discourse from a disagreeable topic. “I have been absent for six weeks—quite a strange thing for me, who am so wedded to London; and you are one of the very first of my friends on whom I call. All day long I have been paying hurried visits to my patients; and now I come to sit a couple of hours with you. I suppose you have plenty of news for me?”

“None of any consequence beyond the sphere of my own affairs in this place,” answered the Black. “You are of course aware that the Earl has made Esther an offer of his hand——”

“To be sure, my dear friend,” interrupted Lascelles: “that engagement was contracted, you remember, two or three weeks before I left London, when summoned to Brighton. But I presume that the Earl is still ignorant of——”

“All my proceedings?” exclaimed the Black, finishing the sentence for the physician. “Yes—he remains completely in the dark respecting every thing. The time may, however, soon come when he shall be made acquainted with all; and then I do not think he will blame me.”

“Far from it!” cried Lascelles, emphatically: “he doubtless owes you his happiness, if not his life—for there is no telling what that miscreant, Old Death, might not have done to gratify his frightful cravings for vengeance. The monster!” exclaimed the physician, indignantly: “he would even have inflicted the most terrible outrages and wrongs upon the amiable Esther and the generous-souled Lady Hatfield, in order to wound the heart of the Earl.”

“And yet I do not despair of reforming that man, bad as he is,” observed the Black.

“Reform the Devil!” cried the doctor. “But I will not anticipate by any hasty opinion of mine the explanations which you are going to give me. By the bye, have you had any intelligence relative to that Mr. Torrens?”

“Yes,” answered the Black. “Esther received a letter from his daughter Rosamond a few days ago. The poor girl and her father were on their way to Switzerland, where they intended to settle in some secluded spot. The old gentleman is worn down and spirit-broken; and Rosamond states that she is afraid he is oppressed with some secret care beyond those with which she is acquainted.”

“And your man Jeffreys?” said Lascelles, interrogatively.

“The next time you visit Hackney, doctor,—should your professional avocations take you to that suburb,” replied the Blackamoor, “forget not to look out for the most decent grocer’s shop in Mare Street; and over the door you will see the name of John Jeffreys. He entered the establishment only a few days ago; and I believe he is a reformed man. I tried his fidelity as well as his steadiness in many ways, during the last two months; and I have every reason to entertain the best hopes relative to him. At all events, he has every chance of earning an honest and good living; for he has purchased an old-established business, which Wilton previously ascertained to be a profitable concern.”

“Have you heard or seen anything lately of our friend Sir Christopher Blunt?” enquired the physician, laughing as he spoke.

“I have not seen him since that memorable night when he fulfilled the duties of a magistrate in this room,” answered the Black, smiling: “but I have occasionally heard of him. He is so puffed up with pride in consequence of the importance which he derived from his adventure here, that he looks upon himself as a perfect demigod. By the bye, I saw an advertisement in this day’s papers, announcing the speedy publication of the ‘The Life and Times of Sir Christopher Blunt. By Jeremiah Lykspittal, Esq. With numerous Portraits; and containing a mass of interesting correspondence between the Subject of the Biography and the most Eminent Deceased Men of the present Century.’ So ran the advertisement.”

“At which you of course laughed heartily,” exclaimed the doctor. “But here is Cæsar with the wine—and long enough he has been in fetching it up, too.”

The lad made some excuse, placed the decanters and glasses on the table, and then withdrew.

“Now for the promised explanations, my friend,” cried the physician, as he helped himself to the purple juice of Bordeaux.

“First,” began the Blackamoor, “I shall speak to you of the six prisoners generally—or rather of my system, as applied to them. My belief originally was that bad men should become to a certain extent the reformers of themselves through the medium of their own thoughts. It is not sufficient, I reasoned within myself, that criminals should be merely placed each night in a situation to think and reflect, and then enjoy the light of the glorious day again. A night’s meditations may be poignant and provocative of a remorse of a salutary kind: but when the day dawns, the mind becomes hardened again, and all disagreeable redactions fly away. The most guilty wretches fear not spectres in the day-time: ’tis in the darkness and silence of the night that phantoms haunt them. In a word, then, the natural night is not long enough to make an impression so deep that the ensuing day can not easily obliterate it.”

“Good!” exclaimed the physician: “I follow you attentively.”

“These considerations,” resumed the Black, “led me to the conclusion that a wicked man’s thoughts could only be rendered available as a means to induce sincere repentance and excite a permanent remorse, by extending their train to a long, long period. If a night of a few short hours’ duration would produce a very partial and limited effect upon the mind of a criminal, I reasoned—why not make a night of many weeks, and hope for a proportionately grand and striking result? Accordingly, I resolved to subject those six prisoners to the test; and I will now give you a detailed account of the consequences.”

“Proceed,” said the physician: “I am becoming deeply interested.”

“The six prisoners were each placed in a separate cell, and not allowed any light in the first instance,” continued the Blackamoor. “Each dungeon was plainly but comfortably furnished; and every evening they were supplied with a sufficiency of food for four-and-twenty hours. They were ordered to perform their ablutions regularly under pain of having their meat stopped; and you may be sure that they did not fail to obey the command. Twice a week the men were shaved by one of my people; and twice a week also they were supplied with clean linen. The woman was of course provided with additional changes; and as her health was more likely to suffer than that of the men, I allowed her to walk up and down the long subterranean for two hours each day, watched by Wilton so that she might not communicate with either of the prisoners. But I am now about to enter on details connected with each individual.”

The physician drew his chair a little closer to the Black.

“Tidmarsh was the first who showed any signs of contrition,” resumed the latter. “He could not endure that one, long, endless night into which I had plunged him,—a night interrupted only by the short and regular visits of myself or my people. He was ever alone with his own thoughts, which no intervals of a long day broke in upon: the impression created by his thoughts was ever in his mind—the continuous night kept that impression there! By degrees he began to see the error of his ways—and, when his thoughts were on one occasion intolerable, and his imagination was filled with frightful images, he had recourse to prayer. The next time I visited him he assured me that his prayers had relieved him, but that he could not sufficiently settle his mind to pray so often as he desired. That was the moment to give this man a light; and I did so. At the same time I offered him his choice between the Bible and a Tale-book; and he chose the former with unaffected readiness. Had he selected the latter, I should have seen that he craved for amusement only—and he would have had neither lamp nor books until he had gone through a farther ordeal of his lonely thoughts in utter darkness. Well—this Tidmarsh, by the aid of the light, was enabled to study the Bible and settle his soul to prayer. But a continual and unvaried perusal of the Bible is calculated to render the mind morbid, and convert a sinner into a grossly superstitious fanatic. Accordingly, when I saw that Tidmarsh began to grow gloomy—which was in a very few days—I gave him books of Travels and Voyages; and his soul was refreshed by the change. The improvement in that man was far more rapid than I could have possibly anticipated. During my visits to him, I tested his sincerity in a variety of ways,—by means of questions so artfully contrived as to admit of two kinds of answers: namely, one kind hypocritical, and the other sincere—and at the same time implying a sort of promise of release if the hypocritical reply were given. But I found him straight-forward and truly conscientious in his answers. In due time I allowed him such novels as ‘The Vicar of Wakefield,’ ‘Paul and Virginia,’ ‘Elizabeth, or the Exiles of Siberia,’ to read: but I found that he preferred the Travels, Voyages, and Biographies of good or great men. Indeed, scarcely six weeks had elapsed from the date of that man’s incarceration in the dungeon, when I felt convinced that he was so far a reformed character as to be anxious to earn an honest livelihood if he were only afforded the chance. Then I removed him from his dungeon, and lodged him in a room up stairs. He was still in reality a prisoner, because any attempt to escape on his part would have been immediately detected—so narrowly yet secretly was he watched. To him, however, it must have seemed that he was free: but he never evinced the least inclination to avail himself of the apparent liberty which he enjoyed. Every circumstance spoke in that man’s favour; and the night before last he was sent off, in company with one of my dependants, to Portsmouth, whence they embarked together for the little island of Alderney, where Tidmarsh is to settle in a small way of business, to establish which the means will be found him. My retainer will remain for a few weeks—or perhaps months—so as thoroughly to watch his conduct; and if during that period, and in a place where there are no evil temptations, he manifests an uniform steadiness of conduct, I think we may safely calculate that there is no fear of a relapse.”

“And all this has been effected in two short months!” exclaimed the physician, with a tone and manner indicative of mingled surprise and admiration. “I could scarcely have believed it possible.”

“Listen to my next case, doctor,” said the Black; “and you will see that my system is most salutary. I shall speak of the two Bunces collectively. The man Bunce I always looked upon rather as a soft-pated, hen-pecked fool than a radically wicked fellow; and accordingly, the moment he began to exhibit very serious alarm and horror at being alone and in the dark, I gave him a lamp and the Bible. The length of night which I made him endure was not more than two-thirds of a week. In respect to his wife, the first demonstration of repentance which she showed, was in a desire to speak to her husband if only for a few minutes and through the trap-door of his cell. Of course I issued orders that the request should be complied with; and it was evident that the woman derived comfort from this indulgence. Next day she was permitted to converse with him at the trap-door for nearly half an hour; and then she was overheard begging his pardon for the ill-treatment which he had so often endured at her hands. For many, many successive days this short intercourse was allowed them; and on one occasion, Toby Bunce read her a few verses from the Bible, he being in his cell with the lamp, and she standing outside his door in the dark subterranean passage. The manner in which she received the passage thus read to her, induced me to order that she also should be provided with a light and a Testament: for the night which she endured, and which could scarcely be said to have been even interrupted by the daily walk in the dark passage, was just three weeks. It gave me pain, doctor—oh! it gave me pain, I can assure you, to punish that woman so severely: but her mind was very obdurate—her heart very hardened;—and darkness was long before it produced on her the effect which I desired. At length, a few days after she had been allowed a lamp,—and a little more than one month ago—I yielded to her earnest entreaties that she might be lodged with her husband. Then what a change had taken place in her! She was tamed—completely tamed,—no longer a vixenish shrew, but questioning her husband mildly and in a conciliating tone relative to the passages of the Bible, or the Travels and other instructive books, which he had read to her. Good feelings appeared to establish themselves rapidly between this couple. I had them put to several tests. On one occasion Wilton persuaded Toby Bunce that he was not looking very well, and some little luxury was added to the evening’s supply of food, it being intimated that the extra dish was expressly for himself. Wilton remained near the cell, and listened to what passed within. Bunce insisted upon sharing the delicacy with his wife; and she would not hear of such a proposal. He urged his offer—she was positive; and in this point she once again showed a resolution of her own, but not in a manner to give her husband offence. The very next day—this was a week ago—I had the pair removed to a chamber over-head, giving them the same apparent chance of escape as in the case of Tidmarsh. They did not however seek to avail themselves of it; and yesterday evening they were separated again—but only for a short time. In fact, Bunce was last night sent off to Southampton, in company with one of my people; and thence they doubtless embarked for the island of Sark this morning. Mrs. Bunce will leave presently, guarded by my faithful dependant Harding and his wife, who will not only take her to rejoin her husband in the little islet opposite Guernsey, but will also stay with them there for a period of six months. Bunce will follow his trade as a tailor, Harding finding a market for the clothes which he makes in St. Peter’s Port, which is the capital of Guernsey, as you are well aware.”

“So far, so good,” exclaimed the physician, highly delighted with these explanations. “Should your system produce results permanently beneficial, you may become a great benefactor to the human race; for it is assuredly far better to reform the wicked by a course of a few weeks’ training by playing upon their feelings in this manner, than to subject them to the contamination of a felons’ gaol and inflict years of exile under circumstances which are utterly repugnant to all hopes of reformation. But pray answer me one question. Should either of these Bunces, or Tidmarsh choose to resist the control and authority of your dependants who have charge of them at present—and should any one of those quasi-prisoners demand their unconditional freedom—how can your men exercise a power or sway over them?”

“These quasi-prisoners, as you term them,” answered the Black, “have not, as a matter of course, the least idea who I really am. Their minds, somewhat attenuated by their incarceration and all the mysterious circumstances of their captivity, are to a certain extent over-awed. They know that they have been, and still believe themselves to be, in the power of one who wields an authority which they cannot comprehend; and fear alone, if no better motive, therefore renders them tractable. This ensures their obedience and their silence at least for the present. Eventually, when they again become accustomed to freedom, they will find themselves placed in a position to earn an honest and very comfortable livelihood—care being taken to keep alive in their minds the conviction that the business which produces them their bread and enables them to live respectably, only remains their own so long as they prove worthy of enjoying its advantages. Now, my calculations and beliefs are these:—People who have entered upon a course of crime, continue in it because it is very difficult, and often impossible, to leave it for honest pursuits. But when once they have experienced the dreadful effects of crime, and are placed in a way to act and labour honestly, very few indeed would by choice relapse into evil courses. Therefore, I conclude and hope that the Bunces on the one hand, and Tidmarsh on the other, will, if from mere motives of policy and convenience alone, steadily continue in that honest path in which they are now placed, and the advantages of which they will soon experience.”

“Good again,” said that doctor. “If your calculations only applied to six criminals out of ten, you would be effecting an immense good by means of your system. But I hope and indeed am inclined to believe that the proportion in your favour is even larger.”

“I am certain that it is,” answered the Blackamoor. “Well, I now come to Timothy Splint—the man, who, as you may remember, was the actual assassin of Sir Henry Courtenay.”

“If you succeed in redeeming that fellow,” exclaimed the physician, “I shall say that your system can have no exceptions. Stay, though!” he cried, a thought striking him;—“I had forgotten Old Death. Ah! my dear friend, you may as well endeavour to tame the boa-constrictor, as to reform that dreadful man.”

“You shall hear of him in his turn,” said the Black, his tone assuming a slight degree of mournfulness, as if he were less satisfied in respect to the application of his system to Old Death, than in either of the other cases. “For the present,” he observed, “you must have patience enough to listen to certain details relative to Timothy Splint.”

“Go on, my dear friend,” cried Dr. Lascelles. “I am all attention—and patience too, for that matter. Your narrative is too interesting to be tedious.”

“Timothy Splint,” continued the Blackamoor, “appeared to suffer more horribly from the darkness than all the others. The spectre of the murdered baronet was constantly by his side, and even prevented him from committing self-destruction. For a whole month did his night continue; and during that period he must have endured the most frightful mental tortures. This was all the better: such a state of mind naturally drove the man to pray;—and prayer relieved him. I remember how touchingly, although in his rude style, he assured me one evening that when he prayed the spectre grew less and less. Now, notwithstanding I was well pleased to find him in this frame of mind, I did not choose to encourage superstitious notions: and therefore I explained to him that the only apparitions which existed were those that were conjured up by a guilty conscience. At the expiration of, I think, exactly thirty-one days, I allowed this man a light and a Bible. Then I pursued the same treatment with him as in respect to Tidmarsh and the Bunces: I mean, I gave him books of Travels and Voyages and moral Tales. He seemed very grateful—not only seemed, but really was; and his hard heart was melted by my kind treatment. A few days ago, he gave me the outlines of his early life; and I found that circumstances had driven him into the ways of crime. His reformation was, therefore, all the easier; because he had a youth of innocence to look back upon and regret. He moreover assured me that even with his late companion in crime, Josh Pedler, he had frequently spoken, in mournful mood, of the unhappiness which often marks the hours of men of lawless character; and, all these circumstances tended to give strength and consistency to his declarations that he longed—deeply longed to have an opportunity of earning an honest livelihood for the future. What to do with him I scarcely knew. Whenever I reflected on this subject, I remembered that he was a murderer—stained with the blood of a fellow-creature; and his case was therefore widely different from that of the Bunces and Tidmarsh. At length it struck me that emigration to a far-distant land was the only fitting course to adopt; and I proposed it to him. He was rejoiced at the idea; for he instantly saw how, by changing his name, and commencing the world anew in another sphere, he should be removed from old haunts where either unpleasant reminiscences would be awakened, or temptations present themselves. Moreover, he beheld the necessity of repairing to some part of the earth where he stood no chance of being recognised by either friend or foe. His consent to my proposed arrangement being thus obtained, and all his best hopes and feelings being warmly enlisted in the plan, I had then to ascertain whether any one of my dependants would consent to accompany such a man on a long voyage and to a far-off clime. Fortunately my enquiries amongst my retainers were followed by success; and at a very early hour this morning Timothy Splint and his guardian, or rather companion, set off for Liverpool, thence to embark for the United States. There, in the backwoods of the Far West, let us hope that this man—this murderer, whom the savage law would have hanged,”—and the Blackamoor shuddered, as he pronounced the word,—“let us hope, I say, that Timothy Splint will some day rise into a substantial farmer, and that he may yet live to bless the period when he went through the ordeal of the subterranean dungeon.”

The Black paused, and drank a glass of the cooling claret; for his mouth had grown parched by the simple fact of giving utterance to that one word on which he had shudderingly laid so great an emphasis. The physician, who appeared to guess full well what was passing in his mind, made no remark; and in a few moments the other continued his explanations in the ensuing manner:—

“I now come to Joshua Pedler. His disposition is naturally savage and brutal; and a long night of darkness produced on him effects which varied at different periods. His thoughts were dreadful to him; and sometimes, when I visited him, he would at first speak ferociously. But a kind word on my part immediately reduced him to meekness. He had not been many days in the dungeon when, doubtless encouraged by my manner towards him, he told me that he was not only unhappy on his own account, but also on that of a young woman whom he had married according to the rights of the vile class with which he had so long herded. I immediately undertook to provide for the girl; and Pedler really demonstrated a sincere gratitude. You need scarcely be told that I kept my promise. Wilton sought her out; and she was found in a state of starvation and despair. A comfortable lodging was taken for her; and when she was somewhat restored to health, needle-work was supplied her. But all this was done without allowing her to believe that any other circumstance beyond a mere accidental discovery of her wretched condition had thus rendered her the object of Wilton’s charity. The assurance which I gave Pedler that Matilda was provided for, had a most salutary effect upon his mind; although he frequently afterwards showed signs of savage impatience. The tenour of his thoughts was chiefly a regret that he had been so foolish as to pursue an evil career. He reproached himself for the folly of his wickedness, rather than for the wickedness itself, he disliked solitude and darkness, but was not so much influenced by fears as his late companion, Splint. During the first month he remained in darkness, and never once spoke to me of prayer. Two or three times he alluded to the Bible, but did not express a wish to read it. At last he admitted to me his conviction that the thoughts which oppressed him were beneficial to him, though most unpleasant. I fancied this to be a favourable opportunity to test his worthiness to receive some indulgence. I accordingly asked him if he would like to be able to write to Matilda. My calculation was just: I had touched him in a vulnerable point;—and he was that night allowed a lamp and writing-materials. Moreover, on that very occasion, he shed tears; and I no longer despaired of taming the last remnants of ferocity which lingered in his nature. A few days afterwards he gave me a letter to send to Matilda. Of course I opened and read it; for it was to obtain a precise insight into the real state of his mind that I had suggested the correspondence with his mistress. The contents of that document confirmed the hopes I already entertained of him; and I saw that his affection for that young woman might be made a most humanizing means in respect to him. I accordingly had her brought into this house, and lodged in one of the attics. Then I broke to her as gently as possible the fact that Joshua Pedler was my prisoner. I shall not pause to describe her joy at receiving intelligence concerning him; suffice it to say that she read his letter with tearful eyes, and gladly consented to reply to it. In the evening I took her answer to the prisoner; and he wept over it like a child. I then knew that his reformation was a certainty. Two or three days afterwards, he begged me to allow him a Bible; and his request was of course complied with. The correspondence that passed between him and Matilda was frequent and lengthy; and, that he might feel himself under no restraint, I assured him that I neither saw his letters nor his replies. ’Twas a falsehood on my part—but a necessary, and therefore an innocent one. For I did peruse all this correspondence; and Matilda was aware of the fact by which I was enabled to watch the gradual but sudden change that was taking place in the mind of that man. At length I perceived that I might in safety think of providing for him elsewhere; and I was as much embarrassed how to accomplish this aim, as I was in the case of Timothy Splint. But in the midst of my bewilderment I happened to notice an advertisement in a daily newspaper, stating that by a particular day two men, or a man and his wife, were required to undertake the care of Eddystone Light-house. You may start with surprise, doctor—you may even smile: but I assure you that this advertisement appeared most providentially to concur with the object I had in view. Without a moment’s delay I spoke to Matilda respecting the matter; and she expressed her readiness to follow my advice in all things, so long as there was a prospect of her being reunited to Josh Pedler. Her consent being procured, it was no difficult task to obtain that of the man. On the contrary, he accepted the proposal with joy and thankfulness. Wilton soon made the necessary enquiries and arrangements; and at this moment Joshua Pedler and the young woman are the sole inmates of the Eddystone Light-house!”

“Thus, my dear friend,” said the physician, counting the names of the persons upon his fingers, “you have disposed of Tidmarsh in Alderney—the Bunces are to go to Sark—Splint is bound as an emigrant to the Far West—and Joshua Pedler is on the Eddystone rock.”

“And Pedler is the only one who is unaccompanied by an agent of mine,” observed the Black; “because Matilda is a good young woman; and I can rely upon her. Moreover I should tell you that I procured a license for them; and Wilton saw them legally married at Plymouth, before they embarked for the Light-house.”

“I congratulate you upon the success of your projects thus far,” said the physician. “It is truly wonderful how admirably you have managed thus to redeem and satisfactorily dispose of some of the greatest villains that ever lurked in the low dens of this metropolis. But now, my friend, I wish to hear something of that arch-miscreant, Old Death.”

At this moment the door opened; and one of the Black’s dependants entered the room.

“The woman Bunce, sir,” he said, “is most anxious to communicate something to you before she quits London. She declares that she has a secret preying upon her mind——”

“A secret?” exclaimed the Black.

“Yes, sir—a secret which she says she must reveal to you, as it is too heavy for her heart to bear. She cried a great deal, and implored me to come to you.”

“Doctor,” said the Blackamoor, after a few moments’ profound reflection, “you know wherefore I do not wish that woman to behold my features—even though they be thus disguised. During her incarceration I never spoke to her save through the trap of her dungeon door; and since she has been an inmate of the house I have not visited her. It will be as well to continue this precaution: do you, then, hasten to her and receive the confession, whatever it be, which she has to make.”

“Willingly,” replied Lascelles; and he followed the servant from the room.

CHAPTER CXII.
THE CONVERSATION CONCLUDED.

Upwards of a quarter of an hour had elapsed, when Dr. Lascelles returned to the apartment in which he had left the Blackamoor.

“Yes,” exclaimed the physician, throwing himself into the chair which he had recently occupied; “that woman is indeed penitent—truly penitent!”

“What proof have you acquired of this fact, doctor?” demanded the Black.

“The confession which she has just made to me—or rather the motive which induced her to make it,” answered Lascelles. “But not to keep you in suspense, my dear friend, she has revealed something which only confirms a suspicion that you yourself had long ago entertained, if I remember right.”

“And that suspicion——”

“Is relative to Jacob Smith,” added Lascelles.

“Ah! the woman has confessed it?” exclaimed the Blackamoor.

“She has confessed that Jacob Smith is her own son, and that Benjamin Bones is his father,” replied the physician, in a solemn tone.

“My God! what a parent that man has been!” cried the Black, his brows contracting, and his voice indicating the emotions of horror that were suddenly excited within him. “When I recall to mind every detail of the history of poor Jacob,—his neglected infancy—his corrupted youth,—when I reflect that his own father was the individual who coolly and deliberately initiated him in the ways of crime——Just heavens! I begin to think with you that the reformation of such a monster is an impossibility!”

“Subdue your excitement, my dear friend,” said the doctor; “and let us converse calmly and reasonably upon these matters.”

“First, then, explain to me the nature of your interview with Mrs. Bunce,” observed the Black. “I shall listen with earnest attention.”

“I went up stairs to the room in which she is located,” said Lascelles; “and she rose from a chair the moment I entered; but she started back in evident disappointment mingled with surprise when she saw me. ‘It was not you, sir,’ she almost immediately observed, ‘that I wanted to see. I know that the master of this house is of dark complexion; for I have caught a glimpse of him when he has visited my dungeon below.’—I explained to her that I was a friend of yours, and that you had deputed me to receive any confession which she had to make. She appeared to hesitate for a moment, and then burst into tears. ‘I have been wicked—very wicked, sir,’ she said, in a voice broken by deep sobs; ‘and it is only very lately that I have had my eyes opened to my sinful life. The dark gentleman, who I suppose is the master here, has done this good thing for me: and now he is going to provide for me and my husband. But I shall not go away happy, unless I tell him every thing that weighs on my soul.’—I spoke a few words of comfort to her; and in a few minutes she confessed that the lad who bore the name of Jacob Smith is her own son, born while she was the mistress of Old Death, and before her marriage with Bunce. I informed her that Jacob was well provided for and happy; and she seemed deeply grateful for this assurance. Then I recommended her not to reveal this secret to her husband when they should be united again; inasmuch as, having entered on a new phase of existence together, it would be useless and wrong to acquaint him with a fact calculated only to disturb that harmony. She promised to follow my advice, and appeared much eased in mind by having unbosomed her secret to me.”

“You gave her most excellent counsel, doctor,” said the Black: then, after a few moments’ reflection, he added, “Jacob ought not to be informed of this secret of his hideous parentage——at least not for the present.”

“By no means!” exclaimed the physician. “His mind is tranquil—he feels a certain confidence in himself—and your friendship is his greatest delight. Let not that salutary equanimity be disturbed.”

“No—it would be wrong and useless,” said the Black, musing. “I remember that in the course of the long narrative which he gave me of his life, he mentioned the occasional scintillations of kindness which marked the conduct of Mrs. Bunce towards him. I also recollect that he observed to me how there were moments when he thought a great deal of any gentle words which she ever uttered to him, or any kind treatment she ever showed him.”

“Nature, my dear friend—Nature!” exclaimed the good physician. “Even in a woman so bad as she was at the time of which he spoke, there were certain natural yearnings which she could not altogether subdue; while, on his part, there existed filial inclinations and tendencies which he could not understand. How much that villain Benjamin Bones has to answer for!”

“Alas—alas! I fear that he is beyond redemption!” cried the Black, bitterly. “But—no,” he added immediately afterwards, in a changed and more decided tone: “we must not despair!”

“I am now anxiously waiting to hear your report concerning him,” observed Lascelles.

“He is still in darkness—his night still continues,” was the answer. “A month has elapsed since I visited him for the first time in his dungeon; and during the other four weeks that have subsequently passed, I have had several interviews with him in the same manner. These interviews have taken place in the utter obscurity of his cell; and I have been constrained, though with pain and difficulty, to assume a feigned tone on each of those occasions. At my first visit he declared, in terror and amazement, that he recognised in my voice something which reminded him of that of Thomas Rainford; and then he seemed to be impressed with the conviction that I was the Earl of Ellingham. His rage against the Earl was deep and terrible; and I saw too plainly that if he relapsed into a milder tone, it was but to deceive me as to the real state of his mind, and induce me to grant him some indulgences—if not his freedom. I visited him again on the following night; and he spoke less savagely, and more meekly: but I mistrusted him—yes, I mistrusted him, and I fear with good grounds. I cannot give you a very satisfactory description of our subsequent meetings. At one moment he has appeared touched by my language, and has even expressed penitence and contrition for the past: at the next moment, he has exhibited all the natural ferocity of his disposition. Sometimes he has assumed a coaxing manner, and has endeavoured to move me to grant him a light;—but I have hitherto refused. One thing I must not forget to mention—which is that never since the first visit I paid him has he once alluded to the impression made upon him by the sounds of my voice; and never has he again addressed me as Lord Ellingham. In moments of excitement or rage, he has demanded in a wild and almost frantic tone who I am: but seldom waiting for the reply, he has relapsed either into a humour of stubborn taciturnity, or of a meekness which I knew to be assumed. Indeed, there are many points in his character and conduct, since he has been an inmate of the dungeon, which I cannot comprehend. It is however certain that darkness has not produced on him the same rapid and important effects as upon the other five: something more severe in the shape of punishment, or something better calculated to touch his heart and appeal to his feelings, is requisite. At the same time, I believe him to be already moved and shaken in his obduracy to a certain degree: but reformation in respect to him must be a work of time.”

“On the whole, you have hopes?” said the physician, interrogatively.

“Yes—when I call to memory all the particulars of his conduct and language from the first occasion of my visits until the last, which took place yesterday, I can recognise a change,” answered the Black. “Indeed, I am almost convinced that if it were possible for me to speak to him at very great length—to argue with him on the folly and wickedness of his past life—to reason with him unrestrainedly, I should be able to move him deeply. But the necessity of maintaining an assumed tone, and the impossibility of taking a light with me so as to watch the chantings and workings of his countenance and follow up those appeals or those arguments which appear to have most effect with him,—in a word, the disguise I am compelled to sustain and the precautions I am forced to adopt, militate considerably against my system in respect to him.”

“It would be imprudent for me to visit him on your behalf,” observed the physician. “On that memorable night when Lord Ellingham had him, Tidmarsh, and Mrs. Bunce in his power in an adjacent room, and wrested from them all the secrets of their damnable plots and schemes,—on that occasion, you know, I was present; and Old Death would therefore cherish only rancorous feelings with regard to me.”

“True,” said the Black, musing: then, suddenly starting from a deep reverie of a few minutes, he exclaimed, “Doctor, I have thought of a plan which I hope and trust, for the honour of human nature, may prove efficacious in respect to that obdurate sinner: but I hesitate—yes, I hesitate to put it into execution!”

“Explain yourself, my dear friend,” replied Lascelles; “and I will give you my advice candidly and frankly.”

“In a word, then, doctor,” continued the Blackamoor, “I have such faith in the soft persuasion of woman, that I am half inclined to conjure Esther de Medina to assist me in this good work. Would she but consent to visit this great sinner—or rather to address him through the sliding-panel of his dungeon door, I am certain that her eloquence, aided by the musical tones of her voice and the deep feeling which would characterise her language,—I am certain, I say, that she would succeed in touching a chord in his heart, which no words—no appeal of mine can reach.”

The physician heard with attention, and began to reflect profoundly.

“For my part,” continued the Blackamoor, “I believe that the eloquence of woman, when rightly used and properly directed, is endowed with an influence and a power almost irresistible. Woman’s mission is to tame and humanize the ferocity of man’s disposition; and the more antagonistic are the characters of two beings of opposite sexes thus to be brought in contact with each other, the better for the purpose. Now, decidedly no two living creatures can be more dissimilar in all respects than Benjamin Bones and Esther de Medina,—the former so savage and unrelenting; the latter so mild and forgiving,—the one possessing a soul blackened by every possible crime; the other endowed with every virtue that approximates the nature of woman to that of the angel!”

“I like your project—I see not the least objection to it, my dear friend,” said Dr. Lascelles, after a long pause, during which he pondered deeply on the plan suggested. “Do you think that Miss de Medina would consent to aid you in this matter?”

“I have no doubt of it,” returned the Black. “You perceive that the dilemma is somewhat serious, and not slightly embarrassing. I cannot allow Benjamin Bones to go forth again into the world, to recommence his vile intrigues: besides, to give him his liberty thus, would be to defeat the primary object which I had in view in breaking up his gang. To release him at present is therefore impossible; and I scarcely feel myself justified in keeping him locked up much longer in a dark dungeon. It would be unsafe to remove him into one of the apartments of either this house or that in Turnmill Street; for such a crafty fox can alone be kept secure by massive stone walls and iron bolts. What, then, am I to do with him?—how am I to dispose of him? Esther will assist me in this difficulty; and God send that through her agency, some salutary impression may be made upon Old Death’s mind!”

“Bear in memory,” exclaimed the physician, an idea suddenly striking him, “that one of this man’s horrible schemes was to avenge himself on Lord Ellingham by torturing Esther de Medina.”

“And when he hears her sweet voice revealing to him her knowledge of his atrocious designs, and sincerely promising him her pardon,—when he discovers how much virtue and goodness there is in woman,” continued the Black, in an impassioned tone, “he will be moved—he will be led to contemplate the blackness of his own heart—he will find himself placed in such frightful contrast with that forgiving angel——”

“Yes—yes!” cried the physician, emphatically: “it must be done! You have devised the only means to produce a real and effectual impression on that bad man’s heart; and if he prove inaccessible to the persuasiveness of Esther’s tongue, his case may be looked upon as hopeless.”

The deep-toned bell of Clerkenwell church now struck the hour of eleven; and scarcely had the sound died away in the silence of night, when a post-chaise drove up to the door of the house.

“Mrs. Bunce is now about to take her departure,” said the Black. “Everything is prepared in that respect—Harding and his wife have already received full instructions and the necessary funds—and the sooner that the woman is safe out of this mighty city of temptation, the better.”

The sounds of several footsteps were now heard descending the stairs; and a minute afterwards, the post-chaise drove rapidly away from the house.

“Of all my prisoners, Old Death alone remains to be disposed of,” observed the Black, as soon as the din of the wheels was no longer audible.

“And it is to be hoped that he will not be a source of difficulty or embarrassment to you for many weeks more,” said the physician, rising to take his departure.

CHAPTER CXIII.
ESTHER DE MEDINA AND OLD DEATH.

It was on the third day after the explanations given to Dr. Lascelles, and between five and six o’clock in the evening, that Esther de Medina was conducted by the Blackamoor into the subterranean passage, the latter holding a lamp in his hand.

“Shall I remain near you, Esther?” he enquired, in a whisper.

“No—it is not necessary,” she answered. “I am not afraid of being in this place, gloomy as it appears; and since I am merely to address the miserable man through the trap-door of his dungeon, no harm can reach me.”

Thus speaking, she turned and received the light from her companion,—her manner being calm and even resolute, though her countenance was very pale.

“God bless you, Esther!” said the Black, emphatically: “your willingness to aid me in this important matter is not the least admirable trait in your character!”

“It is a duty—though a painful one,” responded the beautiful Jewess. “And now leave me—I would rather proceed alone to the prisoner’s cell.”

“Remember,” said the Blackamoor, “it is the last on the right hand side of this long subterranean passage.”

He then retraced his way up the stone-staircase communicating with the house in Red Lion Street, while Esther advanced along the gloomy cavern, in which the lamp shone but with feeble lustre.

In less than a minute she reached the door of Old Death’s dungeon: and there she paused for nearly another minute, a sensation of loathing and horror preventing her from immediately announcing her presence to the terrible inmate of that cell. For the Black, in order to prepare her as fully and completely as possible for her philanthropic mission, had been compelled to reveal to her all the details of those dreadful designs which Benjamin Bones had cherished against herself and Lady Hatfield, and which had been made known through the medium of John Jeffreys. It was therefore natural that Esther de Medina should shrink from the bare idea of holding the slightest communication with a miscreant of so ferocious a character: but a short—a very short interval of reflection was soon sufficient to arm her with the courage necessary to support the ordeal.

Drawing back the sliding-panel which covered the small aperture in the upper part of the massive door, she said in her soft, musical voice, “Prisoner, will you grant me your attention for a few minutes?”

“Who are you?” demanded Old Death, starting as if from a lethargic state—a movement that was indicated by the sudden rustling of his garments and the creaking of the bed whereon he was placed.

“I am Esther de Medina,” was the answer; and the beautiful Jewess allowed the lamp to cast its light upon her countenance, which was so close to the aperture that Old Death caught a momentary but perfect view of her features.

She then placed the lamp upon the ground, thus again leaving the interior of the cell in complete darkness.

“Yes—it is Miss Esther de Medina!” exclaimed Benjamin Bones, in a voice which he endeavoured to render as mild and conciliatory as possible. “Dear young lady, open the door, and let me out of this horrible place. I am sure you possess a good heart——”

“A heart good enough to forgive you for the dreadful atrocity which you contemplated against me upwards of two months ago,” interrupted Esther, scarcely able to subdue a shuddering sensation which came over her. “Yes—I know every thing,” she continued: “you would have entrapped me into your power—you would have deprived me of the blessing of sight,—and yet I never, never injured you.”

“But you say that you forgive me!” cried Old Death, impatiently. “Open the door, then, my sweet young lady—and I will find means to reward you well. Listen,” he exclaimed, approaching the trap, and speaking in a confidential kind of hollow, murmuring whisper,—“don’t be offended at what I am going to say—but I know that you are fond of jewellery—and it is natural for such a beautiful creature as you are——”

“Silence, sir!” interrupted Esther, indignantly. “I am well aware to what you allude; and it is time to undeceive you on that head,” she added, in a proud tone: “indeed, there is no longer any necessity for concealment in that respect! In my turn I desire you to listen—and listen attentively. You entertain a belief so prejudicial to my character, that I cannot allow even such an one as you to cherish it another minute. Know, then, that I have a sister so like myself in outward appearance——”

“By Satan! it must be so,” ejaculated Old Death, a light breaking in upon his mind as in a single moment he took a rapid survey of all the circumstances which had originally led him to suppose that Esther was the thief of Mr. Gordon’s diamonds and the mistress of Tom Rain. “Yes—yes—I understand it all now!” he added, in a tone that appeared to imply vexation at his former blindness in respect to these matters.

“With pain and sorrow am I thus compelled to allude to a sister who is so dear—so very dear to me,” resumed Esther: “but this explanation was necessary—not only for my own sake, but likewise to convince you of the folly and wickedness of endeavouring to induce me, by the promise of reward or bribe, to draw back the bolts of your prison-door. No—my visit to you is inspired by the earnest desire to move your soul to the contemplation of all the dreadful deeds which have marked your life——”

“Then you will not set me free?” exclaimed Old Death, in a tone of subdued rage and latent ferocity.

“Not now—not now,” repeated Esther. “But listen to me attentively!”

“Go on,” growled the inmate of the dungeon, as he retreated from the door, and threw himself upon his bed again.

“If you entertain the slightest hope that you will ever be allowed an opportunity to re-enter on a course of wickedness and crime, you are sadly mistaken,” continued Esther, speaking in a conciliatory and yet energetic tone. “Even were you liberated this moment, measures would be adopted to render you completely powerless for the future in respect to the perpetration of fresh enormities. Reflect, then, whether it will not be better for you to devote the remainder of your days—and in the ordinary course of nature they must necessarily be few—to the important duty of making your peace with heaven! Do not despair of pardon—oh! no—do not despair! You see that I, who am a mortal being, can forgive you for the wrongs you meditated against me,—and surely the mercy of heaven is greater than that of human creatures! Yes—repent ere it be too late; and God will not cast you off eternally. His mercy is infinite: His pardon is never asked in vain by the penitent sinner.”

“Continue to speak to me thus,” cried Old Death, in a tone strangely subdued and wondrously meek, considering the ferocious excitement which so lately animated him.

“Oh! I sincerely hope that you will recognise the error of your ways, ere it be indeed too late!” exclaimed Esther, in a tone of enthusiasm deeply felt by her generous soul. “Consider your advanced age—and think how soon the hand of Death may be laid upon you! Then how wretched—how awful would your feelings be,—and how would you shudder at the idea of being about to stand in the presence of that Almighty Power whose laws and mandates you have so often violated! For, after all, what have you gained by your long, long career of wickedness? All your treasures were annihilated in one hour——”

“Yes—yes,” interrupted Old Death, in a voice half suffocated with emotions which the Jewess fondly believed to be those of remorse.

“The hoardings of many years and the produce of innumerable misdeeds were thus swept away,” she continued, impressively; “and Providence at length decreed that you should become a prisoner in the very place where you had so long ruled as a master. Does not heaven, then, afford you solemn and significant warnings that your career of crime is no more to be pursued with success?—and do not those warnings move your heart to repentance and remorse? Neglect not such warnings as these, I conjure you!”

“Your words do me good, young lady!” exclaimed Old Death. “I am glad that you have come thus to speak to me.”

“And shall you ponder upon what I have said?” she demanded.

“Yes. But you will not leave me yet?—and you will come again?” he said, in a voice indicative of suspense and anxiety relative to the answer that was to be given.

“I will return to-morrow,” observed Esther.

“Thank you!” exclaimed Old Death, his tone now denoting a profound emotion.

But Esther did not immediately leave the vicinity of the cell on the present occasion. Believing that she had succeeded in making some salutary impression upon him, she was desirous of following up the promising commencement of her mission; and she accordingly continued to reason with him for nearly half-an-hour longer. In the course of the observations and arguments which she addressed to the ancient sinner, she displayed a sound judgment and a deep but enlightened religious feeling: there was nothing bigoted—nothing fanatical in her language. She indulged in no quotations from the Old Testament—the book that formed the basis of her own nation’s creed: but she expatiated on the goodness of the Creator—the hope that exists for penitent sinners—the terrors of a death-bed without previous repentance—and the folly, as well as the wickedness, of the course already pursued by the prisoner. Old Death interrupted her but seldom; and when he did interject an observation, it was in a tone and of a nature calculated to inspire the charming Jewess with the hope that her mission had not been undertaken in vain.

At length she quitted the vicinity of the cell, having reiterated her promise to return on the following day.

And this pledge was faithfully kept;—and again do we find the Hebrew maiden persevering in her humane—her noble task of awakening proper feelings in the breast of a terrible sinner. To her question whether he had meditated upon his spiritual condition, Old Death replied earnestly and eagerly in the affirmative; and throughout this second visit, he not only sought to retain the young lady near him—or rather at his door—as long as possible, but likewise seemed sincere in his endeavours to inspire her with the belief that her reasoning and her representations had not been thrown away upon him.

On the third day, Esther fancied that there was even a still more striking change in his language when he responded to her questions or her remarks; and not once, during the hour that she remained standing outside his dungeon, addressing him in a style of fervid eloquence which came from her very heart,—not once, we say, did he give the least sign of that ferocity and savage impatience which characterised his behaviour on the first occasion of her visit.

For a fortnight did the Hebrew maiden continue her visits regularly, without however venturing to enter the dungeon. On the fifteenth day she found the prisoner anxiously expecting her arrival as usual; and almost immediately after she had drawn aside the panel and announced her presence, he said, “Oh! dear young lady, I am so glad you are come! I have been thinking so much—so very much over all you have lately told me; and I have felt comforted by repeating to myself the arguments you advance urging me to repentance. Ah! Miss, I have been a dreadful sinner—a dreadful sinner; and I see that I am righteously punished. But though I am penitent, you have no confidence in me yet—and that gives me pain. Yon are afraid to trust yourself with me! Do you think that I would harm you?”

“I hope not,” replied Esther; “and you shall not much longer have to accuse me of want of confidence in you. I am pleased to observe that you at length feel how shocking it is to become an object of mistrust and suspicion.”

“You are an angel, young lady!” exclaimed Benjamin Bones, approaching the door on the outer side of which stood the Hebrew maiden. “No one on earth save yourself could have made such an impression upon my mind, and in so short a time. But will you promise me one thing?”

“Name your request,” said Esther.

“That you will not send any man to converse with me,” answered Old Death. “You are of the gentle sex—and that is why your sweet voice has had such power and influence with me. Had that gentleman—whoever he is—continued to visit me, he would have done no good. I suspect my own sex:—I do not think that men can be so sincere—so conscientious——”

“The gentleman to whom you allude will not visit you again without your consent,” interrupted Esther. “I have undertaken this mission, and will fulfil it to the utmost of my ability. I have now something important to communicate,—important indeed, I should imagine, to one who has been so long in darkness. In a word, I intend to give you a lamp——”

“Oh! excellent young lady!” cried Benjamin Bones, in a voice expressive of the most unfeigned joy. “Make haste and open the door—give me the light——”

“Nay—I must not manifest too much confidence, in you all at once. See what it is to have been so long the votary of crime and wickedness—you inspire a mistrust which cannot be dissipated in a moment.”

“What can I do to convince you of my penitence—my gratitude?” demanded Old Death, in an earnest—anxious tone.

“Leave me to judge for myself relative to your state of mind,” said Esther. “You perceive that I already begin to entertain hopes concerning you: the proof is that I now give you a lamp—and a book also, if you have a sincere inclination to examine its pages.”

As she uttered these words, Esther unfastened the grating which covered the aperture, and passed the lamp through to Old Death—then the volume to which she had alluded.

The light flashed upon his countenance as he received the lamp; and it struck Esther that there was something hideous even in the expression of joy which now animated those repulsive features:—but she knew that looks which had grown sinister and become stamped with ferocious menace during the lapse of many, many years, could not be changed nor improved in a moment, however great were the moral reformation that had taken place within.

“Thanks, dear young lady—a thousand thanks!” exclaimed Old Death, as he placed the lamp upon the table: then, after a few minutes’ pause, during which he looked into the book, he said in a tone of surprise, “But you have brought me a Bible containing the New as well as the Old Testament—and yet yourself only believe in the latter?”

“I respect the religion of the Christian, although I have been taught to put no faith in it,” answered Esther de Medina, in a modest and subdued tone. “But I must now depart: and to-morrow I shall visit you again.”

Esther withdrew, in the firm belief that a most salutary impression had been made upon the mind of one of the greatest criminals of modern times. Her report was received with the most heart-felt joy by the Blackamoor; and he was enthusiastic in his expressions of gratitude towards the beautiful maiden for her exertions in what may unaffectedly be denominated “a good cause.”

“Do you return to Finchley Manor with me this evening?” she asked, cutting short his compliments with a good-humoured smile.

“No—I have particular business to attend to, Esther,” he replied. “But you may tell a certain young lady,” he added, now smiling in his turn, “that I shall be sure to see her to-morrow evening.”

“To-morrow!” repeated Esther. “You forget——”

“Ah! I did indeed forget,” interrupted the Black. “To-morrow is the day on which Arthur returns to town; and I must not risk a visit to the Manor. The fortnight of his absence has soon expired, methinks: but doubtless in that time he has made all the necessary preparation to render his country seat in Kent fitting and comfortable to receive his bride,” observed the Black, smiling again. “Nay—do not blush, Esther: he is a noble fellow, and well deserving of all your love! And, by the bye, this absence on his part has proved most serviceable in one sense,” he continued, again assuming a serious tone: “for had he remained in town, you never would have been able to devote the time you have given each day to the reformation of that wretched man below.”

“To speak candidly,” observed Esther, “I foresee a considerable difficulty relative to my future visits to the unhappy prisoner: but I feared to mention my embarrassment in this respect—I fancied that you might suppose me to be wearied of the task I had undertaken——”

“I know you too well to entertain such an injurious suspicion,” interrupted the Black, hastily and emphatically. “But it is natural, now that Arthur and yourself are so shortly to be united, that he should seek your society as often and for as long a period each day as circumstances will permit——”

“Yes,” observed Esther, with a modest blush: “and though his welfare is so deeply interested in our present enterprise—though, in a word, so many grave and important interests depend upon the success of our endeavours to humanize and reform that wretched prisoner, and disarm him for the future—still I could not stoop to any falsehood or subterfuge to account to the Earl of Ellingham for my daily absence from home for several hours. It is true that my father is in the secret of our proceedings—that he even approved of the course which you suggested, and which I have adopted——”

“Stay! an idea strikes me!” suddenly ejaculated the Black. “You told me ere now that Benjamin Bones implored you to continue your visits to him, and not allow me to take your place; and from this circumstance we have both drawn favourable auguries relative to his ultimate and complete repentance. He already looks upon you as his guardian angel—the means of his salvation; and it would be perhaps productive of evil results—it might even lead to a moral reaction on his part—were he to believe that you had deserted him. You have so well prepared the way in the grand work of reformation with regard to this man, that another might now undertake your duties—and Benjamin Bones would still continue to believe that it is the same Esther de Medina who visits him.”

“I understand you,” said the Hebrew maiden, evidently rejoiced at a suggestion which relieved her mind from the fear of a serious difficulty. “But would you be satisfied with such an arrangement?”

“I see no alternative,” replied the Black. “Arthur will call daily at Finchley Manor—and your frequent absence would, to say the least of it, appear strange.”

“Oh! wherefore not allow Arthur at once to be made acquainted with the whole truth?” demanded Esther, in an earnest and appealing manner.

“No—no—that may not be!” exclaimed the Blackamoor. “My projects must first be carried out to the very end: for it would be my pride and my triumph, when all danger shall have passed away, to say to him, ‘Arthur, you were surrounded by perils which you did not suspect: demons were plotting every kind of atrocity against your peace;—and I have annihilated all their schemes, and tamed the schemers themselves!’ Urge me not therefore, my dear Esther, to deviate from the course which I have chalked out for myself, and which I consider to be to some extent an atonement for the misdeeds of my own life. Yes—for he who accomplishes a great good, assuredly expiates a great amount of evil.”

“For heaven’s sake, recur not to the past!” murmured the beautiful Jewess, turning pale and shuddering at the crowd of unpleasant—nay awful reminiscences which her companion’s language recalled to her mind.

“No—let us deliberate only for the present,” exclaimed the Black; “and the more I think of the plan which I have suggested, the more suitable does it appear. Yes,” he continued, “this is the only alternative. Let your visits to Benjamin Bones cease, Esther—and yet let him still continue to believe that he is not neglected nor deserted by Miss de Medina. I need say no more: the rest lies with you.”

“I understand you,” returned the Hebrew maiden; “and it shall be as you desire.”

She then took her departure.

CHAPTER CXIV.
OLD DEATH IN THE DUNGEON.

It was five o’clock in the evening of the following day; and Old Death was crouched up, like a wild beast, upon his bed in the dungeon, which was now lighted by the lamp that Esther de Medina had given him.

His natural emaciation had so frightfully increased, that he seemed but a skeleton in the clothes which hung upon him as if they had never been made for one so thin as he. The skirts of his old grey coat were wrapped around his wasted shanks—for, though it was now the month of May, yet it was cold in that dungeon. His countenance was wan and ghastly;—but its expression was little calculated to excite pity—for any thing more diabolically ferocious than the old miscreant’s aspect, cannot be well conceived. His face was the horrible reflex of a mind filled with passions and longings of so savage and inhuman a nature, that the mere thought makes one shudder.

“She will come presently,” he muttered to himself, with a kind of subdued growling which indicated the fury of his pent-up rage: “she will come presently,” he repeated, his eyes glaring like those of a hyena beneath his shaggy, over-hanging brows; “and perhaps it will be for to-day! Who knows? she may think me penitent enough to be no longer dangerous: and then—then——”

He paused, and ground his jaws savagely together as if they were filled with teeth; and his hands were clenched with such spasmodic violence that the long nails ran into the palms.

“For two months and a half,” he continued at length, and still musing to himself, “has the fiend—the infernal wretch—my mortal enemy, kept me here! For two months and a half have I been his prisoner! Perdition seize upon him! That man was sent into the world to be my ruin—to thwart me—to persecute me! From the first moment I ever met him six or seven months ago, all has gone wrong with me. But the day of vengeance must and shall come,—yes—vengeance—vengeance—though it costs me my life. Ah! he fancies that I am ignorant of his secret: and yet I understand it all now—yes—all, all! Rapid as was the gleam of the lamp which showed me his features the first time he ever visited me here, so quick did a light flash to my mind—so quick did the truth break upon me! Yes—yes—I understand it all now;”—and he chuckled in a scarcely audible manner, yet the more horribly menacing because it was so subdued and low. “But how can it be?—how could he have been saved?” he asked himself, in his sombre musings: then, after a brief pause, during which he rocked to and fro on the bed, he continued, “Never mind the how! That such is the fact I am confident—and that is enough for me! Yes—yes—that is enough for me! Fool that I was ever for a moment to suspect him to be Lord Ellingham! And yet I should have clung to this belief, had not the lamp glared upon his face as he darted out of the cell! Ah! ah! he little thinks that I know him now—that I have known him ever since the moment when the light showed me his features, blackened as they were! Ah! ah!” again chuckled Old Death: “I fancy that I have lulled them into an idea of my penitence! They imagine that the work of reformation has begun with me! Ah! ha! I played my cards well there! I did not whine and weep too soon—I appeared to be precious tough, and precious obstinate; and my slow conversion seemed all the more natural. They will fall all the easier into the snare: they——”

At this moment a slight noise at the door of the cell made the ancient miscreant start; and he instantaneously composed his features into as mournful and sanctimonious an expression as such a horribly hang-dog countenance could possibly assume.

The trap-door opened; and a sweet, musical voice said, “I am here again, according to my promise: you see that I do not desert you.”

“Ah my dear young lady,” cried Old Death, affecting a tremulous tone, “you are too good to such a dreadful sinner as I have been! My God! when I think of all the atrocity that I once planned against you, I feel inclined to implore you to depart from even the vicinity of such a wretch as me!”

“Have you not been already assured that you are fully and completely forgiven in reference to the wickedness to which you allude?” demanded the young lady, whose beautiful countenance was now plainly visible to Old Death through the grating over the aperture in the door.

“Yes, Miss de Medina,” returned the wretch, assuming a still more penitent tone; “but I cannot forgive myself. You are an angel, dear young lady—and I am a demon. I know I am! All last night I endeavoured to read the Bible that you gave me yesterday: but I cannot settle my mind to the task. I want some one to read it to me—if only for half an hour every day. But this cannot be—I am aware it cannot! You—the only person living that could have made such an impression upon me—are afraid to enter my cell. You told me so yesterday. But am I not a human being?—am I a wild beast? Ah! dear young lady—I could not injure you!”—and the old miscreant appeared to weep.

“Do you think it would console you if I were to place confidence in you—enter your cell—and read you a portion of the Word of God?”

“Why do you tantalize an old, old man who is miserable enough as it is?” asked Old Death, in return to this question. “Do you suppose that I am not weighed down to the very dust by an awful load of crime? If you are afraid to come into the cell, send me a clergyman. But, no—no,” he added, as if yielding to the sudden influence of a second thought: “I will pray with no one but yourself! You have been my good angel—you first touched my heart. I must wait till you have sufficient confidence in me to follow up the blessed work you have already begun so well. Yes—yes—even if I must remain here for a whole year, I will not receive consolation from any one but you!”

“If I only thought that you were so far advanced in the path of penitence——”

“Can you doubt it?” hastily demanded the prisoner. “Have you such little confidence in your own powers of persuasion? Oh! my dear young lady,” continued the wretch, falling upon his knees on the floor of the cell, and joining his hands together, “have pity upon me—have pity upon me! Your mistrust of me pierces like a dagger to my heart. I crave—I long to be able to show you my gratitude;—and that can only be by proving my contrition. Dear young lady, have mercy on an old, old man, who would embrace the very ground on which you tread!”

“It would be wicked—it would be a crime to refuse your demand,” said the sweet, musical voice, now tremulous with emotion, of her whom the demon-hearted hypocrite called his good angel. “Stay—I will fetch the key—and on my return I will read the Bible to you.”

And the Hebrew lady hurried away from the vicinity of the dungeon; and, having ascended the spiral stone staircase with rapid steps, entered the apartment usually inhabited by the Blackamoor. But he was not there: and she paused—uncertain how to act; for she now remembered that he had gone out for a short time immediately after giving her certain instructions relative to the conduct she was to maintain towards Old Death.

“I should not like to do this without his consent,” she murmured to herself: “and yet the prisoner is so penitent—so contrite, that it would be a sin—nay, a crime, not to confirm the salutary impression which is now so strong upon him. Yes—yes,” she continued: “I will take this step upon my own responsibility! Surely he will not blame me for thus exceeding his instructions, when the cause is so good and the need seems so urgent!”

Thus speaking, she took down a large key from a nail inside a cupboard, and retraced her way to the subterranean.

In the meantime—during the ten minutes which her absence lasted—Old Death was agitated by a thousand conflicting thoughts. At one moment an infernal joy filled his heart, and he rubbed his hands together in horrible and fiend-like glee: at the next instant his countenance became convulsed with the hideous workings of his fears lest something should occur to prevent the Jewess from entering his cell. He seemed to live an age in that ten minutes; and he felt that if the terrific excitement which he thus endured, were to last for an hour, it would crush and overwhelm him. All the worst passions of his diabolical nature were set in motion like the waves of the sea: and in that short space of time were awakened feelings which, for intensity of awful spite and inveterate malignity, were probably never before nor since paralleled in the breast of man!

At length there was a slight rustling of a silk dress and the sound of a gentle though hasty tread in the passage without; and in a few moments the beautiful countenance of the Jewess appeared at the grated aperture.

“Blessed young lady!” exclaimed Old Death, suddenly exercising an immense mastery over his ferocious passions, and assuming a tone of mingled gratitude and hope.

“Heaven grant that the step which I am now taking may have a permanently beneficial effect!” said the Jewess, in a voice profoundly sincere, as she placed the key in the lock.

Then, with her gentle hands, she drew back the massive bolts; and in another moment she entered the dungeon in which the greatest miscreant that ever disgraced human nature was crouched upon the bed, like a tiger ready to spring from its lair.

For upwards of a minute this dreadful man could scarcely believe his eyes—could scarcely credit his own senses. Was it possible that she was there—there, in his presence—there, in his power? It appeared to be a dream; and a momentary dizziness seized upon him.

“Give me the Bible,” said the Jewess, taking the chair; “and do you draw near me.”

“Here is the book,” observed Old Death, in a deep tone which might well be mistaken for the sign of solemn feelings, and was indeed so interpreted.

The lady placed the sacred volume upon the table before her, and began to turn over its leaves in order to find the passage which she deemed most appropriate and suitable for the circumstances of the occasion. Having discovered the chapter which she sought, she raised her eyes towards Old Death’s countenance in order to assure herself that he was in readiness for her to begin; but a sudden sensation of horror and apprehension seized upon her, as she caught a glimpse of the diabolical expression of those features on which the pale light of the flickering lamp fell with sinister effect.

Then, with a howl of ferocious rage, that old man, whom the deep craving after a bloody vengeance now rendered as strong as a giant,—that old man precipitated himself upon the terrified Jewess with all the fury of a ravenous monster, the chair broke down beneath the shock; and with dreadful shrieks and appalling screams the Hebrew lady fell upon the dungeon-floor, held tight in the grasp of the miscreant, who was uppermost.

In another instant those shrieks and screams yielded to subdued moans; for his fingers had fixed themselves round her throat like an iron vice. Desperate—desperate were her struggles,—the struggles of the agony of death: but Benjamin Bones seemed to gather energy and force from the mere act of this strong resistance;—and as his grasp tightened round his victim’s neck, low but savage growls escaped his lips.

By degrees the struggling grew less violent—and a gurgling sound succeeded the moans of the Jewish lady. Tighter—and more tightly still were pressed the demon’s fingers, until his long nails entered her soft and palpitating flesh. Oh! it was horrible—horrible,—this scene of ruthless murder in that subterranean dungeon!

At length the movements of the victim became mere convulsive spasms: but her large dark eyes, now unnaturally brilliant, glared up at Old Death, fixedly and appallingly. Nevertheless, he was not terrified—he was not stricken with remorse! No—still, still he clung to his victim, his own eyes looking down ferociously into hers, and the workings of his countenance displaying a fiend-like triumph—a savage glory in the awful deed which he was perpetrating.

Nearly five minutes had elapsed from the instant when the murderer first sprang upon the unfortunate Jewess: and now, suddenly starting to his feet, he seized the lamp and dashed it upon her head. A low moan escaped her—and all was silent.

Yes—all was silent, and all was darkness too; for the light had been extinguished:—and Old Death precipitated himself from the dungeon.

He hurried along the subterranean, which he knew so well,—hurried along towards the spiral stair-case, wondering whether he should be enabled to effect his escape, yet almost reckless and desperate as to what might become of him, now that his savage vengeance was accomplished.

He ascended the stone steps—he entered the room which had for years and years served him as a bed-chamber, before he had been compelled to dispose of the house to Lord Ellingham. He passed into the laboratory: and as yet he had proceeded without interruption. Joy! joy! he should escape yet—the adjoining room, now fitted up as a handsome parlour, was likewise untenanted at the moment:—joy! joy! he is descending the stair-case leading to the hall!

Is it possible that he will escape? Fortune seems to favour the diabolical murderer; and his hand is now upon the latch of the front-door—he stands as it were once more upon the threshold of that great world which is so wide and has so many channels for the machinations of the wicked! The house seems deserted—not a questioning voice falls upon his ear,—not the step of a human foot, save his own, interrupts the silence of the place! Yes—it appears as if escape be now a certainty,—escape for him who dared not hope for it, and did not even think of it, when intent on the all-absorbing scheme of his vengeance!

And now the front-door opens to his touch: but—ah! he has blood upon his hands—the blood that had flowed from the neck of the murdered Jewess. He starts back—he hesitates for a moment,—but only for a moment: Old Death is not the man to remain long uncertain how to proceed in such a strait!

Thrusting his hands—his gore-stained hands—into his pockets, the demon-hearted monster issues as coolly and calmly from the house as if it were his own and he had nothing to fear. The fresh air of heaven—untasted by him for ten long weeks—comes gushing upon his face: he is free—he is free!

“Ah!” is the hasty ejaculation which now falls on his ear: he looks around—a man is bounding, flying towards him—and in another instant he is in the grasp of the Blackamoor.

A short and desperate struggle takes place; and a crowd immediately gathers near—for the Sessions are being held at Hicks’s Hall, on Clerkenwell Green, so that the neighbourhood presents the bustling appearance usual on such occasions.

“Seize him—hold him!” yells forth Old Death, as his powerful opponent hurls him towards the house-door, which the miscreant had not closed behind him.

“He is a mad-man—escaped from a lunatic asylum!” exclaimed the Blackamoor, horrible apprehensions filling his soul relative to the Jewess—for his eyes had caught sight of the blood upon Old Death’s hands.

“No—no—I am not a mad-man!” shrieked out the latter. “Seize him—hold him, I say:—he has escaped the scaffold—he is Tom Rain, the highwayman!”

At that dreadful announcement the Blackamoor was struck speechless and motionless, as if a thunderbolt had fallen at his feet; and in the next instant he was in the grasp of Dykes and Bingham, who, having business at the Sessions House, happened to be amongst the crowd gathered at the entrance of Red Lion Street.

“Yes—seize him—hold him tight!” yelled Benjamin Bones: “he is Tom Rain, I tell you—his face is coloured purposely—but I knew that he is Tom Rain!”

“And hold that miscreant also!” ejaculated Rainford—for he indeed the Blackamoor was: “seize him—let him not escape!” he cried, recovering the power of speech, as his eyes again caught a glimpse of the blood-stained hands of Old Death. “There has been murder committed in this house——My God! my God!”