2? 
 
 r ;. V.i, 1 6

 
 THE 
 
 OR, THE 
 
 A STORY OF 
 
 k0 of l\)t 
 
 AND 
 
 THE VICISSITUDES OF THE SEA. 
 
 BY WALDO HOWARD, ESQ. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 PUBLISHED BY F. GLEASON, 
 AT THE FLAG OF OUR UNION OFFICE, 
 
 MUSEUM BUILDING, TREMONT STREET. 
 
 1 Q ' o ,
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, 
 
 BY F. GLEASON, 
 In the desk's Office of the District Court of Massachusetts.
 
 STACK ANNEX 
 
 ?5 
 
 PREFACE, 
 
 For us, and for our tragedy, 
 
 Here stooping to your clemency, 
 
 We beg your hearing patiently. HAMLET. 
 
 The author of the following story sits down to amuse both himself and his readers 
 by weaving together such scenes and pictures as will form a truthful panorama of 
 the events of a stirring and romantic period. Life will be depicted as his fancy 
 hath reflected it, and the scene drawn and colored after nature herself. It will be 
 his effort to engage the reader's curiosity and interest, and also to charm and de 
 light him by those exhibitions of true feelings which his own heart has not unfre- 
 quently realized in itself. 
 
 The two extremes of life created by poverty and riches will be depicted, and the 
 extremes of virtue and vileness passed in review before the mind's eye. Loveliness 
 and hideousness will be contrasted, that the former may be more rightly appreciated 
 and the latter more abhorred. The promptings of pride and jealousy, and the 
 teeming wiles of the heart will be recorded, and our story so set down as to inter 
 est without outraging sensibility or borrowing from the impossible. 
 
 Thus much it seems proper for the author to say, by way of hands-shaking, and 
 now with your kind consideration, to the story itself. THE AUTHOR. 
 
 170388:

 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE TAP ROOM OF ST. GILES. 
 
 Now let it work : mischief, thou art afoot, 
 Take then what course thou wilt. 
 
 SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 THE street lamps were burning dimly in 
 St. Giles, London, and the thick haze of night 
 brooded over the eastern portion of the great 
 metropolis with more than its wonted density. 
 The vast, overgrown city was slumbering, or 
 rather the more respectable portion of it were 
 wrapped in the still mantle of sleep, while the 
 noise and riotous dissipation that seemed indi 
 genous to this section of the town, came 
 bursting forth in rude boisterousness and un 
 defined sounds from the broken windows of the 
 tottering tenements, and now from some damp 
 cellar's mouth, half under ground. The night 
 police frequently passed in their rounds either 
 end of the dark narrow streets, but they seem 
 ed to give no heed to the turmoil and rioting, 
 so long as it was confined within doors, and 
 did not burst forth into the open light in the 
 streets. They had become calloused to these 
 bachannalian scenes and vulgar habits, by in 
 timacy with the people who inhabit these sec 
 tions of the town, and did not care to interfere 
 with them unless their duty and instructions 
 compelled them to do so. 
 
 It is here that we must introduce the reader 
 in the opening of our story. 
 
 The clock had already struck ten, one sum 
 mer's night, when a couple of figures turned 
 the corner from a large thoroughfare on 
 
 George's-in-the-field, and quietly made their 
 way down one of the narrow and dirty lanes 
 referred to. They moved like persons who 
 were fully aware of the vile character of the 
 neighborhood, and who were on their guard to 
 prevent being surprised, while the stealthiness 
 with which they evidently picked their way 
 through the riotous district, seemed to indicate 
 some delicate and peculiar object in view. 
 There was quite a difference in the size of the 
 two persons. The larger was dressed in a 
 coarse top coat and cloth cap, with rough top 
 boots, his figure presenting tokens of remarka 
 ble physical strength, from the great breadth 
 of shoulders and chest, and other signs that 
 might have been seen even in that dim uncer 
 tain light. As he moved on, his gait discover 
 ed that he was lame, which rendered his walk 
 somewhat awkward, though his step was quick 
 and unyielding, notwithstanding this blemish. 
 His companion must have been some years 
 his junior, for his figure and bearing evinced 
 the uncompleted frame of youth, though his 
 form was stout and well filled, and he walked 
 like one who had the resolution and the 
 strength to hold his ground in any emergency. 
 As they passed now and then beneath the 
 street lamps that were lit along the road at in 
 tervals, his face appeared muchcUr'cer than the
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 other's, having a deep olive cast, such as im 
 bues the skin in the tropics and the Indies. 
 Like his elder companion he was dressed in a 
 coarse overcoat, cap and top boots. Neither 
 of them seemed to carry any weapons, though 
 they were in such a dangerous section, yet 
 they might have had arms concealed beneath 
 their ample coats. 
 
 They paused now for a moment, before one 
 of the noisy houses that lined the street, and 
 listened in silence to the sounds of revelry 
 within. 
 
 " This is the house, I have marked it well,'* 
 said the elder of the two. 
 
 " It is a dram shop," said the other, peering 
 , jffaj a crack. 
 
 " Yes, and of the vilest kind ; a sort of 
 rendezvous for burglars and thieves," said the 
 eldest, taking his stand where he could gain a 
 vie*" of the interior. 
 
 "Half of them are drunk," continued the 
 younger, still looking in at a crack of the 
 crazy old building occupied for a tap room, so 
 many of which abound in this locality. 
 
 " Do you see the woman who keeps the 
 shop, just behind that bar?" 
 
 " Yes, fat as a porpoise," replied the other. 
 " Do you know her name ?" 
 
 " They call her Mother Giles," replied the 
 elder of the two. 
 
 " Is this where you are going in ?" asked 
 the younger. 
 
 " Yes," said his companion. " We will en 
 ter quietly as possible and call for something 
 to drink, and after that I will take the first 
 opportunity to draw the old woman into con 
 versation. If I can accomplish my object by 
 gentle means and without force, why all the 
 better, but if we 'must, why we must, at all 
 hazards," he continued, with a meaning look 
 at the other. 
 
 "Hark! what is that?" 
 
 " Only a d nuking song." 
 
 " With a chorus of broken china I should 
 think. There it goes again." 
 
 " Are you ready ?" 
 
 " Yes, lead on," said his companion, as they 
 approached the low entrance. 
 
 " Have your eyes about you and yoxir arms 
 ready, for these are desperate people." 
 
 " I'm prepared." 
 
 With these words of caution the two en 
 tered the tap room 
 
 The drinking' room referred to within the 
 dilapidated building, was on the first floor, and 
 was one of those filthy gin shops that abound 
 in the metropolis. There were six or eight 
 cut-throat looking objects seated here and there 
 in the room, and three of them were smoking 
 together at a rough old table opposite the door 
 whence the two persons referred to had enter 
 ed. These three were evidently concocting 
 some villanous rascality, as they talked in a 
 hurried undertone, and often with much vehe- 
 mency. The others seemed to be of less im 
 portance, and evinced the several stages of 
 drunkenness, from the high excitement of the 
 stimulus, to the silliness of real inebriation, 
 singing, laughing and dozing by turns, quite 
 forgetful of the miseries that each seemed 
 heir to. 
 
 Across one end of the apartment was erect 
 ed a rough counter, greasy with filth ; behind 
 which were displayed a few bottles, decanters 
 and tumblers, the latter articles reversed, with 
 here and there a lemon upon them, and from 
 this place the liquid poison was dealt out, a 
 dram at a time. Sitting behind this rude bar, 
 was a woman half hidden in the cloud of bad 
 tobacco smoke that she was most assiduously 
 puffing from a pipe. She was a person of 
 some fifty odd years of age, large and bloated 
 with stimulus, while her face showed many 
 a rough and ugly scar. One might easily 
 read the reckless character that actuated her, 
 in a single glance of her small gray eyes. 
 Though she sat there, to all outward appear 
 ance in perfect quiet, and intent solely upon 
 the occupation of smoking, and watching the 
 ascending wreaths, yet a keen observer would 
 have noticed that her small twinkling eyes 
 were all around the room, watching for a 
 chance to further her interests by selling a 
 dram, or else to set some villany afloat upon 
 her customers. 
 
 It was into such a scene as this that the two 
 persons whom we have described now entered, 
 and as they did so, there was no little stir 
 evinced by the inmates of the room. The 
 drunken ones paused in their revelry to ogle 
 them, the three conspirators looked at them 
 with an eye to business, and the old woman, 
 knocking the ashes out of her pipe and 
 looking about her small quarters, called 
 through a side door for some one to come and 
 wipe down a table for the gentlemen.
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 * Whew ! what an odious smell of onions," 
 said the younger of the two. 
 
 " Keep your olfactories as well as your lips 
 closed for the present," whispered the other. 
 
 " Sit down, gentlemen, sit down," said the 
 woman, blandly. 
 
 " Here at this table nearest the door," whis 
 pered the elder of the two. 
 
 The woman's summons brought into the 
 room a young girl of some thirteen or four 
 teen years of age, hut of most singular and 
 striking beauty. Perhaps it was the contrast 
 that the child afforded to the surrounding 
 company and the place itself, that startled 
 the younger of the two new comers, who 
 gazed upon the girl with undisguised admira 
 tion. She was very coarsely dressed, but 
 her sweet face would have shown its wealth 
 of beauty through the most squalid covering 
 of rags, while her form, though yet so young 
 and unmatured, was delicate and lovely in the 
 extreme. Her half plaintive, half dejected 
 expression, though it was evidence but too 
 plain of her unhappy lot, yet added interest 
 to the childlike beauty and innocence of her 
 face. 
 
 " A pure transparent, pale, and radiant face, 
 Like to a lighted alabaster vase." 
 
 . The elder of the new comers, though he re 
 garded the girl with no tokens of surprise, 
 yet evinced no less interest and attention than 
 his younger companion, and spoke to her 
 most kindly as she wiped 4he rough table be 
 fore them, and in a gentle voice solicited their 
 orders. 
 
 " That is the child of whom I spoke," said 
 the elder of the two to the other, after he had 
 given his order for a bottle of the best wine 
 the hpu|e afforded. 
 
 " You only said she was interesting, but 
 this child is absolutely beautiful," said his 
 companion, fixing his eyes once more upon the 
 girl, as she entered with the wine. 
 
 " Do you think so ?" 
 
 " Yes, who would not " 
 
 "What is your name, my good girj?" asked 
 the elder of the two. 
 
 " Edith, sir," she answered, seemingly sur 
 prised at the tones of kindness. 
 
 " Come hither." 
 
 The child drew near to the table with a 
 submissive air. i 
 
 " Have you been long in this place ?" co- 
 inued her interrogator. 
 
 "0, yes," said the child, with a sad and list 
 less air. 
 
 " How would you like to live with me in 
 a nice house and be sent to school ?" 
 
 The child gazed for a moment at both the 
 new comers, as if she were saying in her own 
 mind, does he ask such a strange question as 
 that in earnest? He who had asked her 
 marked the expression of her face and studied 
 it well. In a moment more she asked : 
 "To school?" 
 
 " Yes, and be taught to read and write like 
 a lady, Edith." 
 
 " O, I should like above all things to go 
 to school," exclaimed the artless girl, as a beam 
 of joy lighted up her pale face for a moment. 
 " Perhaps we can get her permission to let 
 you go," said the eldest of the two, nodding 
 towards the woman at the bar, " and then I 
 will take you from here." 
 
 The child shook her head incredulously, 
 and faintly smiled, 
 
 " Would you not like to go with me ?" ask 
 ed the gentleman. 
 
 " I would like to go away from here any 
 where," she said, sighing. 
 
 "Never fear you shall do so, my good 
 girl," said her interrogator. 
 
 " Ah ! but she will not consent, I know," 
 replied the child, looking towards the womai>. 
 " Do you think she would refuse if I offered 
 her a handsome sum in gold ?" 
 
 " Hush !" said the child, timidly, " if you 
 have any gold do not mention it here !" 
 
 '' Don't worry for me, my good girl. I will 
 try presently and see what bargain I can make 
 with the woman. Don't go far away, but be 
 where you can follow us if I bid you." 
 
 The child looked thankful, but shook her 
 head, as much as to say that any effort to ac 
 complish the object referred to would be useless, 
 and at the same moment they were interrupted 
 by a shrill call from the woman, who upbraided 
 the girl in no moderate terms for her laziness 
 as she termed it, and with a rude volley cf 
 oaths sent her into the back room again, to 
 engage in some menial service. 
 
 After sipping his wine, or rather pretending 
 to do so for a few moments, the eldest of the 
 two gentlemen for their bearing seemed to 
 entitle them to this appellation, though the
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME, 
 
 coarseness of their dress was no evidence of 
 their belonging to the better class stepping 
 up to the bar, commenced a familiar and ap 
 parently pleasant talk with the woman of the 
 house, evidently relating to the young girl al 
 ready referred to. The woman seemed much 
 interested, but did not appear to concede the 
 point, which the customer urged with much 
 earnestness, 
 
 In the mean time the party at the opposite 
 table were eyeing first the person who was 
 talking at the bar, and then his companion 
 who was still seated before,, the wine. Neither 
 of them were persons whom even a desperado 
 would wish to attack unprepared, yet they 
 seemed to be deciding in their minds whether 
 the present was the best moment for such a 
 purpose, or whether they should wait still 
 longer. Their manner and conduct showed 
 them to be burglars, highwaymen, or both, and 
 they were soon whispering together in a way 
 that showed conclusively that they had alrea 
 dy formed some plan or design upon the new 
 comers. He who stood at the bar did not turn 
 his back towards them even for a moment, 
 but while he addressed the woman, though he 
 seemed desirous that he should not be over 
 heard, yet was careful at the same time to 
 face the suspicious looking party. 
 
 " I am not deaf, you need not speak so 
 loud," said the gentleman, a little ruffled. 
 
 " But I tell you I will not let the girl go," 
 repeated the woman, in reply to some remark 
 of her customer. " I have good reason for it, 
 and. she will bring me twice the sum you offer, 
 within a couple of years from now, and be 
 sides I get her labor into the bargain until 
 then." 
 
 " Very well, double the amount, then," said 
 the gentleman "call it a hundred, pounds, 
 and I'll pay you that and take her away 
 to-night." 
 
 " It wont do, it wont do, a hundred pounds 
 is not enough," said the woman, at the same 
 time stealing an intelligent glance and nodding 
 to the three opposite. 
 
 The mention of the hundred pounds was 
 not lost upon the burglars, and the woman as 
 we have seen took occasion to repeat the sum 
 after him, so they might understand that 
 doubtless the man had that amount of money 
 about his person at that very time. The 
 trith wa?, she would without doubt have part 
 
 ed with the girl at the price named and ereis 
 for a much smaller sum, had she not expected 
 to get the money or a part of it from the man, 
 without giving any equivalent at all, before he 
 left the house. She was of course in league 
 with the villains opposite, and was confident 
 in her own mind of sharing in the expected 
 spoils. Thus influenced, the old woman still 
 demurred, and indeed seemed disinclined to 
 part with the girl at all, or at any price. 
 
 In the mean time Edith was passing in and 
 out of the room constantly waiting upon the 
 new comers, for three others had now joined 
 the party of burglars, and were listening to 
 some hurried and whispered remarks ih rela 
 tion to the two gentlemen. At last he who 
 was talking to the woman seemed to give up 
 his object in despair, 'and returning to his 
 young companion at the table, he conversed 
 with him in a low tone for some minutes. 
 They were resolving in what way it would be 
 best for them to proceed in order to gain their 
 object, when they were interrupted by the ap 
 proach of a stout six foot individual, much 
 taller and larger than the rest of his party, 
 and evidently their bully. This fellow ab 
 ruptly approached their seats, and declared in 
 a blunt, insulting tone that he must have some 
 of their wine. The youngest of the two 
 gentlemen was on his feet in an instant, and 
 prepared for an assault, but at a significant 
 look from his companion, he stepped back 
 quietly to his seat again, though his flushed 
 cheek showed that it cost him an effort not to 
 resist the insult at once. 
 
 " I say that I will have a glass of your 
 wine," reiterated the bully. 
 
 "You had better return to your friends 
 peaceably," said the eldest of the gentlemen. 
 " I seek no quarrel with you, but you cannot 
 taste that wine." 
 
 " Cannot 1" 
 
 " That was my word, sir." 
 
 " We will see about that," said the bully, 
 blustering towards the table. 
 
 He was really a very powerful man physi 
 cally, but the development of his figure, though 
 evincing great strength, was rather bungling, 
 showing large limbs and a bloated figure, with 
 a preponderance of abdomen, while he who 
 thus opposed them all presented exactly the 
 opposite style of power. Small at the waist, 
 with limbs neatly tapering in their formation.
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 but with that breadth of chest and develop 
 ment of shoulders that showed how powerful 
 were the muscles and sinews of the man. 
 These tokens had not escaped the practised 
 eyes of the rogues, but then they were 
 three to one, and counted on an easy and 
 bloodless victory, in case of absolute opposition, 
 which they scarcely anticipated, under the exist 
 ing circumstances, notwithstanding the bold 
 front that was presented to their first advance. 
 
 " You are determined to insult us, I see," 
 continued the gentleman, perfectly calm. 
 
 " Just as you please," said the bully, " it's 
 all the same to me." 
 
 " It will not be if you annoy me any far 
 ther," said the gentleman. 
 
 " Give me the wine," said the man, stretch 
 ing forth his hand to take it from the table. 
 
 But as the villain extended his arm, the 
 gentleman raised himself to his full height, 
 and with a blow given almost as quick as 
 thought itself upon the head of the intruder, 
 laid him lifeless at his feet ! Two of the 
 gang now rushed to their fallen comrade's as 
 sistance, but neither of them could strike a 
 blow, both lay prostrate upon the floor beside 
 the other, apparently dead, with the blood 
 streaming from out their skulls. The gentle 
 man recovered himself instantly, and was 
 no more discomposed than as though he had 
 merely been at play. His cheek was un- 
 blanched, his hand was steady, and he breath 
 ed deeply and freely, with full self-possession. 
 
 A volley of oaths escaped from the party 
 opposite who were maddened into rage, but 
 yet did not advance from the position they 
 held. 
 
 " Perhaps there are more of ye that would 
 like to be there," said the gentleman at last, 
 with a hitter and scornful smile upon his lip ; 
 " if so, come on !" 
 
 After whispering together once more, the 
 three desperadoes that were still left unharm 
 ed, seemed about to make a simultaneous at 
 tack, but as they turned once more towards 
 the two gentlemen they found them prepared, 
 and met the stern, unyielding eye of the ex 
 traordinary man bent keenly upon them as Ije 
 said again calmly : 
 
 " Come on !" 
 
 A howl of mingled rage and oaths was the 
 only response they uttered. 
 
 The sight of three of their comrades lying 
 
 insensible if not dead upon the floor, caused 
 the others to hesitate and count the cost. It 
 looked like a miracle to them to see three 
 stout men, renowned fighters, accustomed to 
 mingle daily and nightly in brawls of every 
 character, thus overcome in an instant by a 
 single arm. The insult that the first had 
 offered was not of course for the sake of the 
 wine itself, but as an excuse whereby to start 
 a quarrel with the strangers, and then in the 
 melee to rob them. All this time the woman 
 looked on in profound astonishment, but ven 
 tured not a word, while the drunken party, 
 with a sort of natural instinct, withdrew to 
 the farthest corner. 
 
 " If the girl comes in again," said the elder 
 gentleman to his companion in an under tone, 
 " seize upon her gently, but be sure to retain 
 her ; tell her that we are her friends, and that 
 she must go with us. I will open a way if it 
 be necessary. Loosen your pistols now, 
 though they must not be used except as the 
 very last resort." 
 
 " I understand," said his companion, putting 
 his hands into his coat pockets for a moment, 
 where a quick ear might have heard the half 
 cock of a pistol's lock. 
 
 " Who are you ?" asked one of the gang, 
 now approaching the two, yet taking good 
 care to keep out of reach of the arm that had 
 felled his companions. 
 
 j " That concerns you not," said the elder of 
 the two ; " we are here on our own business, 
 and be assured we shall perform it. Unless 
 you wish to share the fate of those fools upon 
 the floor, you had best keep well out of my 
 way, or you will follow suit." 
 
 The man had not the courage to tempt hia 
 fate, and so retired to his party. 
 
 Thus completely intimidated by the stern 
 and resolute front of the stranger, the party 
 once more retired to a corner of the apartment 
 to consult. Had they dared to use their fire 
 arms, they would have done so at once, but 
 this they rarely ventured upon, for they knew 
 full well that the first discharge and repor\ 
 would bring the police down upon them am 
 force. 
 
 In the mean time, startled by the noise she 
 had overheard, caused by the conflict, Edith's 
 curiosity had brought her into the room, when 
 the younger of the gentlemen seized her by 
 the arm and drew her to his side. He toid
 
 10 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 her that they were her friends, and that if she 
 would go with them they would protect and 
 cherish her. Edith believed him at once, for 
 there was truth written on every line of his 
 frank, open countenance, and so far from at 
 tempting to release herself, she only clung 
 more closely to his side, while the old woman 
 fiercely ordered her away to the other room. 
 
 " Edith," screamed the woman, in a tower 
 ing passion. 
 
 The child hesitated, but her companion held 
 her firmly. 
 
 " Edith, come away, I will flay you 
 alive," continued the hag. 
 
 Long custom had rendered the child so obe 
 dient to the woman's authority, that she al 
 most struggled with him who now held her, 
 in order to obey the rude summons that was 
 made upon her. But a few quieting and en 
 couraging words from her new friend pacified 
 her, and she remained quiet by his side not 
 withstanding the almost frenzied rage and 
 threats of the woman behind the bar. 
 
 " Now is the time," said the eldest of the 
 two, " get into the street as soon as possible, 
 and hurry away. Don't mind me. I'll bring 
 up the rear, but don't loose your hold of the 
 child if anything happens to me, take her to 
 the house and take care of lier. Remember." 
 
 This was said in a hurried whisper between 
 a lull of the noise and confusion ; and 
 having secured possession of the child, the 
 two began gradually to make their way towards 
 the door, near which fortunately they had been 
 sitting. But a new phase was now put upon 
 the matter by the woman, who appealed to her 
 friends to know if they were going to look 
 tamely on and see her servant kidnapped be 
 fore their very eyes, nor lift a hand to prevent 
 it. Thus aroused, the burglars seemed to re 
 solve upon one more assault upon the strangers. 
 But he who had already proved so fatal to 
 their companions, receded slowly backwards, 
 never taking his eye from them. He knew 
 very well the game they would now play. 
 
 They had learned by experience, and now 
 hH enemies came on more cautiously and all 
 together ; it was the only way that promised 
 them success. He saw that it would be fatal 
 to permit them to attack him in this way, and 
 with a wonderful display of strength and agil 
 ity ne sprang among them, felling another to 
 the floor, and with one blow breaking the arm 
 
 of a fifth person so that it hung useless by hiz 
 side. The other desperado had been dealt 
 with by the younger of the two, who seemed 
 scarcely less at home than the other. This 
 bold repulse was decisive, and amid the frowns 
 and curses that saluted their ears, the gentle- 
 men and their charge made their way into the 
 street. 
 
 The curses and oaths of the woman follow 
 ed them to the last, to the no small consterna 
 tion of the girl, who seemed to dread her more 
 than all else. 
 
 " Rest on me, Edith," said the younger of 
 the two men, drawing the trembling arm of 
 the child within his own, and half supporting 
 her as they hurried along. 
 
 " Thank you, sir," she replied, striving to 
 keep up with her companion, who was hurry 
 ing with no little speed from the vile neigh 
 borhood. 
 
 " We will soon be clear of this place, and 
 you will have nothing to fear," he continued, 
 striving to cheer the child as they went. 
 
 " Are they following us ?" she asked, startled 
 by a sound behind them. 
 
 " No, no." 
 
 " But I hear footsteps." 
 
 " It's your imagination, Edith." 
 
 " I'm sure it's them." 
 
 " No, that is our friend," replied her com 
 panion, half turning the child that she might 
 see that he who followed was the person who 
 had rescued her. 
 
 " Keep to the left," said the person behind, 
 as they turned from the street. 
 
 " Here are the police, and we need hurry no 
 more," replied his companion. 
 
 " Ay,'' said the other, " but 1 do not care 
 to be questioned even by them^ so cross over 
 and pass along quietly. I will join you a few 
 squares further up the street." 
 
 It was not until the three had turned out of 
 this second street into a large thoroughfare, 
 that the person who had borne the brunt of 
 the contest unwound from his wrist a small 
 Indian netting, into the end of which was 
 woven a leaden shot of three or four pounds 
 weight, so arranged as to be hidden in the 
 palm of the hand. A weapon at that time al 
 most unknown in England, but in very com 
 mon use in India. The secret of his effective 
 and fatal blows was at once explained they 
 were performed with the slung shot.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 
 THE ADOPTED CHILD. 
 
 
 
 Here to the houseless child of want, 
 My door is open still. 
 
 GOLDSMITH. 
 
 HURRYING towards the nearest hackney 
 coach stand, the three individuals who had 
 thus escaped from the melee in the tap room 
 of St. Giles', stepped into a vehicle, and the 
 dr ; ver turned his horses' heads towards the 
 west part of the town, and after threading 
 patiently a labyrinth of streets, the vehicle 
 drew up at last before a splendid mansion, in 
 what was then the west end of London, but 
 which has since, by the continued growth of 
 the great city, become very nearly or quite its 
 centre. 
 
 Alighting, thp party entered one of the 
 princely abodes before them. The servant 
 who opened the door at their summons, 
 stepped back in astonishment for a moment, 
 bat on meeting the eye of the eldest of the 
 two gentlemen, he bowed respectfully, and 
 appearing to have recovered from his surprise, 
 at once ushered them into the grand reception 
 room of the house. Both seemed to be "at 
 home here ; the eldest throwing himself care 
 lessly into a richly covered and cushioned 
 chair, exclaimed with a sigh, that showed how 
 intense his excitement had been through all 
 this strange business, although^jrom the very 
 first he had appeared so calm and collected : 
 
 "Thank God, that business is now well over, 
 and all are safe." 
 
 ' It is over indeed with some cf those poor 
 
 miscreants," said the younger of the two, 
 rubbing a slight bruise on his arm. "J could 
 hardly believe that you overcame them so 
 easily, although it was before my very eyes ; 
 but you struck like a sledge hammer." 
 
 " It is all practice, Walter," said the other, 
 smiling ; " when I was a young man, I fre 
 quently performed harder feats than this has 
 proved, on a simple bet, and without this neat 
 bit of an Indian weapon either. You know I 
 am considered to ba very strong." 
 
 " I shall never doubt it after what I have 
 seen to-night." 
 
 "Sit down, Edith," said the gentleman 
 kindly, to the girl, who had up to this time 
 remained standing, but who did not seem to 
 hear the words addressed to her. 
 
 " She does not hear you," said the other, 
 observing her with interest. 
 
 Nor did the poor girl hear him who had 
 addressed her, for she was looking about her 
 with much the same wonder that Aladdin might 
 have felt when he saw the enchanted palace 
 rise at his command from the bosom of fhe 
 water. Her eyes were gazing from the rich 
 soft carpet beneath her feet, to the gorgeously 
 stuccoed ceiling above her head, at the glitter 
 ing and brilliant chandelier that was pendant 
 (rom the ceiling, and at the splendid array cf 
 paintings, covering the vralls in all directions,
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 and finally at every article of ornament or use 
 with which the apartment was thronged. 
 
 If possible, she looked still more deeply in 
 teresting to them now than when they had 
 seen her remarkable beauty amid all the vul 
 gar surroundings of the tap room, 
 
 " Adorned with all the simple charm 
 , And unbought grace of nature." 
 
 Her coarsely-made dress was so at variance 
 with the proud elegance about her, that the 
 contrast was scarcely less marked than when 
 they had first met her that night and compared 
 her beauty with her situation. Her hands 
 were clasped together now and raised even 
 with her breast, while the expression of her 
 sweet face, seemed to say, "Is it possible that 
 there is so much beauty and elegance as this 
 upon the earth?" Poor child! She had 
 probably never been beyond the boundaries of 
 George's-in-the-field, nor perhaps, judging by 
 her present surprise and curiosity, had she 
 ever before stood upon a carpeted floor. 
 
 "Wont you sit down, Edith?" asked the 
 eldest of the gentlemen, in a kind tone of 
 voice, Mer marking her amazement with un 
 disguised interest for more than a minute. 
 
 Did you speak, sir,' she asked, timidly, 
 and as though awaking from a deep reverie, 
 and turning her large blue eyes upon him who 
 addressed her. 
 
 " Yes, my good girl, wont you sit down?" 
 he repeated. 
 
 " O, thank you, sjr, not here," replied the 
 poor child, shrinking quickly back, as though 
 she thought it would be sacrilege for her to 
 touch aught that she saw. 
 
 " Nay, my good girl, come hither to me," 
 said the gentleman in the kindest tones, as he 
 drew a seat by his side " this is to be your 
 future home." 
 
 " My home !" repeated Edith, looking first 
 at the gentleman and then about her ; " Did 
 you say that this is to be my hom.e, sir ?" 
 
 "Ay, my good Edith, thy home, and I 
 will be thy father." 
 
 " My father!" said Edith, with a sigh that 
 heaved her bosom audibly. 
 
 " Yes, Edith." 
 
 , Her eyes sought the floor thoughtfully. 
 She seemed in an instant to forget all the 
 splendor about her, and to be looking deep 
 within her own breast at some passing thought, 
 
 that had cast its shadow across her soul. 
 Walter, as the elder gentleman had called hi 
 companion, exhibited the while scarcely less 
 surprise and interest as he gazed upon the 
 young girl, than did she herself at the sights 
 that met her eye. Never had he seen a being 
 that looked so lovely to him as did that or 
 phan child ; and as she stood thus, with her 
 head half reclining upon her breast, gazing 
 upon the floor, Walter turned to the elder 
 gentleman and said with enthusiasm : 
 
 " What an attitude for a painter ! Mark 
 you, sir, how beautiful this poor girl is ? No 
 wonder that even a casual sight of her in the 
 street, should have resolved you to rescue so 
 bright a jewel from the filthy den where we 
 found her this night." 
 
 " You are enthusiastic, Walter," said the 
 other, smiling at his zeal. 
 
 " Who would not be enthusiastic with such 
 beauty to prompt him ?" 
 
 " She is very beautiful," said the elder gen 
 tleman, gazing in silence for a moment. 
 " Edith ?" 
 
 " Sir," said the child, arousing from her 
 secret thoughts. 
 
 " Do you remember," asked the eldest of 
 the two gentlemen, " of meeting me a few 
 days since in the street, near where you lived, 
 and that I spoke to you then about your man 
 ner of living, and some other matters ? I was 
 not in this dress, to be sure." 
 
 " I do remember of a person's speaking to 
 me, but he wore the frock of a butcher." 
 
 " It was T. I asked you if you would like 
 to leave the rude people with whom you lived 
 and go to a comfortable home. Do you re 
 member you said you would?" 
 " Yes, I recollect you now." 
 " And I told you I should inquire about you, 
 if you were a good girl ?" 
 " Yes, sir, but" 
 
 "But what, Edith? Speak out freely, 
 don't let there be any secrets between us." 
 
 " What made you choose me, sir, to bring 
 to your house ?" she asked, timidly. 
 
 " There was something in your face, Edith, 
 that reminded me," said the gentleman, " of a 
 dearly loved sbter, one who died when scarce 
 ly older than you are now. She was my con 
 stant playmate and dearest friend, and our 
 parting at the time seemed like to break my 
 heart. When I saw you I resolved for her
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 13 
 
 memory's sake, if you were parentless, as I 
 shrewdly suspected, that I would adopt and 
 cherish you as my own child, that I might 
 have ever near me one who should constantly 
 remind me of her who was taken from me by 
 death years ago." 
 
 The child seemed pleased at the explanation 
 which she heard. 
 
 " You will be faithful to me I trust ; nay, I 
 feel that you will, Edith, and also that you 
 will strive to improve the advantage which I 
 shall supply you. Will you not ?" 
 
 "Indeed I will try, sir, but I hardly under 
 stand what you mean. You are too kind to 
 me," she said, .as the tears sprang into her 
 eyes for the first time since they had met that 
 night. ^ 
 
 " Nay, my good girl, do not weep," said her 
 patron ; " all I ask in return from you, Edith, 
 will be to try to think kindly of me, and to do 
 as I shall advise you for your own good." 
 
 " I will obey you, sir, in all things," said 
 the still sobbing girl. 
 
 "Commence by drying those tears," said 
 the gentleman, pleasantly. 
 
 "Can I stay here?" 
 
 " Of course you can. I tell you it shall be 
 your home for the future." 
 
 " But those people will take me away from 
 here," said the girl, almost trembling at the 
 thought of returning to the tap room, which 
 seemed to chill her very blood. 
 
 " No fear of that, my good girl." 
 
 " But they are very cunning, sir, and can 
 do almost anything they wish." 
 
 .*' You need not fear for your safety here, 
 Edith," said her patron ; " I will place you as 
 far above their reach as though you were a 
 princess of the royal household. Besides, 
 you saw how easily I managed them to-night, 
 did you not?" 
 
 " O, yes, I know you are very brave and 
 strong, but you really will not let me go back 
 to that place again ?" she said, imploringly. 
 
 " No, my good girl, never. You need have 
 no fear of that." 
 
 " Heaven bless you, sir," said the poor child, 
 kneeling by his side. 
 
 No emotion was visible in the face of him 
 whom the child addressed. His feelings 
 seemed to be under the most thorough and 
 perfect control, and yet it was not from hard- 
 heartedness, for true feeling was too strongly 
 
 manifested in his general bearing and disposi 
 tion, to allow of such a conclusion as that. 
 He raised the young girl from the floor and 
 kindly parting the soft hair from her forehead, 
 touched a bell at his side for a servant. 
 
 Walter was much younger in years and 
 experience, his heart was more impressible, 
 his feelings more impetuous than those of his 
 late companion in the night's adventure ; and 
 his eyes were now full to overflowing as he 
 gazed upon the scene before him. Edith look 
 ed towards him as he sat thus, and seeming 
 suddenly to recollect herself, started up and 
 walking quickly towards him, said in the most 
 innocent and unaffected manner : 
 
 " I ought to thank you too, sir, for bringing 
 me safely away from that place. It was very 
 kind of you, sir. You were hit by a blow that 
 was meant for me. I saw you raise your 
 arm to keep it from my body. It must have 
 hurt you I know it must." 
 
 "Not at all, my dear " he was going to 
 say " child," but Edith was so nearly ap 
 proached to womanhood in her beauJ^of face 
 and form, that he hesitated for a l^Pnent in 
 his speech, and then said, " O, my dear girl, 
 it was a mere scratch that I received ; had the 
 villain harmed you, I would have shot him 
 through the heart." 
 
 "Ah! who has raised up for me such good 
 friends ?" said the girl, looking from one to the 
 other ; " I am very, very grateful." 
 
 ".Thomas," said the gentleman to the ser 
 vant who answered his bell. 
 
 " Sir." 
 
 " Send Mrs. Mario w to me immediately." 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 The man bowed low and disappeared on Kis 
 errand, as directed. 
 
 In' a few moments an elderly female ap 
 peared, with a bunch of keys at her waist, 
 and bearing in her general appearance the 
 tokens and characteristics of a housekeeper. 
 She courtseyed respectfully, and requested to 
 know the commands of the elder gentleman, 
 who was evidently the master of the house. 
 At the same time she gazed with undisguised 
 amazement, curiosity and wonder at Edith, 
 who stood there in her coarse dress, and to 
 the housekeeper's eye appearing so very 
 queerly. 
 
 "Mrs. Marlow, this young lady is Miss 
 Edith."
 
 14 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 The housekeeper looked puzzled, but re 
 mained silent. 
 
 "This is my adopted child, and is to be 
 treated in every particular with the full at 
 tention and respect that such a relationship 
 claims from you and all that are in this 
 house." 
 
 ". Yes, sir," said the housekeeper, stealing 
 a glance at the child. 
 
 " I wish particularly that you should exert 
 yourself to render her as comfortable and hap 
 py as is possible to make her under my 
 roof. See that she has fitting clothes at once, 
 and every necessary article that may suggest 
 itself. You understand me, Mrs. Marlow ?" 
 
 " I believe I do, sir," replied the good natur- 
 ed looking housekeeper. 
 
 " And, Mrs. Marlow, first see that she has 
 some proper refreshments." 
 
 " I will, sir." 
 
 "And order a warm bath into the north 
 chamber ; that will be hers." 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " Inshort, Mrs. Marlow, I entrust her to 
 you,"d her master, with emphasis. 
 
 " Edith," he continued, " you will go to 
 Mrs. Marlow for everything you may desire. 
 It will be her chief duty to render you com 
 fortable and happy, and if there be aught, 
 however simple, that is unpleasant to you or 
 that in any way mars your peace of mind, 
 then, Edith, I wish you to come always to 
 me. And now good night, my child, and 
 pleasant dreams to your pillow," 
 
 " Good night, sir," said Edith, her young 
 bosom heaving quickly with the host of strange 
 and new emotions that filled it, and then 
 turning to Walter she courtseyed with a 
 natural grace and sweetness of manner, and 
 wishing him also a " good night," disappeared 
 with the housekeeeper. 
 
 Impressed by the directions which she had 
 received, Mrs. Marlow rather sought to fulfil 
 them than to importune Edith as it regarded 
 herself. Indeed the housekeeper was too 
 well bred to appear inquisitive, and thus the 
 poor girl escaped the catechising that she 
 might have experienced, had her new ac 
 quaintance been less considerate and more of 
 a gossip. Mrs. Marlow was, of course, exer 
 cised by no small degree of wonder and curi 
 osity to find a poor destitute girl thus brought 
 into the house, and at once admitted to its 
 
 highest privileges. Bat her master, she knew 
 very well, was not a person to have his orders 
 called in question, had she felt inclined to do 
 so, though the fact was, the housekeeper's 
 sympathies were at once enlisted in Edith's 
 behalf. She had a liberal and truly Christian 
 heart, and the sight of poverty or misery in 
 any form would excite her commiseration, but 
 when enforced by such gentle innocence and 
 beauty as in Edith's case, she was devoted to 
 its alleviation. 
 
 Edith, as she followed the housekeeper, 
 seemed to feel that she was her friend at once. 
 
 If the poor girl had been surprised at the 
 elegance and richness that met her view in 
 the reception room, how much more was she 
 astonished at the luxury of the chamber that 
 she was told was designed for her. The de 
 lightful and invigorating sensation of the 
 warm bath, the profuseness of linen, the al 
 most miraculous cleanliness of everything 
 around her, the lofty tented bedstead with its 
 silken curtains, and everything in a style of 
 luxury to correspond. Edith closed her eyes 
 for a moment, and recalled her old bed of 
 straw in the vile home she had left, and then 
 opening them again, would look afresh upon 
 the display of taste and wealth that surround 
 ed her on all sides. 
 
 Mrs. Marlow was an exception to most 
 housekeepers, having by some chance been 
 born with a heart. A simple thing, to be 
 sure, and something that persons in her ca 
 pacity frequently look upon as quite a super 
 fluity, and, therefore, rarely call it into use. 
 She neither delighted in scolding the butler 
 and head cook, nor in rendering the chamber 
 maids as completely miserable as possible, nor 
 was her tongue one of that sort that have 
 eclipsed all modern approaches to perpetual 
 motion. In a woid, Mrs. Marlow was a very 
 pattern of what a housekeeper should be 
 quiet, industrious and inclined to promote her 
 own happiness by rendering all about her 
 pleasant and agreeable. 
 
 As to the task that had just been set her by 
 the master of the house, she seemed to be de 
 lighted with it, and was never tired of an 
 swering the multitude of questions that Edith, 
 in her curiosity, addressed to her; nor of in 
 structing her in the use of everything she 
 beheld. Appreciating this kindness, Edith 
 felt quite at home, and when she had got
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 15 
 
 fairly ready to retire, she threw her arms 
 about the housekeeper's neck and kissed her 
 so affectionately and with such an honest im 
 pulse, that Mrs. Marlow declared she could 
 not help loving her tenderly and at once. 
 
 The good woman stole quietly in a number 
 of times, after her charge had fallen asleep, to 
 mark her breathing and assure herself that all 
 was as it should be. Edith slept long and 
 sweetly; her dreams were of the happiest 
 kind, induced by the physical comforts she 
 had realized before retiring; nor did she 
 awake until the housekeeper attended her 
 with a cup of coffee and a hot roll at the bed 
 side. 
 
 How refreshed she was ! She never re 
 membered having enjoyed such rest before. 
 How bright her eyes looked, and how heartily 
 she laughed at Mrs. Marlow to think that she 
 would have her eat her breakfast before ris 
 ing. But she required little urging to per 
 suade her, for the coffee was made by Mrs. 
 Marlow's own hands, and such as she had 
 never tasted before, and the bread was fresh 
 and so white and light. The butter, too, was 
 so sweet, the cream so thick and rich, and in 
 deed everything seemed to the simple girl, in 
 her" innocence and inexperience, like a mir 
 acle. 
 
 "You have slept long and soundly, and 
 look very much refreshed," said the house 
 keeper. 
 
 " O, I am so rested and refreshed," said 
 Edith, "but what time is it?" 
 
 " Nearly one o'clock," said Mrs. Marlow, 
 consulting her watch. 
 
 "Nearly one !" exclaimed the child, in as 
 tonishment. 
 
 " Yes, a quarter to one." 
 
 " Afternoon !" 
 
 "O, it is not luncheon time yet," said Mrs. 
 Marlow. 
 
 " Is it possible I have slept half the day ?" 
 she asked, in amazement. 
 
 " You were very much fatigued, Edith," 
 said the housekeeper, " and my directions 
 were not to permit you to be disturbed at any 
 rate." 
 
 " Indeed, you are all very kind to me," said 
 Edith, thoughtfully. 
 
 " It is a very good hour,'" continued the 
 housekeeper. " We do not lunch until two, 
 
 and you have ample time to dress you before 
 that." 
 
 " O, yes," said Edith, " I can dress me in 
 one minute, I'm sure." 
 
 " Nay, my dear, it will require half an hour 
 for me to dress that pretty hair of yours 
 alone," said Mrs. Marlow, kindly. 
 
 " You dress my hair ? O, no, no. See 
 how quickly 1 can braid it up." 
 
 " Yes, my dear, but I want to do it a la 
 mode" said the housekeeper. 
 
 "What's that?" asked Edith, curiously, 
 wondering what Mrs. Marlow meant. 
 
 " I mean to dress it fashionably, my dear," 
 said Mrs. Marlow, smiling. 
 
 ".O, fashionably? Well, you shall do as 
 you please ; but it is too bad for you to have 
 such a trouble just about my hair," said Edith. 
 
 " I have nothing else to do, my dear ; so sit 
 by the glass here, and will dress it." 
 
 The child obeyed, still wondering why so 
 nice a woman as Mrs. Marlow should think 
 that she must taker the trouble to dress her 
 hair. 
 
 The housekeeper, smiling at th^fcmple 
 notions the child entertained in relation to the 
 matter of the toilet, soon explained to Edith 
 that it was his wish for her to do so, and that 
 she must learn to dress and appear very differ 
 ent from what she had done heretofore, and 
 untwisting her soft and luxuriant hair, the 
 good woman braided the rich tresses and 
 plaited them so neatly and becomingly, that 
 when Edith looked into the glass, she ex 
 claimed with delight, and declared that Mrs. 
 Marlow must be a witch, though a dear good^ 
 one. 
 
 When the young girl met her two friends 
 at table, what a metamorphosis had taken 
 place in her personal appearance ! She was 
 dressed in pure white muslin, supplied by the 
 good Mrs. Mailow. Her hair was so smooth 
 and becoming, her long and refreshing sleep 
 and the effect of the grateful bath she had en 
 joyed, added to the cheerfulness that was 
 prompting her overflowing heart, had all to 
 gether set a soft and sweetly appropriate car 
 nation in her fair cheek that was not there 
 before. She came so artless and happy to 
 take the hands of both and look such wealth 
 of gladness and thankful joy from he soft 
 blue eyes, that Walter turned to his elder 
 companion in silent admiration.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE DUEL. 
 
 Revenge is now the end 
 
 That I do chew I'll challenge him. 
 
 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
 
 BROMPTON was a man of some 
 three and fifty years, the last representation 
 of an ancient and aristocratic family, renown 
 ed no less for their political position than for 
 their great wealth, being a family of the old 
 English stock. His father particularly had 
 been distinguished fomaany years in parlia 
 ment, and by his undeviating allegiance to the 
 interests of the royal party, and his consistent 
 devotedness to the interests of the king, had 
 won the entire confidence, not only of his own 
 party, but of the monarch himself, and in repay 
 ment he had received many distinguished hon 
 ors at his hands. Already well endowed in 
 the world's goods, he had been enabled b,y the 
 king's favor to amass a princely fortune, and 
 this with his honorable name and station, he 
 transmitted to his only child, the present Sir 
 Richard. 
 
 But the son was very unlike the father. 
 The latter was a domestic man, gentle, affec 
 tionate and loving, and no man could have 
 been happier in his domestic relations. 
 Whereas the former was impetuous, though 
 not ungenerous s fierce when crossed in his 
 slightest will, and from circumstances that will 
 appear, often jealous beyond endurance. The 
 general character and disposition of the son 
 had been most materially affected by the oc 
 
 currence of a serious and unfortunate acci 
 dent, which happened to him while he was 
 yet quite a boy, and which had caused him to 
 be lame in one limb ever since and thus it 
 was very evident he must remain until the 
 end of life. This accident which occurred at 
 a gymnasium when he was at the age of 
 fourteen, was of so serious a character that it 
 laid him upon a bed for nearly a twelvemonth, 
 and during the most of this period of time, 
 caused him the most intense and unremitting 
 suffering. 
 
 This year of pain, idleness and confinement 
 was a severe trial for a high spirited and re 
 markably active boy, and doubtless it went far 
 towards souring a disposition already a little 
 peevish and restless from over-indulgence, for 
 his parents, could not find it in their heart to 
 deny him anything, inasmuch as he was an 
 only son. Notwithstanding this unfortunate 
 accident, he grew up still adhering to a love 
 and passion for a physical development of his 
 frame, and his first visit abroad, after leaving 
 the sick room where he had been so long con 
 fined, was to the gymnasium, when he per 
 formed the very feat successfully, which fail 
 ing in before, had caused him a broken ankle. 
 
 Though hS necessarily walked lame ever 
 after, still his carriajre had that wv d
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 17 
 
 and grace, that early and continued mingling 
 in good society most generally impart. The 
 cultivation of his mind, too, was far above 
 that of the generality of the higher classes of 
 society. 
 
 Possessed of a natural shrewdness and apt 
 itude, he had mastered his studies promptly, 
 and graduated with honor at an early age at 
 Oxford. Time passed on, and his father de 
 siring to have some trusty person to visit his 
 immense possessions in India and to look af 
 ter his interests there, induced his son to 
 accept of a government appointment at Cal 
 cutta, and thus to go out with a double pur 
 pose. Just at this time there were some 
 matters of the utmost delicacy being transacted 
 in that quarter for the government, and the 
 charge of this business fell at once into his 
 hands. This he conducted to such a success 
 ful issue that on his return to England, though 
 very young for the honor, he was knighted by 
 the king. 
 
 Soon after his return, the father died and 
 left his son the sole heir of his immense for 
 tune, the mother having preceded Sir Rob 
 ert, some years previous, to the grave. The 
 son now found himself alone in the world, 
 with neither kith nor kin to care for. He 
 never had a brother and only one sister, WAQ 
 had died quite young. Having already run 
 through with the ordinary dissipations of the 
 capital before he went to India, he was tho 
 roughly disgusted with that species of life, 
 and it therefore held out no inducements to 
 him. Though he was by no means of an indo 
 lent disposition, yet he had not the taste that 
 would lead him to master fresh studies, or to 
 engage in politics as his father had done be 
 fore him, and thus in fact he rather endured 
 life than enjoyed it, for nearly a year after the 
 decease of his father. 
 
 Travel at last suggested itself to him as a 
 mode whereby to drive away ennui, and in 
 this mood he finally went abroad. After an 
 absence of less thau two years, he returned 
 once more*lo London, and surprised his friends 
 and the fashionable world by bringing with 
 him a young and beautiful wife. One whose 
 beauty and nobleness_of bearing stamped her 
 at once as of high descent, and who command 
 ed immediately that attention and respect that 
 is ever shown to dignity and beauty combined. 
 Sir Robert Brompton was beyond a doubt, if 
 2 
 
 not the best, at least one of the best matches 
 pecuniarily speaking, in all London; and their 
 marriage caused no little remark for a period 
 among the beauty and fashion o the great 
 metropolis, until the new couple settled down 
 into domestic life. 
 
 It is true Sir Robert's wife was some twelve 
 years his junior, and he himself was a little 
 old-bachelorish in his feelings and notions, yet 
 still they seemed to be very happy and cheer 
 ful together; no one even of the envious, had 
 aught to say to the contrary. But there were 
 clouds in the future that portended storms. 
 Sir Robert at least could already see deepen, 
 ing shadows crossing their pathway. 
 
 Their house had become the centre of much 
 fashion and style, and almost nightly balls and 
 routs formed their evening's entertainment. 
 Sir Robert was liberal to a fault ; no wish 
 of his wife's remained unsatisfied; and her 
 taste and judgment had ornamented her draw 
 ing rooms to perfection. She was young an 
 and rather inexperienced in the world's ways , 
 very beautiful, and of course the object of 
 much homage and attention. To say that this 
 was not agreeable to her, would be to say that 
 she did not possess the ordinary feelings and 
 promptings of her sex ; but to charge her with 
 any infidelity in thought or deed to Sir Rob 
 ert, would be the farthest thing possible from 
 the truth. He was ever honored and respect 
 ed by her. 
 
 And yet oftentimes when he observed her 
 smiling and enjoying the homage of some 
 sleek, well-formed sprig of the aristocracy, he 
 would glance at his own unseemly lameness, 
 and, shrugging his shoulders, utter a half-sup 
 pressed sigh. That he loved his wife tender 
 ly, was beyond a question; his every day life 
 gave ample proof of this, and at heart he also 
 believed that his love was fully returned. 
 
 Lord Henry Amherst, a young man of 
 surpassing attractions, both mentally and in 
 his manly and noble bearing, about this period 
 became acquainted with the lady of Sir Robert 
 Brompton. He was a frequent guest at her 
 parties, and a constant and devoted follower in 
 her* train. His position and title in grade, 
 were considerably above those of the Bromp 
 ton family, and the lady could not but feel 
 flattered by his open and devoted attention to 
 her; but it was her vanity only that was 
 pleased.
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 Sir Robert at first noticed him no more 
 than he did a score of other visitants at his 
 house and board, until by some chance a whis 
 pered remark one night, though not addressed 
 to him, yet met his ear, and a live coal drop 
 ped upon powder could hardly have been more 
 instantaneous in its effect. He became as 
 watchful of Lord Amherst as though he were 
 his bitterest enemy, seeking to injure him in 
 the keenest point ; his very glances were met 
 half-way by those of Sir Robert, who sought 
 by thus intercepting, to interpret them. He 
 was far too proud to speak to his wife upon 
 that subject; indeed the idea of doing such a 
 thing, never for a moment crossed his mind. 
 
 Satisfied at last that Lord Amherat's inten 
 tions upon his wife were of no honorable 
 character, Sir Robert took an opportunity on 
 one or two occasions to evince to him that his 
 visits Avere no longer desirable, so far as he 
 was concerned, at his house. But his lord 
 ship was too strongly attached to take the hint 
 at all, and continued both his visits and his 
 attention to Sir Robert's lady, with most con 
 stant devotion. As this sort of life went on, 
 Sir Robert's naturally jealous disposition be 
 gan to ripen, 
 
 " For his mind , 
 
 Had grown suspicion's sanctuary." 
 
 and he consequently magnified the most tri 
 fling familiarities into matters of the greatest 
 import ; and though he said nothing, yet he 
 brooded in secret over the feelings that in 
 fluenced him, until he felt sure that his wife 
 had married him not for himself alone, but for 
 his known wealth, and to suit herself with a 
 position in life, where, by her management, 
 she could draw about her such as would please 
 her vanity and taste. Indeed it looked so 
 plain to him now, that he thought himself a 
 fool not to have discovered it before. 
 
 Every kind word that his wife uttered to 
 him, now seemed to his jealous heart impreg 
 nated with gall and falsehood ; and every gen 
 tle and affectionate look, was set down by his 
 suspicious soul as a lie. Yet still, for all this, 
 he felt that he loved her beyond all else in 
 life, and that, in spite of these harrowing 
 thoughts, she was most incalculably dear to 
 him. "O," he would exclaim, "would to 
 God that I were a poor man, and she my wife ; 
 would that I could prove that she loved me 
 truly and faithfully." 
 
 Still most innocently did the lady of Sir 
 Robert Brompton smile gratefully upon Lord 
 Amherst, a consideration which he, of course, 
 translated with a lover's eye ; and still he al 
 lowed her with all the devotion of one com 
 pletely enslaved and infatuated by her beauty. 
 The annoyance that Sir Robert thus endured, 
 can hardly be calculated ; he was continually 
 upon coals of fire, and he felt that this could 
 not continue long. 
 
 It was nearly the hour for breaking up the 
 dance and merriment, one night at their hos 
 pitable mansion, when Sir Robert, who kept 
 his eyes constantly upon Lord Amherst, saw 
 him pick up the lady's handkerchief, which 
 she had apparently dropped by accident, and 
 also observed him slip within its folds a billet, 
 and then turning abruptly, leave the apart 
 ment. Sir Robert immediately hastened to 
 his wife's side, and after pausing for a mo 
 ment so as not to appear abrupt, said : 
 
 " Your handkerchief a moment, my dear, 
 some dust has fallen upon your mantle, and I 
 will brush it off." 
 
 Unconscious of having received any note or 
 aught else of an improper character from 
 Lord Amherst, the lady at once, smilingly, 
 handed the handkerchief to Sir Robert, from 
 which he extracted the note, and after pre 
 tending to brush her mantle, he returned it 
 to her again, satisfied that she at least was in 
 nocent of Lord Amherst's effort to communi 
 cate with her in this clandestine manner. He 
 retired at once to read the note. 
 
 Having reached the privacy of his library, 
 he opened the note and read as follows : 
 
 " DEAREST LADY : 
 
 " It must be that ere, this you have dis 
 covered the burning and ungovernable passion 
 that I bear you. live only in the light of 
 your smiles, and am impatient and unhappy 
 every hour that I pass away from your side. 
 I have never dared to tell you this, but I have 
 looked it a hundred times. Ah ! lady, give 
 me leave to hope that this feeling, that pos 
 sesses my whole soul, is mutual. Do not drive 
 me from you, for thus speaking frankly the 
 devotion that prompts me. I will not ask you 
 to write to me, but give me a flower, a leaf, a 
 ring, anything, dear lady, that I may under 
 stand as a token of encouragement. O, how 
 impatiently I shall await the moment when
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 19 
 
 we shall meet again, after you shall have read 
 this. May I not then hope to receive some 
 simple token of encouragement ? 
 44 Devotedly yours, 
 
 AMHERST." 
 
 Sir Robert Brompton was not a man to 
 throw away words in invectives, or waste 
 strength in profitless anger. He did pause 
 for a moment, to wonder within his own mind 
 what his wife would have done, had she re 
 ceived this missive ; and the thought crossed 
 him that it might be well to send it to her 
 still, as a sort of test to try her, and be on the 
 watch for the result. But this was in a mo 
 ment after rejected, as unworthy of his own 
 character, and of the relationship he bore her. 
 A moment's pause only was necessary for 
 him to make up his mind, as to what was 
 most proper for him to do. He sat down and 
 wrote to Lord Amherst, simply enclosing the 
 guilty letter, and telling him that it was use 
 less to multiply words about such a matter as 
 this, that he should expect from him the im 
 mediate satisfaction that one gentleman is 
 ever ready to accord to another, and finished 
 by saying that his friend, who was the bearer 
 of this note, could arrange matters on the spot, 
 for their meeting at daybreak next morning, 
 and that both for his lordship's sake and his 
 own, he trusted that the cause of their encoun 
 ter should remain a .secret even to their sec 
 onds. He closed and sealed this, and address 
 ed it to Lord Amherst. 
 
 Hurrying to the ball-room before it should 
 be entirely cleared, Sir Robert singled out the 
 most fitting person for his object, and return 
 ing with him to the library, placed the matter 
 before him at once, of course, observing the 
 strictest secrecy relative to the cause of the colli 
 sion. He urged upon his friend the utmost 
 dispatch, and having arranged a few necessary 
 matters, separated from him. Fortunately 
 he had chosen one well calculated to act 
 as his second, in this delicate affair. 
 
 Sir Robert's messenger, after reaching Lord 
 Amherst's quarter, sent up his name and also 
 word that he wished to see his lordship on 
 business of the utmost importance. Thus 
 summoned, though at such an unseasonable 
 hour, Mr. Wardsworth, the bearer of the note, 
 WAS admitted, and his lordship received him 
 2ft the d' awing room in his dressing gown. 
 
 " I was somewhat surprised at the hour you 
 have chosen for your call, Mr. Wardsworth," 
 said Lord Amherst, " but from the character 
 of your message by the servant, I thought it 
 best to see you," 
 
 " 1 come on business, my lord, that will ad 
 mit of no delay." 
 
 " Indeed , v sir." 
 
 " Your lordship will oblige me by casting 
 your eye over this," said Mr. Wardsworth, 
 handing the note that Sir Robert had address 
 ed to him. 
 
 Lord Amherst opened the seal and turned 
 first pale, then red, for he understood its mean 
 ing. He paused for a moment in thought, 
 and then said: 
 
 " I presume you do not know the contents 
 of this note, sir ?" 
 
 "I do not ; that concerns me not, as my 
 friend, Sir Robert, did not see fit to impart it 
 to me but as it regards the other matter, I'm 
 fully prepared." 
 
 " True ; you refer to the meeting," said 
 Lord Amherst, abstractedly. 
 
 "Exactly, sir. I should like to consult 
 your lordship's taste as far as practicable." 
 
 "Thank you, sir," said his lordship, a little 
 stiffly. 
 
 " I would suggest Round Head Moor, as a 4 
 fitting place." 
 
 " Very well, sir." 
 
 "And pistols at fifteen paces," continued 
 Mr. Wardsworth, in quite a business style. 
 
 " That will suit me very well," said Lord 
 Amherst, curling the note in his hand. 
 
 " Perhaps your lordship will name the 
 hour," said Mr. Wardsworth. 
 
 "As soon as the light will serve the soon 
 er the better, sir." 
 
 " Your lordship is very prompt, and my 
 principal will meet you at the Moor at day 
 light," said Mr. Wardsworth, "and in the 
 meantime, I have the honor to wish you good 
 night." 
 
 "Good night, sir," said Lord Amheitt, 
 ringing for a servant to show him out. 
 
 Neither Sir Robert nor Lord Amherst slert 
 that night, but both prepared to pass from the 
 gay scenes of the ball-room to one of blood 
 shed. The few intervening moments were 
 employed by each in making such brief M- 
 rangements relative to business matlen:, .-?. 
 might guaid against casualty.
 
 20 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 Before the morning sun had risen, they met 
 in due form on Round Head Moor, in those 
 days quite out of town, but now embraced 
 within the limits of the great city itself. 
 
 Lord Amherst looked pale, but not from 
 fear. Though he had much of the coxcomb 
 in his character, yet he was no craven ; but 
 that which paled his cheek was the guilt that 
 he could not but acknowledge to his own 
 heart. He lacked that inward sense of justice 
 that inspires a man who stands up for a good 
 cause. The truth was, he felt that he had 
 wronged his opponent, and that he stood there 
 a guilty man. 
 
 Sir Robert came upon the ground without 
 any change evinced in his countenance ; he 
 was calm and collected, and bowing courteous 
 ly to all parties, waited for the seconds to ar 
 range the necessary preliminaries. This 
 done, the combatants took their places as 
 pointed out to them by their seconds. 
 
 "Are you ready?" asked the second on 
 whom it had devolved to give the word. 
 
 A token of assent was observed from either 
 party. 
 
 " One two fire !" 
 
 The reports of the two pistols were simulta 
 neous. 
 
 Sir Robert Brompton folded his arms and 
 ; remained unharmed where he stood ; but Lord 
 Amherst was shot so severely in the right 
 limb, that he could not stand. The seconds 
 declared that the object of the meeting was 
 consummated, and the parties, according to 
 the rules of honor, discharged. 
 
 Sir Robert then approached Lord Amherst, 
 and said in a low tone of voice : 
 
 " My lord, as the injury that you have done 
 to me is but a partial one, so did I aim only to 
 wound you; had the injury been deeper, be 
 lieve me, sir, I should have aimed at your 
 heart, and those who know me can tell your 
 lordship whether I am apt to miss my aim. 
 But let me not taunt a wounded man." 
 
 " Say on, sir," said Lord Amherst, drawing 
 e sigh at the pain he felt ; " I was in the 
 wrong, and can see it now plainly enough, since 
 passion has been cooled by this encounter." 
 
 "Farewell, sir," said Sir Robert; "I wish 
 for your own sake that your repentance had 
 come earlier." 
 
 The encounter between Sir Robert and 
 Lord Amherst was kept a profound secret, nor 
 
 did his wife, even, know that any trouble had 
 occurred between them. She supposed that a 
 severe indisposition, caused by fever, was the 
 reason of his lordship's absence, and matters 
 went on at her parties as before. 
 
 In n way did Sir Robert change towards 
 his wife. He was the same to her outwardly r 
 as he had ever been ; but the cankering worm 
 gnawed at his heart still. In his domestic re 
 lations, he was thoroughly miserable, and the 
 more so, perhaps, from the fact, that his feel 
 ings found no outward vent. 
 
 At this stage of his domestic affairs, his 
 property in India bade fair to demand his im 
 mediate and individual attention. The im 
 mense extent of this possession and its enor 
 mous value, was such, that he did not feel 
 inclined to permit it to suffer in any way from 
 want of proper supervision, and he determined 
 to make the voyage thither and back again as 
 soon as it could be performed, and at the same 
 time accomplish his purpose. Dreading to 
 evince in any way that he was in the least 
 jealous of his wife, he resolved not to take her 
 with him. In his sensitiveness he feared that 
 an idea of taking her with him, expressed by 
 himself, would lead her to think that he was 
 fearful to leave her at home without him. 
 
 What a very coward suspicion will make of 
 a man! 
 
 He could not be long away, he thought, a 
 year at most, and then he would return. Re 
 turn ! alas, he cared but little whether he ever 
 returned to London again. 
 
 His parting with his wife had nearly led to 
 a full arid honest confession on his part, of the 
 fears and doubts that had brooded in his heart, 
 for she hung upon him so fondly, and wept so 
 bitterly at the prospect of their long separa 
 tion, that for a time, Sir Robert was equally 
 balanced in his mind as to whether he should 
 not seize upon so propitious a moment as was 
 now afforded him, to acknowledge the anguish 
 that he felt on her account, frankly own to her 
 that he believed his doubts and fear without 
 foundation, and beg her to forgive him for 
 ever entertaining so much as a thought reflect 
 ing upon her honesty to him. But that pride, 
 which formed so large an ingredient of his na 
 ture, forbade him to do so. He was kind and 
 gentle in his leave-taking, and thus still un 
 happy, bade her farewell. 
 
 As a companion and assistant to him in
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. . 
 
 21 
 
 matters of business, Sir Robert Brompton took 
 with him on his voyage an humble, but intel 
 ligent friend, one whose acquaintance and 
 friendship he had made and cultivated in col 
 lege, and whom he had learned to like for his 
 many good qualities, though he was of very 
 humble origin, and indeed at that time, a sort 
 of charity student at the university. But Sir 
 Robert, even when a mere lad, was not one to 
 pass by humble merit unrecognized, and they 
 became lasting and true friends. Frederick 
 Howard was only too happy to leave the hum 
 ble situation which he filled, as attache to 
 some city magazine, to go abroad, and also to 
 accept the liberal pecuniary offer that Sir 
 Robert made him for his services. 
 
 " When we were in college together, I liked 
 you," said Sir Robert, " because you were not 
 a fawning, cringing, flattering hanger-on upon 
 those who were more fortunate in the posses 
 sion of the world's goods, than yourself." 
 
 " I know how to appreciate your generous 
 patronage, nevertheless, Sir Robert," replied 
 his friend, smiling, 
 
 " Well, enough of that matter ; but what 
 think you ? Can this arrangement be made 
 to suit you ? Not exactly a dark, you under 
 stand, but a friend and assistant eh, Mr. 
 Howard ?" 
 
 " It will suit me exactly, sir." 
 
 " Very good ; then it is a bargain," said Sir 
 Robert. " Now, get ready as speedily as pos 
 sible, for I am impatient to be on ship-board." 
 
 Mr. Howard was about the same age as Sir 
 Robert. He had tasted the bitter cup of mis 
 fortune, nay, had even drank its contents to 
 the very dregs, and was consequently in his 
 feelings not a little misanthropic. But yet his 
 mind was too well balanced, to permit this to 
 amount to any actual defect in his general 
 character. In a long voyage, where they 
 were thrown so constantly together, it was but 
 natural that there should be considerable in 
 terchange of feeling and thought between 
 them, and for one possessing the peculiar feel 
 ings of Sir Robert, it was not singular that he 
 should sympathize in no small degree with the 
 sometimes remarkable philosophy and theories 
 of the companion he had chosen. Having 
 known him so long, Sir Robert treated him 
 more like a brother than a mere friend, and 
 thus it was that Frederick Howard often spoke 
 to him so plainly. 
 
 " When you were first married, Sir Robert," 
 said his companion one day, as they sat to 
 gether, " you seemed to belie my theory alto 
 gether, as to there being no love beyond the 
 immediate promptings of self-interest, for you 
 and your lady seemed most happy and con 
 tented together." 
 
 " When I was first married ?" said Sir 
 Robert, in a tone of surprise. 
 
 " Ay, I mean for a year or two," replied 
 his companion. 
 
 " For a year or two, Mr. Howard !" repeat 
 ed Sir Robert, thoughtfully, at the same time 
 rising with a troubled air, he walked the cabin 
 for some moments in silence, evincing the 
 while no slight tokens of agitation. At last 
 he paused, and asked more coolly : 
 
 " You think I'm changed then, Mr. How 
 ard. Pray how am I altered?" 
 
 " To an ordinary observer," said his com 
 panion, " perhaps not at all ; but to me, who 
 have observed you carefully for many years, 
 you are much altered." 
 
 "Indeed, indeed," said his patron, still 
 walking to and fro. 
 
 " Sir Robert, I think I may speak without 
 the fear of offending you. You know me too 
 well, I believe, to suppose I have any sinister 
 motives in doing so ; therefore, I will even ven 
 ture to say that which under ordinary circum 
 stances would be presuming in me." 
 
 " Speak freely, Mr. Howard, speak freely, 
 and I shall only feel that you are the better 
 and truer friend to me," said Sir Robert. 
 
 " Thank you for your confidence, Sir Rob 
 ert, and I will endeavor to deserve it." 
 
 His companion had, as he intimated, watch 
 ed him with no little interest, and in his 
 shrewdness and knowledge of human nature, 
 he had suspected the true state of Sir Robert's 
 feelings, and possessing this cue, he was en 
 abled to satisfy himself of the fact beyond a 
 doubt, as to his patron's being jealous and un 
 happy in relation to his wife. This he frank 
 ly told him, and by way of consolation, 
 wrought with his philosophy upon Sir Robert, 
 who frankly owned the truth. This confi 
 dence between them having once transpired, 
 their intimacy, of course, became redoubled, 
 and Mr. Howard gained the utmost influence 
 over Sir Robert, who submitted with all confi 
 dence his most private interests to the super 
 vision and direction of his friend.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE WRECK. 
 
 Had I been any god of power, I would 
 Have sunk the sea within the earth, ere 
 It should the good ship so have swallowed. 
 
 TEMPEST. 
 
 THE business that had brought Sir Robert 
 Brompton to India became more intricate in 
 its character than he had at first anticipated, 
 and he found soon after landing, that so far 
 from being able to return by the same ship that 
 had brought him from England, he might find 
 it necessary to remain abroad even a year or 
 more, and finding also that unless he did so 
 his pecuniary loss would be immense, he wrote 
 his wife the circumstances of the case by the 
 returning vessel, and assured her of his earliest 
 possible return. 
 
 It was a sickly season in India, and Sir 
 Robert had been domesticated there but a few 
 months when he was taken very ill with that 
 fearful scourge the small pox, ever terrible, but 
 doubly so in a hot climate. His sickness was 
 a prolonged one, and his life even, at one time 
 was despaired of. But Frederick Howard 
 proved to be a^true and consistent friend to his 
 patron, never leaving his side night or day, 
 patiently tending and waiting upon him with 
 ail the tenderness of a woman, until at last 
 Sir Robert was improving and finally became 
 comparatively well. Rarely does this disease 
 visit any one in hot climates without leaving 
 the marks of its ravages upon the skin, and so 
 
 it was with Sir Robert, whose face was, though 
 not seriously, yet considerably disfigured by it. 
 
 Knowing as much as the reader already 
 does of Sir Robert Brompton 's character and 
 general disposition, he will at once realize that 
 this disfigurement, though in reality of such 
 trifling import, was yet to him additional cause 
 for secret unhappiness as it regarded his per 
 sonal appearance. If he before had been an 
 noyed by the unfortunate circumstance of his 
 lameness, he was thrice as much disconcerted 
 by this additional and equally prominent 
 blemish, and in his moodishness and misan 
 thropic spirit he counted himself as absolutely 
 horrible and repulsive to the sight of those 
 about him. If his wife had heretofore con 
 trasted his appearance with that of the gay 
 frequenters of her drawing-rooms, what would 
 she do now ? He almost shuddered at the 
 contemplation of the idea. 
 
 Each hour he seemed to grow more dejected, 
 until one day, a proud ship came into port 
 bearing St. George's cross, with news from 
 England. But sad news, alas, it was for him. 
 It brought him letters stating that his wife had 
 been suddenly taken with a fever which had 
 proved fatal, and she was dead.
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 This entirely unexpected vicissitude chang 
 ed the whole current of Sir Robert's feelings. 
 He forgot himself in his sincere sorrow for the 
 departed, his deformities which he had magni 
 fied into such importance were no longer 
 thought of. Had Sir Robert been on the 
 most perfect terms of understanding with his 
 wife, he could not have mourned her loss more 
 sincerely, and for a long period his grief seem 
 ed completely to absorb him. Now that she 
 was gone and lost to him forever, he solemnly 
 believed that she had been true to him, beyond 
 a doubt, and in his heart he honestly subscribed 
 to her purity. 
 
 Sir Robert was right, his wife was pure and 
 true to him, and though she had mingled 
 freely in the gay world of London, she was 
 unscathed by the contest. 
 
 " Ere sin could blight or sorrow fade 
 Death ame with timely care " 
 
 With ample and special directions to manage 
 his affairs in London, Sir Robert despatched 
 his friend Howard to England, resolving him 
 self to stay at least a few months longer in 
 India, until the poignancy of his grief was 
 assuaged, and the world should have forgotten 
 his sorrow. For counting its sympathy hol 
 low and heartless, he could not patiently have 
 borne to meet its false sympathy ; he preferred 
 to keep his grief sacred, and sorrow alone 
 Within his own heart. 
 
 The few months that Sir Robert had intend 
 ed to remain at Calcutta after the departure of 
 his friend were swelled into some four years 
 and over, before he made up his mind to return 
 to England. In the mean time his agent, the 
 trust-worthy Frederick Howard, had regularly 
 despatched to him full intelligence of the mat 
 ters that he had charge of in London, and 
 thus Sir Robert felt no anxiety about his af 
 fairs at home. At last, however, he closed up 
 his business matters in India, and prepared for 
 a homeward bound voyage. 
 
 He finally embarked in the good ship 
 Northumberland, with every prospect of a 
 quick and pleasant voyage. They took a pilot 
 on board to bring the ship through the sea of 
 Bengal to the south'ard of Ceylon, from 
 whence they would lay their course, and open 
 the Indian ocean. 
 
 It is a lively and happy time on board when 
 the homeward-bound ship loosens her canvass 
 
 and moves through the water. Even Sir 
 Robert entered into the spirit that seemed to 
 pervade every soul on board, and noted each 
 order and preparation that arranged the large 
 ship for the voyage with marked interest. She 
 was a picture of nautical beauty, with every 
 thing set that would draw for your East In- 
 diaman spreads a cloud of canvass on the 
 long voyage. With her courses, topsails, 
 topgallants and royals, she bowled along at a 
 six knot rate over the blue waters of the Indian 
 Bay. Even her becket main sky-sail was 
 filled to the wind on her courses, a graceful 
 tiny sky scraper that furls neatly, when need 
 be, with the main royal. 
 
 They had scarcely doubled the southern 
 coast of Ceylon and prepared to land the pilot, 
 when a fierce squall came leaping over the 
 sea, and whirling in the air with a fury that 
 made the oldest seaman on board the Northum 
 berland look toward the quarter deck for or 
 ders to meet the emergency. The pilot's 
 quick eye saw it at once, and he leaped back 
 to the station which he was just about to leave 
 as commander of the ship, for the time being. 
 With a quick perception of the danger and 
 the means to prevent it, he issued his orders 
 at once with the coolness and rapidity, so re 
 quisite at times on the ocean, and which show 
 ed him master of his noble profession. 
 
 ^ " The water darkens, and the rustling sound 
 Tells of the coming squall." 
 
 " All hands shorten sail," shouted the pilot 
 from the quarter deck. 
 
 The crew of a well regulated ship are all 
 trained to know their stations, and when an 
 order is issued, there is no jostling or indeci 
 sion each man knows his duty. 
 
 " Lay aft here, and brail up the spanker. 
 Lay aloft and furl." 
 
 Already " ay, ay, sir," was responded to 
 each order by those who sprung to fulfil it. 
 
 " Bear a hand forward there, down with the 
 flying jib and stow it, some of ye run up and 
 help hand the topgallant sails." 
 
 " Keep the ship oflf a bit, steady so." 
 
 " Steady, it is, sir," said the attentive helms 
 man, as he fell off his course a couple of points 
 to give the men aloft a chance to work to bet 
 ter advantage. 
 
 These and other orders followed each other 
 in quick succession, and were obeyed with that
 
 24 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 alacrity and promptness that characterizes all 
 manoeuvres at sea. The ship though greatly 
 relieved by the spread of canvass that had 
 been taken in, yet reached through the water 
 like a race horse, while the squall seemed to be 
 ripening into a gale. The black clouds were 
 driving on in thick array, and big drops of rain 
 mingled with the gusts of wind, until at last it 
 poured in torrents from the sky. Though 
 near mid-day, yet it became almost as dark as 
 night, and the seamen put on their storm 
 clothes with ominous looks at these startling 
 signs of the weather, which foreboded hard 
 work for them. 
 
 Seeing he promptness and ability of the 
 pilot, the captain of the Northumberland 
 had at the commencement of the squall sprung 
 into the waist of the ship and borne a hand 
 with he rest of the crew in obeying the or 
 ders that were issued. There being now a 
 pause, he came aft again. 
 
 " She staggers under it, Mr. Pilot," he said, 
 looking at the canvass that the ship still spread 
 to the storm, and observing the way in which 
 she plunged into the sea. 
 
 " True, she does strain a little," said the 
 pilot, with a quick eye directed about the ship. 
 
 " Hadn't we better get in the mainsail ?" 
 suggested the captain. 
 
 " Not yet, we must weather these points 
 before it will do to take in any more," said the 
 officer, as he instructed the man at the helm 
 to steer " small." . 
 
 " Nothing off, sir, nothing off," repeated the 
 pilot sternly, to the man at the helm. 
 
 Already the sea was blown and tossed into 
 a perfect fury, and run tremendously high, and 
 having gained the desired point, the order was 
 at last given by the pilot. 
 
 " Stand by to take in the mainsail, ease off 
 the sheet, up with it, lively so belay that, 
 ease away the tacks, so well furl." 
 
 Following these orders, the huge sheet of 
 canvass was soon strongly lashed in place. 
 
 " Stand by to reef topsails. Close reef top 
 sails. Haul down the jib." 
 
 " Mr. Mate," said the pilot to a smart, intel 
 ligent sailor who filled that post. 
 
 " Ay, ay, sir," responded the mate. 
 
 " Now hoist the foretopmast staysail, that's 
 it, cheerily, cheerily, boys, with a will there," 
 said the pilot, in encouraging tones. 
 
 " In with your foretopsail." 
 
 To one not acquainted with the gear of a 
 ship, it may be well to say that the sail which 
 the pilot had just ordered set, was a sort of 
 storm sail, and having got the ship in hand, he 
 found her, although laboring hard, yet safe. 
 In this gear they run for some hours to the 
 south 'ard, at a speed that placed all calculation 
 at fault. The sea all the while increasing in 
 violence until at last a heavy wave combed 
 over the taffrail, half engulfing the helmsman, 
 and causing him to let the ship yaw off proudly, 
 as seamen say. The heft of the sea, 
 however, passed under the ship as she lifted 
 like a sea bird upon its swell. 
 
 " Where are you carrying the ship to ?" 
 shouted the pilot, abruptly. " What are you 
 about ? Don't you see your wake broad off 
 the lee beam !" 
 
 The helmsman, who was really a good sailor, 
 was disconcerted, and shoved the helm hard 
 down at once to recover his course, which 
 caused the ship to broach to, with such force 
 and rapidity that it seemed utterly impossible 
 to meet her with the helm in time. 
 
 " Meet her !" shouted the pilot from the 
 weather main rigging. 
 
 " Ay, ay, sir," said the man, struggling at 
 his post of duty. 
 
 " Meet her, I say !" again shouted the pilot, 
 angrily, leaping upon the deck and rushing 
 aft to enforce his order: for to his experienced 
 eye all depended upon this movement. 
 
 Seizing the helm, he endeavored to remedy 
 the trouble by his own skill. 
 
 But it was too late. The ship came grace 
 fully up in the wind, and in the next moment 
 was taken aback, losing her steerage way, 
 and was thrown at once on her beam ends. 
 Every one rushed to secure a hold upon some 
 object that might seem to give even temporary 
 support, and all discipline seemed lost. The 
 captain and some of the crew were already 
 missing and were doubtless drowned. It was 
 a trying time, such as proves a man, and such 
 an one as few men are equal to. The pilot of 
 the Northumberland was quite a young man 
 to fill such a station, but he proved himself 
 fully equal to the task. 
 
 " Steady, for your lives !" he shouted to a 
 
 small knot of seamen nearest to him, in a 
 
 voice that was distinctly heard above the din 
 
 of the rushing waters and howling storm. 
 
 The men, accustomed to strict discipline, and
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 25 
 
 to obey the voice of authority, stood firm, and 
 watched their young commander like those 
 who felt the power of a directing mind. 
 
 " Forward there with your hatchets ! 
 Promptly, men, it's no time for play now ! 
 Cut way the foremast, lee lanyards first, well 
 now the weather." 
 
 A few strokes of the axe, and the mast 
 snapped off like a pipe-stem and went by the 
 board, for the strain upon it was immense. 
 The head stays were cut loose from the bow 
 sprit, and the ship drifted free from the wreck, 
 while the pilot paused for a moment to see 
 what effect this movement would have upon 
 the hull of the Northumberland. It was only 
 for a moment, when he cried : 
 
 " Hurra ! She lifts a bit. Lay aft here, 
 and cut away the mizzen." 
 
 This order was obeyed in a like manner 
 with that which had removed the foremast. As 
 the dismembered spar cleared itself, it also 
 dragged the main topmast off the cap, and 
 thus relieved, the ship slowly righted, but not 
 without having shipped a large quantity of 
 water. 
 
 It will be observed that the Northumberland 
 had still her mainmast standing, and of course 
 with it the main spencer ; a sail which brails 
 to the mast itself. Consequently those in 
 command of the ship had only to haul aft the 
 main spencer sheet, and put the helm down, 
 although she was a third full of water and a 
 partial wreck, to lay her to, snugly, even in a 
 hard gale, and this was at once done. 
 
 All through the series of catastrophes 
 that beset the noble ship, Sir Robert Brompton 
 had been as calm as it was possible for any 
 one to be under such circumstances. He was 
 too much of a philosopher to fear death, nor 
 had life such strong ties with him as to make 
 him tremble at the thought of leaving it. He 
 had found time more than once during the 
 struggle of the elements, to admire the self- 
 possession of the young pilot, who seemed to 
 be equal to any emergency, and to rise in 
 ability and skill in a ratio with the increase 
 of danger, and the demand upon him for the 
 exercise of these qualities. To look upon, he 
 was scarcely more than a boy, and yet he had 
 held the ship in complete control during the 
 whole period of her danger, as far as any hu 
 man being might do so, and had, as we have 
 seen, rescued her from a most perilous and 
 
 The men were impressed with the utmost 
 confidence in the young officer, for no one 
 knows quicker than your foremast hand, 
 whether the ship is handled in a masterly 
 manner, and if this is the case, admiration 
 and respect are both the result, in Jack's hon 
 est heart. The pilot ordered some refresh 
 ments dealt out to the crew, with a small ra 
 tion of spirit to each man, for they had tasted 
 neither food nor drink for many long hours, 
 and they partook of both like famished men. 
 These refreshments came from the cabin 
 stores, and were better than the fare they were 
 accustomed to in the forecastle, which gave it 
 additional zest, and also pleased the men as a 
 mark of consideration and kindness from those 
 above them. 
 
 The brief meal was hurriedly partaken of 
 when the order came from the pilot : 
 
 " Stand by, to man the pumps. 
 
 "Ay, ay, sir," shouted a dozen willing 
 voices ; and there is a charm in the prompt 
 ness with which a mariner responds, both in 
 word and action, to the orders at sea. 
 
 " Clap on there in earnest," said the pilot 
 pleasantly to the men " we've water enough 
 along side, and can't afford it stowage on 
 board. In earnest, men, in earnest !" 
 
 Thus encouraged and directed, the men ap 
 plied themselves with vigor to the work, and 
 burst forth in the long drawling "ye-ho-boys," 
 such as they sing when the windlass is man 
 ned, and the ponderous anchor is hove up 
 preparatory to the long voyage. 
 
 " You have these men in complete control," 
 remarked Sir Robert to the young officer, as 
 he stood on the quarter deck issuing his or 
 ders. 
 
 " O yes, sir. In our profession men will 
 always follow your lead, if it is ship-shape." 
 
 " You seem very young, sir, for the respon 
 sible station you hold." 
 
 "The greater part of my life has been 
 passed upon the water," replied the pilot. 
 
 " And to good purpose, too," said Sir Rob 
 ert, "for you certainly possess every requisite 
 of coolness and prompt judgment." 
 
 Every now and then the pilot bore a hand 
 at the pumps with the rest, though his atten 
 tion was required frequently at the other part 
 of the ship, but he constantly incited the 
 men with those prompt and cheerful orders 
 that sound so well from the lips of those in 
 command on the ocean.
 
 26 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 Sir Robert laid his hands stoutly to the 
 pumps, and with his extraordinary strength 
 was of no small service as it regarded clearing 
 the ship of water. The unremitting efforts 
 of all hands at last cleared the ship, and she 
 was found on examination to be tight, though 
 severely strained in her timbers. 
 
 Though the wind had somewhat subsided, 
 yet it still blew very fresh, besides which it 
 was dead ahead for those in the ship, and 
 thus prevented their laying their course back 
 to port again. They supposed themselves to 
 be in the track of homeward bound European . 
 vessels, and therefore resolved to run free 
 awhile, until the weather should be such as to 
 enable them to discover their latitude. But 
 in the me-m time, though with the ship's head 
 to the west, still the Northumberland drifted 
 with great speed to the south, and although 
 they perceived this, yet it was beyond their 
 power to a^.'itl it, since they had not even the 
 ordinary means to withstand the contrary 
 wind, to say nothing of the set of the current. 
 
 " How think you this will end ?" asked Sir 
 Robert, of the pilot, one day. 
 
 " Heaven only knows, sir, skill can effect 
 nothing in mir case." 
 
 " The current seems to set us still to the 
 south, with much rapidity." 
 
 " It does, I have noticed it these two days 
 past as stronger than ever." 
 
 " As it changes our position, it may prove a 
 blessing after all," said Sir Robert. 
 
 "Possibly, but I fear it only gets us hourly 
 from the truck of vessels." 
 
 " We mu*t hope for the best, and let time 
 decide our fate," said Sir Robert. 
 
 The crew of the ship had lost one half their 
 number, including the captain, in the height 
 of the gale. But they were cheerful and in 
 good discipline still, and kept up their spirits 
 bravely, notwithstanding that the stout ship, 
 though with one good sail upon her, was still 
 but little better than a log upon the water. 
 
 The simplest comprehension on board the 
 wreck of the Northumberland could easily 
 understand the peril of their situation, for al 
 lowing that they were so fortunate as to escape 
 a gale, and thus be engulfed, still each passing 
 hour brought them nearer and nearer to the 
 end of their supply of provisions', which were 
 dealt out only on short allowance at this time, 
 in sad anticipation of the period when the las* 
 
 ration would be upon the m?ss table, and 
 famine stare them boldly in the face. One or 
 two moderate rains had fortunately supplied 
 them with fresh water, which was also care 
 fully caught and preserved, for experience 
 teaches the sailor the true value of water. In 
 short, everything that experience and care 
 could do to avert their final sufferings was 
 promptly performed by the pilot's orders, who 
 seemed to be peculiarly fitted to meet the 
 present emergency. 
 
 Sometimes for days together they would be 
 totally becalmed, and while Sir Robert and the 
 pilot became better acquainted in the cabin, 
 the seamen forward whiled away the time with 
 forecastle yarns. 
 
 It is a natural propensity that seems to at 
 tach itself to a seaman to spin a yarn, or lis 
 ten to one, at every leisure moment ; he takes 
 as naturally to story-telling as a fish does to 
 water. The heel of the bowsprit, and the im 
 mediate vicinity of the forecastle is sacred 
 ground to him, his memory associates all of ro 
 mance that he has ever heard with this spot, 
 and as a component part of the ship, it is 
 scarcely less honored than the sacred precincts 
 of the quarter deck itself. The one, stern dis 
 cipline has taught him to respect, but the other 
 he loves for the memories that he associates 
 with it, and the yarns he has listened to there, 
 during the long watches in the tropics, or in 
 the lull of the storm. 
 
 Your old sea dog who has been many a long 
 voyage, and whose exterior presents a rough 
 and storm-beaten appearance, to look upon, 
 would seem to be the very opposite of any 
 thing like sensibility, and to have as little ten 
 derness or delicacy of feeling in his composi 
 tion as the ship's rudder itself; but many a 
 tear has that old salt shed in his night watch 
 while he listened to the characteristic story of 
 some messmate. Beneath that blue jacket 
 beats a Christian heart, often-times more Chris 
 tian than your landsman, whose every-day 
 contact with the selfish and overreaching 
 about him, hardens his nature, and blunts the 
 sensibility of his heart. 
 
 The world on shore grows selfish and pinch 
 ing in their dispositions, but who ever saw a 
 real Jack tar who was not generous to a fault ? 
 Ready to share his last dollar with his mess 
 mate, or to freely spend for others, the money 
 which he has labored so hard and risked so 
 much to obt;iin.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE SOLITARY ISLAND. 
 
 0, had we some bright little isle of our own, 
 In the blue summer ocean far off and alone ! 
 
 MOORE. 
 
 DAYS, nay, weeks had passed on, and the 
 wrecked vessel, still driven by the currents and 
 the wind, was now fairly lost in the boundless 
 extent of the southern ocean, and as all on 
 board were but too well aware, far away from 
 the track of all known commerce. 
 
 The people on board the Northumberland 
 began to despair of ever again reaching their 
 home, for the ship would hardly steer at all by 
 what convass they could spread upon her. 
 True, she might at times be said to have 
 steerage way, but this was so , doubtfully 
 contested with the winds and currents 
 that beset her, that it afforded no degree of 
 hope. A shade of despair pervaded the coun 
 tenances now of even the boldest ; some pre 
 tended to laugh away their fears and the ap 
 prehensions that others freely indulged in, but 
 when they thought themselves unobserved, 
 they showed by their countenances that the 
 lamp of hope, if burning at all within their 
 hearts, was but dim indeed. Still there was 
 no repining, no grumbling, all seemed to be 
 patiently awaiting for the next gale to come, 
 which would beyond a doubt sweep the ship 
 and all hands into eternity. But they could 
 not read the future. 
 
 It was a mild night on the sea ; the waters 
 had changed colors with the heavens, the deep 
 blue was now above, lit up by millions of stars, 
 the silvery fleece of the noon-day sky was 
 on the face of the waters, and those on board 
 of the Northumberland seemed to be floating 
 upon one boundless molten sea of silver. 
 The moon shone almost too brightly, we mean 
 too brightly for the loneliness of heart that 
 pervaded the wreck, and you might trace the 
 moon's wake upon the sea, by a deepened 
 glowing column into a distance that would 
 make the eye ache, and the brain to tire. 
 Some leaned listlessly over the bulwarks and 
 gazed into the deep, others slept beneath the 
 broad canopy of heaven ; here were a knot 
 gathered of some five or six who were spinning 
 yarns of their former adventures and of stories 
 that they had picked up in their roving profes 
 sion, until at last all save a single officer and 
 the man at the helm, were asleep. 
 
 The officer was walking the quarter deck 
 thoughtfully, pausing now and then to study 
 the strange and lonely picture that surrounded 
 him, now upon the sea and now among the 
 sleepers, who perhaps were happy in their 
 dreams, and in fancy once more beholding
 
 23 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 that land which in their waking moments they 
 had so fervently and constantly prayed for. 
 Once the officer walked forward among the 
 slumbering crew with a noiseless step, and 
 paused, to study the expressions of those 
 bronzed faces beneath the broad moon light, 
 but with half a smile and half a sigh, he 
 walked aft again to the quarter deck. 
 
 It was the morning watch, for the strictest 
 discipline was still enforced on board of the 
 Northumberland ; the pilot and Sir Eobert, 
 who were the directing minds there, knowing 
 full well that this was the only means to 
 preserve contentment and ensure even the 
 possibility of their eventual rescue and safe 
 ty. Had each one of the motley crew been 
 permitted to use his own discretion or fancy, 
 in the sad state they were in, the wreck would 
 have become a second Babel, and riot and 
 debauch would soon have defeated every well 
 digested hope, for the improvement of any 
 chance advantage that fortune might cast in 
 their way. 
 
 As the break of day gradually lighted up 
 the eastern horizon and cast its wakening light 
 over the expanse of waters, it discovered the 
 officer of the deck to be the young pilot whose 
 master spirit had coped so skillfully with the 
 raging tempest. With the growing light he 
 carefully scanned the horizon with his glass 
 until he seemed to rivet it at last upon one 
 spot, and to regard that with the utmost care. 
 He was too thorough a seaman to give a false 
 alarm, but approaching the helmsman he said 
 quietly : 
 
 " Jack." 
 
 V Ay, ay, sir." 
 
 " Take a look through the glass hereaway, 
 a point or so off the larboard bow." 
 
 The man, depositing his cap upon the deck 
 as a mark of respect, while the pilot took the 
 helm, fixed the glass upon the desired point, 
 and gazed for more than a minute without 
 speaking. Then turning to his officer, he 
 looked him in the face without a word, but a 
 big tear rolled down either of his rough sun 
 burnt cheeks. Manly tears of joy, the outpour 
 ing of a longing spirit ! 
 
 "Well, Jack, what do you see?" asked the 
 pilot, who was resolved to satisfy himsp'f oy 
 other eyes than his own, before he gave full 
 credence to his supposition. 
 
 " Land, sir !" replied the man, with a 
 quivering lip ! 
 
 " Isn't it the blowing of a whale, or the 
 back of a big fish, Jack ?" 
 
 "No, your honor," said the helmsman, 
 drawing the back of his hand across his eyes, 
 "nothing but land could loom up after that 
 fashion." 
 
 Leaping into the main-shrouds, the pilot as 
 cended to the head of the main-mast, and 
 once more carefully studied the point which 
 had engaged his attention. He awaited for a 
 few moments the more complete break of day, 
 and then descended to the deck with a spirit 
 that he had not before evinced for many a 
 long day. Already many of the crew were 
 awake, and observing the change in their 
 commander's manner, were on the alert at 
 once, nor had all fairly aroused, when his 
 clear, manly voice shouted : 
 
 "Lay aft here, and ease away the main 
 spencer sheet." 
 
 This order told the story at once to every 
 one, and being followed by another to the 
 helmsman to fall off a couple of points from 
 his course, a;l knew that they were standing 
 for some object ahead. The crew were look 
 ing out now from the bows, and soon after 
 sunrise discovered with the naked eye, 
 
 " Fluttering between the dun wave and the sky," 
 
 the green hills and soft foliage of a low tropi 
 cal island. To their longing eyes and anxious 
 hearts, it seemed the fairy-like shape of Para 
 dise itself. They became almost intoxicated 
 with delight, and there was not a dry eye on 
 board the wreck as they were borne on by the 
 breeze, and let go their anchor in a snug but 
 deep bay that seemed opening its arms to re 
 ceive them. It was scooped out by nature for 
 the very purpose of a safe harbor, sheltered 
 on all sides from the wind, by gently sloping 
 and green-clad hills. 
 
 " 1 have read of such spots as this in fairy 
 tales," said Sir Robert to the pilot, as both 
 stood gazing almost entranced at this lovely 
 gem of the ocean. 
 
 " Any land would look incomparably beauti 
 ful to us now," said the pilot. 
 
 " What an abundance of vegetation and of 
 animals too," said Sir Robert, observing a 
 herd of goats on a sloping hill-side not far 
 inland.
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 29 
 
 " But there are no trees of any size that I 
 can see," said the pilot, whose practised eye 
 was looking for the means of supplying the 
 Northumberland once more with masts and 
 spars. 
 
 " How are we to get ashore ?" asked Sir 
 Kobert ; " there's not a boat left us." 
 
 " Look over the side, Sir Robert, I've set 
 the boys to work already." 
 
 " O, a raft," said his companion, observing 
 the spirit of alacrity with which half a dozen 
 men were placing together pieces of timber 
 lowered to them by others from the deck. 
 
 Upon this hastily formed, yet secure convey 
 ance, Sir Robert, the pilot, and all of the crew 
 save three, who were left with arms and am 
 munition to prevent a surprise should the 
 ship be visited by natives, went on shore, in 
 the first place to obtain some fresh provisions, 
 and in the next to explore the island, and see 
 what resources it afforded that might be turn 
 ed to advantage in their peculiar situation. 
 
 A very brief survey was sufficient to dis 
 cover to Sir Robert and the pilot that the 
 island which they had thus providentially 
 been thrown upon, was uninhabited by human 
 beings, and that it had probably never before 
 been visited by the foot of man. Notwith 
 standing there were a great profusion of ani 
 mals, such as goats, hares, and a small kind 
 of deer like a gazelle. There were many kinds 
 of birds too, indigenous to the tropics, with 
 an innumerable variety of ducks and water 
 fowls, generally so tame and fearless that the 
 sailors easily secured them with their hands 
 alone, Turtles and tortoises abounded on the 
 shore, and were looked upon with longing 
 eyes by the men, who promised themselves 
 most luxurious feasting. 
 
 The fruits seemed to grow in the most rank 
 abundance and richness, and the men partook 
 freely of plantains, bananas, cocoanuts, and 
 the bread fruit, with many others, racy and 
 most grateful to their palates, for which how 
 ever they knew no name. From a rocky shelf on 
 a hill side that overlooked the little harbor, a 
 cool, limpid spring bubbled forth from the 
 cleft of the rock, tumbling into a natural basin, 
 where the deer and goats came to drink. The 
 first effort of the crew was to reach this water 
 and slake their thirst, and refresh their bo 
 dies by bathing in it. Few know how to 
 value the blessing of pure fresh water who 
 
 have not suffered for the want of it at sea. 
 With this luxury among the rest, the crew of 
 the Northumberland, after drifting about the 
 ocean for nearly four months, living upon salt 
 provisions alone, now feasted like princes upon 
 the fat of the land. 
 
 The raft served them in their impatience 
 very well for the time being, and also after 
 wards for the transportation of heavy materi 
 als, but the carpenter was at once set to work 
 to build a commodious and safe boat for the 
 use of all. This was no trifling matter in a 
 spot where the material must be got out of old 
 stock taken from the ship, and it was weeks 
 even before the people of the ship could make 
 the passage to the shore save upon the large 
 and cumbersome raft that had at first been 
 constructed. But under the guidance of Sir 
 Robert and the pilot, matters went on very 
 smoothly, and everything was done with a 
 purpose, and an eye to the husbanding of such 
 articles as, once consumed, it would be impos 
 sible for them again to supply. For this rea 
 son sea biscuit became a prohibited article, 
 and flour was not allowed to be used on any 
 consideration, except in the smallest possible 
 quantity in cooking ; it was an article that 
 would keep at sea, and they foresaw in their 
 providence a use for it when vegetables might 
 not be had. 
 
 Tents were raised upon the island with the 
 ship's spare canvass- in well sheltered and se 
 cure places, and the provisions which had be 
 come wet by exposure during the storm they 
 had experienced, were brought on shore and 
 carefully dried, and preserved in a snug cellar 
 prepared for their reception. By degrees the 
 ship itself was taken to pieces and brought 
 to the shore, timber after timber, and 
 piece by piece, for she was of no use to 
 them as she then was, where wood could not 
 be obtained to put masts into her ; and besides 
 it was discovered that she was strained below 
 the water lines beyond their power to repair. 
 
 The idea of building a small vessel from 
 her material had struck the minds of the pilot 
 and Sir Robert at the outset, and thus every 
 spar, plank and bolt were carefully preserved 
 and carried on shore, until the good ship 
 Northumberland had entirely disappeared. 
 She had of course ample spare articles in the 
 way of ship chandlery to fit up a smaller ves 
 sel indifferently well, and these with the arti-
 
 30 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 cles in use on board, formed a very complete 
 assortment of stores to draw upon. All ves 
 sels of the long voyage carry ample ship's 
 stores in the matter of sails, cordage and the 
 like to guard against unforeseen accidents. 
 
 The Northumberland having, after nearly 
 three months, been thus brought piece by piece 
 safely on shore, it was proposed to give the 
 crew a few days for rest and recreation, a plan 
 that Sir Robert and the pilot proposed, as 
 they thought it would have a good effect upon 
 the spirits of the men, who had really worked 
 very hard since the day on which they anchor 
 ed in the little land-locked bay of the lone 
 island. And now they were to commence 
 upon a fresh task, which, even with the utmost 
 application, would require some four months 
 to complete. 
 
 After all proper arrangements had been con 
 summated, the keel of a sloop, designed to be 
 of some two hundred tons burthen, was laid in 
 due form, and all save four of the crew went 
 earnestly to work upon it, under the guidance 
 of the pilot and the carpenter of the Northum 
 berland. The latter individual happening to 
 be a man who thoroughly understood his busi 
 ness, became a personage of no small import 
 ance to the interests of all concerned. 
 
 Some of the crew in the mean time were 
 employed under the direction of Sir Robert, 
 in securing and preparing provisions for the 
 rest ? nor was this a slight task, since provid 
 ing for the immediate consumption was but a 
 part of it. Many days were passed in secur 
 ing and curing deer's tongues and quarters, 
 and in collecting some of the best turtle to be 
 put on shipboard, with other prepared food for 
 the voyage home. Sir Robert himself was 
 most industrious in taming and fattening 
 numerous fowls of difTerent species, to be kept 
 alive in coops on board the proposed vessel, to 
 supply them v\ith that rarity at sea, fresh pro 
 visions. And thus all went prosperously on, 
 and each man exerted himself to the utmost to 
 perform his duty and to push matters ahead. 
 
 In the mean time, Sir Robert and the pilot 
 found the island which they had thus by 
 chance discovered, to be some nine miles in 
 circumferenc-% and as pretty a spot as ever 
 smiled be.itath a tropical sun. It was not 
 only profuse in vegetation and in the rarest 
 and sweetest of wild flowers, but its almost 
 boundless supply of fres provisions was of in 
 
 calculable importance to Sir Robert and his 
 party. Though they were amply supplied 
 with fire arms, yet a gun had not been dis 
 charged since they landed on the island, for 
 there was neither animal nor bird there that 
 might not be secured with the utmost ease, 
 and slaughtered at will with the knife. Some 
 half dozen goats were so easily tamed that 
 they were petted and kept about the immedi 
 ate vicinity of the camp, and taught to afford 
 their milk for the use of the officers and crew 
 of the Northumberland, so that with their am 
 ple supply of coffee, their comfort was greatly 
 enhanced as it regarded the matter of the 
 palate. 
 
 "It wants but one blessing to make this 
 island a perfect paradise," said the pilot. 
 
 " And that is " 
 
 " The society of woman, Sir Robert ; with 
 a loved companion, I could dwell here for 
 ever." 
 
 " You are romantic, Mr. Pilot," said Sir 
 Robert, smiling. 
 
 "It is an humble wish, and I've dreamed of 
 it many a night since we have been here." 
 
 And thus it did really seem to the pilot and 
 many of the crew .also, for the beautiful island 
 appeared to produce spontaneously nearly all 
 that men could need for food. And many 
 was the sigh those honest hearts uttered for 
 those they had left at horns, that they could 
 not there together er;joy such richness of cli 
 mate, such delicious fruits, and such loveliness 
 as surrounded them on all sides. 
 
 Gathered about the entrance of their tents, 
 upon the soft green sward, the seamen would 
 smoke their pipes and spin those yarns and sea 
 stories that form the charm of the forecastle. 
 Some were of the actual experience of these 
 rovers of the* deep, and some were re-told 
 from other lips. A bold adventurous vein 
 generally pervaded them, though they rarely 
 ended without a love plot, for seamen are pro 
 verbially gallant. 
 
 It was a wild scene that the crew thus al 
 most nightly presented, and Sir Robert and the 
 pilot, whose tents were a short distance from 
 the rest, which they overlooked, sometimes 
 stole down to within ear-shot to listen, for di 
 version's sake, to some of these nautical yarns ; 
 nor were they without interest even to them, 
 now thrown so completely upon their own re 
 sources for amusement.
 
 CHAPTER VI, 
 
 THE SAILOR'S YARN. 
 
 Cease, rude Boreas, blustering railer ! 
 
 List, ye landsmen, all to me ; 
 Messmates, hear a brother sailor 
 
 Sing the dangers of the sea. 
 
 STEVENS. 
 
 A ROTJGH and hearty set of men were they 
 that were left of the Northumberland's crew. 
 They were gathered now as we have describ 
 ed, before their tents in a social knot, when 
 Jack Spencer, a sort of spokesman among 
 them, and the same Jack who was helmsman 
 when the pilot first discovered the island, 
 spoke up : 
 
 "Well, messmates," said he, "I shouldn't 
 mind about bcin' cast away once in a while, if 
 so be I might fall in with Bill Jenks's luck." 
 
 " What was that, Jack ?" said a half-dozen 
 voices in a single breath. 
 
 " O, bother it !" replied Jack Sfencer, cram 
 ming a large quid of tobacco in his cheek, and 
 looking a little annoyed at the query ; " I d'n 
 know. The yarn has been stowed away so 
 long, that I'm blasted if I can get hold of it 
 just now. But wait a bit, and p'raps I'll get 
 an end out." 
 
 " Heave ahead, my hearty, 1 ' said one at his 
 elbow, " reel it off." 
 
 " Yes, pay out, old fellow," chimed in a 
 half-dozen of his messmates. 
 
 Jack paused for a moment, and thrust his 
 hand under his tarpaulin as if he had ?udden- 
 
 ly discovered the location of the missing yarn, 
 then settling himself comfortably he began : 
 
 " You see now, messmates, though I'd be a 
 bit puzzled to overhaul the story, it's not 1 
 that would ever forget Bill Jenks ; no, nor 
 you either if ye'd ever seen him. He was a 
 sailor ; none of your fresh water shark or 
 land crab about him ; he was a true-blue every 
 inch of him, and no mistake, and as fancy a 
 chap too as ever I clapped eyes on; figure 
 head, cutwater, plank-shear and all. Well, 
 d'ye see, I knowed him in old Portsmouth, 
 and the women all said there was never a 
 prettier blue jacket stopped ashore, than B;'.! 
 Jenks. Ay, he was a whole-hearted sailor, 
 stem and stern." 
 
 " Belay that," said a rough tar opposite to 
 Jack Spencer, "you've g"t your craft full- 
 rigged, why don't you launch it and stand ou* 
 into deep water ?" 
 
 " Ay, ay. Well, d'ye see, it was this way 
 with Bill Jenks. It was when he was livirf*- 
 ashore at Portsmouth, with plenty of prize 
 money aboard and all fair weather aloft, he 
 had made up to get spliced to a neat little 
 craft that he'd in tow for the matter of a year
 
 32 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 or two, and then to take a shop and settle 
 down for life on shore. Well, d'ye see, just 
 as the day was fixed and all the tackle was 
 got ready to histe 'em right into matrimony, 
 what does the gal do but let fly her sheets and 
 run off afore the wind with a flash sargent or 
 cop'ral, or some of these under officers among 
 the sogers! Savin' one on 'em, I used to 
 know, I wish all red coats to the bottom. 
 
 " Well, d'ye see, poor Bill was mighty like 
 our old ship when she heaved too, and went 
 over spank on her beam-ends ; it a'most cap 
 sized him. Well, the long and the short of 
 it was, that he gave away his prize money to 
 his old mother and a sister that he had, and 
 shipped agin. He went aboard the first ship 
 that took his eye, without so much as asking 
 vrhere bound or what sarvice ; but it turned 
 out that the ship was a Canton trader, and 
 glad enough were they, I warrant ye, when 
 they found out the val'y of Bill Jenks, for he 
 know'd everything about a ship from stem to 
 starn-post, and from keel to main-truck ; he'd 
 slept in a hammock from a boy. 
 
 "As for the captain of the ship, he was an 
 owner's son, put in with a mate to nuss him 
 and whisper into his ear what to say, when 
 he walked the quarter deck; howsomever, all 
 wonld have gone well enough, only by-and-by 
 the youngster got to know just enough to 
 make him fqplish and pig-witted. So one 
 dark night in the Pacific, when it was blowin' 
 big guns, the young captain as would be, 
 plumped the ship chuck on a reef near the 
 Friendly Isles. In course, she went to pieces 
 right off, and not a soul was saved from the 
 wreck, except Bill and the second mate. 
 They were carried by a serge upon the reef, 
 where they crawled upon a high point, beyond 
 the reach of the furious and boilin' waves. 
 
 " Well, they passed a dismal night you 
 may believe; bu when daylight come again, 
 they saw not more than a hundred yards 
 within the reef, a beautiful little island, as 
 green as a gen'lman's park, with cocoanuts 
 and other fruits that Bill didn't know anything 
 about, and a mazin' sight like this little bit of 
 
 an isle that we're on now, messmates, which I 
 hold to be an uncommon blessin' to us, seeir ' 
 as we had laid our course for Davy Jones' 
 locker, and were suddinly brought up here all 
 standin' ! 
 
 " Bill and the mate swam over the little 
 patch of water, and spying all about, they dis 
 covered that there wasn't a soul on the island 
 besides themselves, which pleased them might 
 ily, for you know them islanders are many of 
 them cannibals, and make nothin' of roastin' a 
 feller without sauce. They saw, howsomever, 
 the shore of another island off to the nor'ard 
 three leagues or so, but didn't have much fear 
 of having a visit from the inhabitants, who 
 you know have no crafts larger than their pad 
 dle canoes. Well, when they come to build 
 themselves a snuggery, they minded to put it 
 as much out of sight as might be, and be 
 handy to the beach, and give 'em a chance to 
 keep a bright look-out for any craft that might 
 be passing the island. 
 
 " So, d'ye see, they fixed up a little place 
 among the trees against the side of a hill, and 
 got everything ship-shape as might be, consid- 
 erin' their outfit, and then they lived like offi 
 cers in a cabin, independent as lords. Bill 
 said there was only one thing wantin', and 
 that was, he miss'd havin 1 no hammock to 
 turn into when it was his watch below, and 
 then again when he came to think of his old 
 mother and Portsmouth, it used to bring him a 
 little aback. But, 'cept these, Bill and the 
 mate was gay as a pleasure yacht, spinnin' 
 yarns and eatin' yams and cocoanuts. How 
 somever, tain't allers calm wether, and they 
 soon got into rough water. 
 
 " One day, a lot of the savages come over 
 from the other island and landed, before Bill 
 or the mate know'd anything . about it, for 
 they'd got careless and didn't keep watch as 
 they they'd ought to done. As soon as they 
 see'd the savages, they clapped on all sail and 
 run for their anchorage and got the hatches 
 down. But the savages got a wink at a foot 
 print in the sand, or su'thin' of the sort, and 
 they were wide awake, I tell ye. 
 
 \7~The second number of this work will be published and for sale Saturday A^ril 27.
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. [CONTINUED.] 
 
 " Savages arri't fools, and they know'd 
 quick enough that the signs show'd somebody 
 else besides their own people had been stan'- 
 in' off and on there lately, By follerin 1 in 
 their wake, they soon overhauled 'em, and 
 brought up all stan'in' afore their snuggery. 
 
 " If Bill had only had two or three muskets, 
 and some of the right sort o' stuff to put in 
 'em, he'd a given 'em a broadside that would 
 have made 'em shear off and haul their wind, 
 but as it was, the thing couldn't be helped. 
 He and the mate fit hard, but 'twasn't no use. 
 The mate was killed dead as a hammer, and 
 Bill was floored at last by a blow twixt wind 
 and water, which nearly bilged him. But, I 
 tell ye, mor'n one of them heathens bit dust 
 afore that came to pass. So they plundered 
 the cabin, and put Bill into one of their ca 
 noes and off they steered for home, yellin' and 
 singin' like a squall in the riggin' of a seven 
 ty-four. 
 
 "When they came to land again and lifted 
 Bill out, he fell into a swoond, for he was 
 terribly wounded, and hadn't so much life in 
 him as a drown'd cat. When he came to, 
 he was layin' on some mats in the corner of 
 one of their houses, and a girl was kneelin' by 
 his side fannin' of him. She was a savage 
 too, d'ye see, but for all that when Bill waked 
 up and saw her handsome face a-watchin' of 
 him, and looking so pitiful-like, he thought to 
 himself that if all the savages were to look 
 
 like her, they'd be very decent lookin' sort o' 
 chaps after all. So when Bill had taken an 
 observation, said he : 
 
 " ' Sarv'nt, ma'am.' 
 
 " Bill, d'ye see, was always perlite, bein's 
 he was brought up in a real gen'lman's house, 
 where his mother was a kind of officer ; they 
 call it house-skipper, I believe, though I dorr t 
 understand these land matters. It didn't take 
 him long to find out that she didn't know a 
 word of English, and so he tried to lift him 
 self and make a bow, ship-shape, but, lord love 
 ye! he couldn't no more start himself than I 
 could hist in the ship's anchor alone. Then 
 the pretty one she shook her head and pressed 
 her little hand on his forehead ; and, my stars ! 
 Bill couldn't have understood better if she'd 
 told him with her own mouth, to lie still and be 
 quiet and go to sleep. So, d'ye see, Bill clos'd 
 his eyes and made b'lieve to obey orders, and 
 then he'd open 'em a bit and take an observa 
 tion on the sly, and as the girl still knelt by 
 him fannin' of him and coelin' the fever of his 
 wounds, Bill thought she might have been an 
 angel; only angels, you know, don't have 
 that sort of complexion. And then " 
 
 " Avast there, Jack," interrupted he who 
 had before spoken, " can't you heave ahead ?" 
 
 " Well," said Jack, rolling over the big quid 
 in his mouth, so as to deposit it in the oppo 
 site cheek from where it had been coiled up, 
 "I s'pose I do steer a little wild, but, lord love
 
 36 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 you, messmates, there's time enough here on 
 this sweet bit of land. But I'll haul aft the 
 sheet and trim up to my course. 
 
 " Well, d'ye see, the pretty Fedi watched 
 over Bill and gave him water and took care of 
 him till he was almost dead in love with her 
 sweet face, until at last he 'bout forgot his old 
 sweetheart and Portsmouth troubles. But all 
 this time, Bill see'd these cantankerous hea 
 thens skulkin' about and takin' a look at him 
 once in a while, as if to see when he'd be fit 
 to be cooked. Bill didn't like that zackly, and 
 so at last he made signs to Fedi, pointin' to 
 one of the savages that came trampin' along, 
 and then puttin' his finger to his mouth and 
 pointin' to himself again, as much as to say : 
 
 " ' Fedi, are your messmates going to eat 
 me when I get launched again ?' 
 
 " But the pretty girl seemed so taken aback, 
 and she looked so frightened and flustered 
 like, with big tears in her eyes, that Bill gave 
 it up and asked no more questions. 'Any 
 how," said he to himself, ' if I must be roasted 
 or biled, I hope little Fedi will be head-cook. 
 She'd do it so neatly and nice fashion-like 
 'twould almost be a comfort.' " 
 
 " That's all gammon, that 'ere," growled a 
 hoarse voice by his side. 
 
 " Well, I don't care, messmate," apologized 
 Jack Spencer, " I know Bill Jenks felt so just 
 then. But, don't bother me, or else I'll lose 
 the slack of it altogether. Well, d'ye see, in 
 a few days Bill got so as to move about, and 
 Fedi kept as close by him as though she had 
 been set to keep guard over him. By-and-by 
 there was a great gatherin' near the chiefs 
 house, for you must know it was at the head- 
 chief's or king's house that Bill was confined, 
 and this Fedi was his daughter. 
 
 " Fedi looked frightened and troubled, and 
 all of a sud'n some of the savages came and 
 took Bill and carried him out to a place where 
 they had made a ring of stones and kindled a 
 great fire. Well, in course, Bill made up his 
 mind that now they were goin' to cook and 
 eat him, for sure; but he was so weak he 
 couldn't show fight no mor'n a child, so he 
 thought he'd take it as cool as he could, con- 
 siderin' the fire. Pretty soon out stepped two 
 butcher looking chaps, with sharp pointed 
 stones, and Bill began to brace himself up to 
 die with a stout heart and man fashion. For, 
 d'ye see, messmates, he'd never wronged any 
 
 body, and hoped to make a good end ov't, as 
 though he'd never been Jack in the forecastle, 
 'mongst foul words and foul weather. 
 
 "Just then, when he thought all was over, 
 he felt two little arms clasping him about, and 
 heard Fedi cryin', and threatenin', and be- 
 seechin', and all the while keepin' her little 
 tongue goin' like a fog bell in the channel. 
 Then a big chief, whose brother it seems had 
 been killed in the fight on the other island by 
 Bill, rushed into the circle with his war-club 
 to kill him. Then Fedi screamed and placed 
 herself right athwart Bill's body, and at once 
 the chief fell dead by a blow given by the 
 head-chief himself, Fedi's father. Then the 
 head-chief stepped inside the circle, and com 
 menced a great palaver, which Bill didn't un 
 derstand a word of at the time, though he af 
 terwards larnt that he told the other savages 
 that Bill was a wah-woo, that is, a smart man, 
 one who know'd a great deal, and could help 
 'em in war and make wepons for 'em, and 
 show 'em how to build fine houses and big 
 canoes. 
 
 " D'ye see, the reason was, Finow, the old 
 king, had no other daughter than Fedi, and 
 set everything by her ; and she bein' so deter 
 mined Bill shouldn't be killed, why he gave 
 in to her, and bein' a cunnin' old chap, tried 
 to make the best of it with his messmates. 
 The savages then led Bill off to the beach and 
 put him into a canoe, and rowed him over to 
 a place where there was a low, dark bildin' ; 
 with posts carved with idols and grinnin' 
 faces, and locked him up. Bill lay all night 
 on a mat in one corner, ftelin' dull enough, 
 you may depend, for he'd no sort of idea what 
 they was goin' to do with him. As for bein' 
 kept prisoner, or powder-monkey, or bottle- 
 washer, or deck-swabber to the tarnal hea 
 thens, there was no satisfaction in that, and 
 he'd as liefs be roasted and eaten up at once ; 
 and yet somehow he hoped to live for Fedi's 
 sake, and to have a chance to thank her for 
 havin' done so much for him. 
 
 " Well, by-and-by, Bill fell fast asleep, and 
 in the first mornin' watch, come them same 
 heathens again, with a great noise and pow 
 wow, and took Bill and put him into a canoe 
 and rowed him back again to the big island. 
 They carried him to King Finow's house once 
 more, and as he come towards the place, he 
 met the king and Fedi, who looked to him
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 37 
 
 more beautiful than ever. Well, the king he 
 took Bill's hand and placed his daughter's in it, 
 and a priest waved a grinnin' wooden idol over 
 them, and Bill was made to understand that 
 Fedi was his wife ! and that he would soon be 
 made a sort of chief skipper of the king's 
 canoes or something of the sort. 
 
 " So, d'ye see, Bill on the whole was migh 
 ty well satisfied. He and Fedi lived together 
 as happy as may be ; she teachin' him to talk 
 Tonga, and he tellin' her all about old England. 
 "Well, Bill got to be a great man on the island, 
 for he show'd the natives a great many things 
 they never dreamt of afore, but it wasn't very 
 long before he began to feel a little uneasy, 
 thinkin' how much he'd like to see old Ports 
 mouth once more, and at least get a word to 
 his old mother that he was such a great chief 
 and married a king's daughter, and then he 
 wanted to send home somethin' by way of re 
 membrance like, nothin' more 'n natural. 
 
 " Well, Fedi got some suspicion of this and 
 come to him one day cryin', and tellin' him 
 that she knew he meant to leave her the first 
 chance, and go off to his own people across 
 the ocean. Bill was fairly flustered, for he 
 loved Fedi very much ; and she took on so 
 hard that fin'lly he made a clean breast on't, 
 and told her all about it, and how he wanted 
 to see his old mother and his own country, 
 and that when he had done this he'd come 
 back to Tonga again, and he wanted Fedi to 
 go with him in the big ship that walked the 
 water and talked thunder. 
 
 " ' I'll go anywhere with you,' says Fedi ; 
 and so she would, for she loved him 'mazingly. 
 
 " At last an English tradin' ship cast an 
 chor off Tonga, and Bill persuaded Fedi to 
 keep matters to herself and go secretly on 
 board the big ship with him, promising to 
 bring her back again after a while to her 
 father. But the trouble was to go on board 
 without the natives knowin' of it, for they 
 wouldn't let Bill go at any rate if they could 
 help it, he was too useful. Besides, King 
 Finow wouldn't have run the risk of his 
 daughter's bein' lost altogether, and never 
 seein' her again. But Fedi bl'eved every 
 word Bill told her, just as if 'twas gospel, 
 'caus Bill never told her no lies. 
 
 " Well, d'ye see, Bill and Fedi got aboard 
 the ship by a trick of their own, and when the 
 king and the rest of the savages found it out, 
 
 there was a regular catawalapin', I tell ye, and 
 King Finow come alongside to have a talk 
 with Bill and get him and Fedi ashore ; so the 
 upshot of it was that Bill talked to him like 
 a parly'ment, and told him he would certainly 
 come back from England and bring him a 
 dozen new hatchets for a present, and other 
 things, and that he was only goin' to make his 
 own folks a visit. So Bill pacified the whole 
 mess, and then parted as grig as a middy just 
 got his warrant. Well, the islanders put lots 
 of stuff aboard, sandal wood and curiosities, 
 besides yams and lots o' shore truck and vege 
 tables, and off went Bill and Fedi for old 
 England. 
 
 " Well, when they got to Portsmouth Bill's 
 story was spread about and made a great noise. 
 By-and-by it got to the ears of some of the 
 great lords of London, and from them to the 
 king and queen, and nothin' would do but Bill 
 and Fedi must come up to London and make 
 a visit to the court and nobility. In course 
 they couldn't do elsewise than obey orders, 
 and Bill hadn't no objections neither, for by 
 this time he'd got Fedi quite ship-shape, and 
 in English trim, and as she was wide awake 
 as a lark and quick to larn, she know'd how 
 to behave herself as pretty as any of the great 
 madams. So off they went to Windsor cas 
 tle, with a lord to show 'em the way, and 
 pilot 'em round. 
 
 " When they got there, d'ye see, there was 
 the king and queen, and all the great nobility; 
 and Bill was asked to tell his 'ventures, and 
 he pleased 'em mightily. But what they most 
 took a shine to, was Fedi, and they crowded 
 round and asked her lots o' questions, which she 
 answered in such nice little odd parley-vous, 
 that they was all delighted with her. Bill 
 he'rd 'em say to each other that she was reg- 
 'lar 'andsome, and not a bit savage-like, that 
 she looked a great deal like one of them dark 
 Spaniard girls that they talk so much about ; 
 Bill said he thought they'd hit it pretty near, 
 and if Fedi wasn't a real beauty, then he'd 
 never seed anybody that was, and for roy'l 
 blood why she was chuck full of it. 
 
 " Howsomever, they had a grand time of it, 
 and the queen made Fedi lots of rich presents, 
 and even took a splendid ring off her finger 
 and put it on Fedi's, when they parted, to re 
 member her by." 
 
 " Well," interrupted a foremast hand oppo-
 
 38 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 site to Jack Spencer, " Bill Jenks couldn't 
 have been such a created fool as to let his wife 
 take him off to the Friendlies again when 
 he'd got under the lee of such comforts as 
 you tell on about home." 
 
 " Of course he couldn't," said one or two. 
 
 " By no sort of means," said another. 
 
 44 He had the law all in his own hands," 
 said another. 
 
 " He might have made a fortune showin' his 
 pretty wife as one of the natives of the 
 Friendlies," continued the old sea dog who 
 spoke first. 
 
 " But how was it, Jack ?" asked another 
 who had not before spoken. " Did Bill Jenks 
 make a cattle-show of his wife ?" 
 
 44 That's the question," chimed in the rest 
 of the men, laughing at the idea. 
 
 " Avast there, messmate," cried Jack Spen 
 cer, somewhat excited at this remark. " Bill 
 wasn't a chap to sail under false colors ; and 
 he did by Fedi just as he had promised he 
 would. So when the people found Bill was 
 going out again, they had a talk about it and 
 finally the long sent him a warrant makin' 
 him gov'nor of the island, though Bill said 
 that he never meant to interfere with King 
 Finow, for he was his father, and should have 
 his say about everything as long as he lived." 
 
 " Wall, thafcjvas 'andsome in him, anyhow, 
 seein' as how he might 'er superceded the old 
 chap if he'd like ter done it eh, messmates ?" 
 
 " To be sure it was," said several of the 
 listeners at once, 
 
 " There wasn't none of your niggardly 
 land shark about him," said Jack Spencer. 
 
 " Never a bit of it," said they all, joining 
 heartily. 
 
 " But Jack, you're not agoin' to bring up 
 with a short hitch in that 'ere fashion, are 
 yer?" 
 
 41 Ay, he's missed stays," said one close by 
 his side. 
 
 44 Shivers in the wind," suggested another, 
 emblematically. 
 
 " Has let go his anchor where there's no 
 bottom," said a third. 
 
 " Brace sharp up, Jack, and lay her head 
 to the wind again." 
 
 " Avast a bit, messmates, and I'll gather 
 away once more." 
 
 41 Belay that, messmates," said a rough old 
 tar who had been listening quietly ; " give 
 Jack the helm, and let him manage his own 
 craft." 
 
 " Ay, ay," chimed in the rest, tired of hear 
 ing all hands talking. 
 
 " As to the matter of missing stays," said 
 Jack Spencer, not exactly satisfied at the 
 turn the conversation had taken, " I deny 
 that altogether, and should have made a clean 
 tack of it, hadn't Ben Bower stood athwart 
 my horse in such a lubberly fashion." 
 
 44 All right, all right, Jack." 
 
 44 Go ahead, go ahead." 
 
 44 Pay out, pay out." 
 
 And such like cries encouraged Jack to go 
 on and conclude his story. 
 
 44 Well, d'ye see, Bill was put aboard one 
 of the gov'mt cruisers, and plenty of muskets 
 and ammunition were given to him, and a 
 missionary parson was sent out with them to 
 preachify to the savages, and help make 'em 
 civilized like. When Bill and Fedi landed at 
 Tonga again, there was a great jubilee, and he 
 was made second king on the spot, and governs 
 there now, so I heard when I was last in Ports 
 mouth. Anyhow I mean to go there one of 
 these days, providin' we reach England again, 
 and be made adm'ral or post-captain, or some- 
 thin' of the kind, for Bill Jenks wasn't never 
 the chap to forget an old messmate." 
 
 44 Look a here," said Ben Bower, 4< couldn't 
 ye take a chap long with ye ?" 
 
 44 No, shiver my timbers if I would take 
 you after you come down on me in that style." 
 
 44 No offence, Jack Spencer," said his mess 
 mate; 44 Iwas only looking out ahead, that's 
 all." 
 
 44 Square the yards and be friends again," 
 said two or three at once. 
 
 44 With all my heart," said Ben Bower. 
 44 Jack give us your honest fives." 
 
 " There they are, messmate," said Jack.
 
 I 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE PILOT'S STORY. 
 
 Did I tremble 1 Ah then 'twas not from fear 
 That I did shake, but from saddest memory. 
 
 OLD PLAY. 
 
 SIR ROBERT and the pilot puffed out the 
 "ast whiffs of their cheroots, as Jack Spencer 
 finished his yarn, and walked away unobserv 
 ed by the crew, who had been listening with 
 that absorbed attention that seamen always 
 accord to romance or a record of strange ad 
 venture, from whatever source. 
 
 " A pretty forecastle story," said the pilot, 
 " and told in true sailor fashion." 
 
 " Not so badly put together for a simple 
 seaman, either," said Sir Robert. 
 
 In this way the spare mements of the 
 wrecked party were passed on the island, 
 while day by day they pressed forward with 
 the utmost industry the building of the little 
 vessel that they hoped would carry them safe 
 to their native land. There were no drones in 
 the hive, every man bent his full strength to 
 the object, for it became common interest, and 
 was alike for the good of each one employed. 
 More than that, the work was better done as 
 well as faster, inasmuch as those parts that 
 under ordinary circumstances might have been 
 slighted, being prepared and fitted by interest 
 ed hands, were sure to be well done in every 
 respect. 
 
 On the southern part of the island in a lit 
 tle valley that was so petite and perfect in its 
 picturesque beauty as to appear almost artifi 
 cial, and through which meandered a little 
 
 miniature river, over which an agile man 
 might easily leap, Sir Robert found a prize. 
 It was a cluster of emeralds of such rare size 
 and purity as to be almost as valuable as dia 
 monds. This discovery induced further re 
 search, and Sir Robert and the pilot found the 
 bed of this fairy-like stream to abound in these 
 precious stones, besides discovering also now 
 and then a very brilliant oiamond. Many 
 leisure hours were passed by them in quietly 
 securing a portion of these rich stones, and 
 of course all thediamonds that they could find. 
 
 It was not deemed prudent that the crew 
 should know of this discovery, and therefore 
 these researches were conducted in secret until 
 both had secured two little leathern bags, one 
 of emeralds and the other of diamonds in the 
 rough state, enough to make a fortune in Eng 
 land for any one man. In Sir Robert's case 
 this was a matter comparatively unimportant ; 
 but with the pilot it was quite another affair, 
 as he would otherwise have landed, should 
 they ever reach England, without a penny m 
 his pocket, and thus be dependent upon others 
 for the means of subsistence. As it was, he 
 felt himself to be quite his own master, and 
 independent of even Sir Robert's kind liber 
 ality. 
 
 In one of their excursions to the emerald 
 valley, a strange and somewhat startling cir-
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 cumstance occurred. Sir Robert and the 
 pilot were searching for precious stones, 
 together, when they heard a rustling sound of 
 a peculiar character near by them, and a 
 most strange hissing that they could not 
 understand, but still they kept on at their 
 employment, though pausing every now and 
 then to wonder at the repetition of the 
 strange sounds. This was continued for nearly 
 an hour, until just as they were preparing to 
 leave the valley for their encampment, Sir 
 Robert heard the pilot cry out with a voice of 
 horror, and saw him fall senseless to the earth. 
 In the next instant he discovered at some ten 
 yards distant, the body of a large snake, of 
 some ten feet in length, which with head erect 
 and curling tail, was gazing full at them both. 
 
 Sir Robert's first impulse was to attack it 
 with a heavy stick that he walked with, for 
 he had no weapons about him ; but the crea 
 ture in a moment glided silently away towards 
 the foot of the valley, and Sir Robert turned 
 his attention to his companion. His first fear 
 was that the snake might have stung or bitten 
 him, and thus poisoned the pilot, but on ex 
 amination he could find no signs of this upon 
 his person, and it was some time before Sir 
 Robert could revive his companion from the 
 swoon into which he had fallen, sufficiently to 
 enable him to speak. He was astonished 
 that the sight of a serpent or indeed anything 
 else, should have so affected a brave man as 
 this had done. It puzzled him to think that 
 one so full of courage and daring, should have 
 fainted like a woman at such a comparative 
 trifle. 
 
 At last the pilot drew a long breath, and 
 with a shudder raised himself upon his arm, 
 and in a moment, after looking wildly about 
 him, he arose to his feet, but on his eyes rest 
 ing upon Sir Robert, he leaned upon his 
 shoulder, as he said : 
 
 " Excuse this strange emotion, but it is be 
 yond my power to control." 
 
 " You are not harmed, I trust," said Sir 
 Robert, anxiously. 
 
 " O, no, physically I am as well as ever," 
 said the pilot, sighing. 
 
 " What then has affected you so strangely, 
 are you really sick ?" 
 
 " Spare me, another time, in some other 
 place but let us away from here." 
 
 " With all my heart ; here, lean on me, I'm 
 *s stout as a mule." 
 
 " No, no, Sir Robert. I am quiet myself 
 now ; it was only mental excitement," said the 
 pilot. 
 
 "Queer," said Sir Robert to himself. 
 " Come, have you got your emeralds ?" 
 
 " Yes."' 
 
 "It will hardly pay to come this way again, 
 they are getting so scarce, and our collection 
 is ample." 
 
 " True, we will not come here again," said 
 the pilot, hurrying his steps out of the valley. 
 
 It was in the after part of the day that this 
 scene had occurred, and on arriving at the en 
 campment, the pilot excusing himself to Sir 
 Robert, retired, nor was he seen until the fol 
 lowing morning. 
 
 " I know," said he to Sir Robert, on their 
 meeting the next day, "that my conduct 
 must have seemed very singular yesterday, 
 and I owe you who have been so frank and 
 friendly with me, an explanation." 
 
 " I was not a little surprised," replied Sir 
 Robert, frankly, "at the occurrence in the 
 valley." 
 
 " To explain all to you, I must tell you my 
 past history and that of my family," said the 
 pilot ; " and to-night if agreeable, I will do so ; 
 then you will no longer wonder at what you 
 witnessed yesterday." 
 
 " I have been on the point of inquiring 
 more minutely into your history before now,' 1 
 said Sir Robert, " but .the present excitement 
 of the hour has always prevented me from do 
 ing so." 
 
 Sir Robert had at the outset learned that 
 the pilot, having lost his parents while yet 
 quite young, had been sent to sea at his own 
 request by those who had him in charge, and 
 that having been well educated up to the time 
 of his going to sea, and also entering on ship 
 board under most favorable auspicies for pro 
 motion and obtaining a good knowledge of a 
 seaman's duty, he improved very fast. He had 
 already been in command of a large vessel. 
 At the time that he came on board of the 
 Northumberland as pilot ir> the Bay of Bengal, 
 he was serving a year's apprenticeship as pilot r 
 preparatory to taking command of one of the 
 large East India packet ships that belonged to 
 the East India Company, a most responsible 
 and lucrative commission. 
 
 This general idea alone was all that Sir 
 Robert knew of his young but well tried com-
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 41 
 
 panion and his history. As they met in the 
 evening to smoke together before their tent 
 door, Sir Robert said : 
 
 " Shall we hear that story now ?" 
 " Yes," said the pilot, " I had prepared to 
 tell you my history this evening." 
 
 Throwing themselves upon the soft green 
 sward before the tent, and beneath a sky that 
 was as clear and bright in its beautiful star-lit 
 vault as the prophet's paradise, the pilot be 
 gan : 
 
 " My father was educated in England, his 
 native land, for the army, and after serving for 
 some years in the infantry's service, and ris 
 ing to a colonelcy by gradual promotion, he 
 had the good fortune to distinguish himself in 
 active service, for which he was made a gen 
 eral, and soon after entered in that capacity 
 into the East India Company's service. India 
 proved to be just the spot for the* exercise of 
 his talent and spirit, and he was soon made 
 Governor of the district of Yazo, including 
 the larger portions of the British India pos 
 sessions. He married a high-born lady in 
 Calcutta, and in his domestic relations I have 
 reason to know, was most happy and content 
 ed. I was born in the second year of their 
 union, and being an only child, was petted, 
 humored and loved with all the affection of a 
 kind mother and father. Time rolled on until 
 I was nearly twelve years of age, during 
 which period I had received every advantage 
 in instruction that a child of that age could 
 improve. 
 
 " My father's duty often called him inland, 
 in the way of supervision of the forts, and 
 other matters of the government, and on such 
 journeys my mother often accompanied him, 
 being absent for weeks at a time. On these 
 occasions he would lodge for the time being in 
 the huts of the natives, with whom my moth 
 er was a great favorite. I remember well of 
 their starting on one of their tours together ; 
 it is as fresh in my memory as though it 
 were but yesterday that it took place. After 
 a short absence, my father found himself a 
 little separated from his escorting party in the 
 jungle, and overtaken by night, stopped at a na 
 tive hut where he proposed to tarry until morn 
 ing. They were hospitably entertained, and 
 slept soundly throughout that night, but when 
 the door was opened by my father in the 
 morning, the first thing that met his eyes was 
 
 the body of an immense anaconda coiled 
 within a few yards of the entrance, evidently 
 in watch of the first being that should come 
 out of the hut, thus to satiate the ravenous ap 
 petite that it is so well known to possess." 
 
 Sir Robert recalled to his mind the serpent 
 they had seen in the emerald valley, but said 
 nothing. 
 
 " My father," continued the pilot, " shut the 
 door as quickly as possible and secured it, not 
 however until he had inhaled the pestilential 
 breath of the foul animal, so near did it dart 
 its head to his face ! He staggered back and 
 fell down, for a moment overcome by the 
 malaria of the serpent's breath, which the in 
 habitants of the jungle say produces a sure 
 but lingering death by its poisonous properties, 
 In the hut there were only my mother, him 
 self, and a native. The latter knowing but too 
 well the nature and character of the snake, 
 could not be persuaded to attempt any mode 
 of escape, stoutly declaring that nothing should ' 
 induce him to leave the hut until the anacon 
 da had appeased his gluttonous appetite, and 
 still more, to my mother's dismay and alarm, 
 declared that he had lost his only child by one 
 who crushed and swallowed it, not more than 
 a year before. 
 
 " Their only hope was that some animal pass 
 ing that way might attract the snake and 
 tempt his appetite, though the native said 
 they scented human flesh a great way off, and 
 when this was the case, would eat no other, 
 unless very hungry. It was also a fact that 
 they were well aware of, that most animals of 
 the jungle could scent the reptile itself, and 
 their instinct led them to keep out of his way. 
 Even the lion flees his presence, for his won 
 derful capacity and appetite enables him to 
 swallow this formidable animal whole, after 
 having crushed the body and bones by the 
 irresistible power of its fearful folds and coils, 
 as strong as a ship's cable. 
 
 " In this terrible situation, nearly starred 
 for want of even the meanest food, as well a 
 being under the most intense excitement of 
 mind, those within the hut became at last al 
 most distracted, while the serpent, with never 
 sleeping eyes, lay coiled there in a way to 
 command all parts of the small circular cabin, 
 lifting its flat and ugly head at every sound 
 that was made by the sufferers, and now and 
 then darting out its forked tongue with increas-
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 ing appetite as it scented afresh those within 
 the cabin. 
 
 " All their consultations and plans were of 
 no avail they were imprisoned beyond re 
 lease. Their terrible enemy would not have 
 given ground before a whole body of cavalry, 
 but would have stricken down its victim, and as 
 it never retreats, would die crushing its assail 
 ants to death in its iron folds. My father fully 
 realized this ; indeed he was no stranger, hav 
 ing been so long in India, to the character of 
 the enemy he had to deal with. He knew 
 that unless its appetite was appeased, the ani 
 mal would not leave its post so long as they 
 remained within. But calming my mother's 
 fears as well as he was able, he paced the nar 
 row limits of the cabin and hoped for the best, 
 and that some chance succor might come to 
 their aid, to relieve them from their fearful 
 situation. 
 
 "My father's only weapons were a gun, a 
 pair of heavy pistols, and his sword. The 
 latter was a sharp and trusty weapon that he 
 had often wielded in battle. At last driven 
 to despair, he resolved in this extremity to 
 sally out and give battle to the snake, for he 
 declared to my mother that death was fast 
 coming upon them all in the shape of famine, 
 and that by the sacrifice of himself, he could 
 save her life at least, while there still remain 
 ed a chance that he might possibly escape 
 death in the proposed conflict with the terrible 
 and pestilential creature. All her entreaties 
 for him to give up this purpose and to still 
 remain within the cabin, were useless. He 
 had become desperate, and finally on the fourth 
 morning, arming himself with his drawn 
 sword and loosening his pistols in his belt, he 
 ordered the native to throw open the door and 
 to shut it quickly behind him again and thus 
 he passed out to this strange conflict. 
 
 " Those within the cabin could observe him 
 through the crevices, and from these they 
 watched with fearful interest ; the native with 
 the most intense excitement, and my mother 
 almost crazed with fear for her husband's safe 
 ty." 
 
 " What a fearful situation," exclaimed Sir 
 Kobert, deeply interested in the relation. 
 
 " It was indeed awful !" said the pilot. 
 
 " It was, but go on." 
 
 "I will." 
 
 " My father knew the nature of the snake," 
 
 continued the pilot, " that its first movement 
 was to strike with its tail, and then with the 
 utmost rapidity to wind itself about its victim, 
 and thus finally to crush it to death. The 
 moment therefore that he found himself out 
 side the cabin door, he fixed his eyes upon the 
 serpent's tail, and as it was quickly raised to 
 strike him, he managed to meet it with the 
 keen edge of his sword, which half severed 
 three feet off the length of the body. Nothing 
 daunted by this, the serpent only drew back to 
 renew the attack once more, and prepared to 
 wind about its victim, and this time foiling 
 my father's weapon, struck him to the ground. 
 
 " In an instant the serpent commenced to 
 coil its slimy body about its now prostrate vic 
 tim ; but my father's presence of mind did not 
 for a moment desert him. He remembered that 
 if he was to die it was to save his beloved wife, 
 and he res'olved to sell his life as dearly as 
 possible. As he felt himself thus partially 
 overcome, he brought his sword to his side, 
 with the edge outward, and as the snake tight 
 ened its folds, it of course cut deeper and 
 deeper into its own body, causing it, in. 
 spite of its furious haste to appease its vora 
 cious hunger, partially to uncoil itself from the 
 person of its victim, though only to prepare 
 for a renewal of its bonds. 
 
 " In vain were my mother's efforts to get the 
 native to go to his assistance, and failing in 
 this, she soon after fainted from exhaustion and 
 fear while the native still peered through the 
 crevice, at the strange contest. 
 
 " My father's arms were thus partially re 
 lieved for a moment, and in this brief space 
 of time, he employed himself in loosening and 
 cocking one of his pistols, though he had 
 scarcely time to effect this ; and when the ani 
 mal again drew close about him, he placed the 
 muzzle against his body and fired ! The 
 shock was for a moment most decisive, and 
 the snake quite unloosed itself from its victim 
 to writhe in pain, and though my father was 
 almost exhausted by the blows and pressure 
 he had received, yet he once more resolutely 
 attacked the enraged animal with his sword, 
 wounding it freely at every stroke. 
 
 " The snake suffering from these numerous 
 and severe wounds, and especially from the 
 more efficacious one of the pistol shot, the ball 
 of which passed quite through his body, per 
 formed the most fearful contortions, evincing
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 43 
 
 tokens of acute suffering. In consequence of 
 these- wounds, its movements became more 
 slow and measured, its body no longer moving 
 with that remarkable activity that characterizes 
 its species, and yet its strange ungovernable 
 appetite seemed to urge it on to a further at 
 tack upon my father. This time it came on 
 head foremost, for its tail was now too severely 
 wounded to strike with, and indeed it dragged 
 like a dead weight after the other part of the 
 body. As its forked tongue nearly reached 
 my father's face, he levelled his remaining pis 
 tol and fired the entire charge into its very 
 mouth !" 
 
 " That must have killed it, surely," said Sir 
 Robert, who had risen to his feet with excite 
 ment at the story. 
 
 " It did, indeed," said the pilot. " The 
 snake dropped in an instant after the shot took 
 effect, and in a thousand fearful contortions it 
 breathed its last ! 
 
 " My mother said that she observed the 
 fearful creature in its death struggle, and 
 that its keen eyes, though peering out of its 
 shattered head, seemed to her as almost hu 
 man, and that they spoke as plainly as expres 
 sion could speak, of revenge, hate and exulta 
 tion in death. The body twisted and turned 
 again and again, its thick slimy folds embrac 
 ing each other, and when seemingly tied in a 
 close, strong knot, it would unloose itself and 
 straighten out to its full length, and lay thus 
 trembling, as though shaken by the ground on 
 which it lay. Then the scaly and dull hue 
 of its body seemed to become chameleon-like 
 and changed colors, now blue, now golden, 
 and now almost white. She seemed to be al 
 most fascinated by the revolting sight, and 
 could find no power to turn away, but gazed 
 at it still, in spite of the suffering of her 
 husband. And thus strangely was the boor 
 who kept the cottage also moved ; the charm 
 seemed more strange upon him, and he gazed 
 upon the dying snake like one entranced. 
 
 " At last it uttered a moan almost like the 
 human voice, and unrolling its coils, drew 
 itself forward a few feet from where it had 
 lain in these painful contortions, raised its 
 head to let it fall heavily to the ground, trem 
 bled all over for a moment, and lay at last 
 dead and motionless. The sight had strange 
 ly affected the native, whose physical debility 
 from the want of food had doubtless affected 
 
 his mind, as had also a consciousness of the 
 cowardly part that he had enacted in permitting 
 my father to attack the monster alone, and 
 when convinced that the snake was absolutely 
 dead, he turned for a moment one look upon 
 his hut in the jungle, and then with a wild 
 scream dashed away with the speed of the 
 wind. He was never heard of again !" 
 
 " What a terrible situation and experience 
 this must have been for your father." 
 
 " It was terrible, indeed, beyond my power 
 of description," he answered. 
 
 " It was a most happy deliverance though," 
 said Sir Robert, with a long breath ; for he had 
 followed the eloquent delivery of the pilot in 
 every word, and had been much excited by it, 
 as we have already mentioned. 
 
 " A happy delivery," repeated the pilot, 
 " but a fatal encounter." 
 
 "Fatal?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " How do you mean it was fatal ? your 
 father killed the snake." 
 
 "True, but" 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " It was doubly fatal, nevertheless," replied 
 the pilot, sadly. 
 
 " And your father, after the conflict " 
 
 " Dragged himself into the cabin," said the 
 pilot, sadly, " to die !" 
 
 ".Alas ! after so much bravery, so much 
 manly effort," said Sir Robert. 
 
 Both remained silent for a moment, when 
 Sir Robert said : 
 
 " And your mother : what of her ?" 
 
 " She lived to reach Calcutta, but the pesti 
 lential breath she had inhaled, the suffering 
 both in body and mind she had endured, laid 
 her beside my father within the month. 
 
 " Since that day when my mother told me 
 this scene until yesterday, I have never seen 
 a snake. Do you wonder then that the sight 
 should so have affected me as it did in the 
 emerald valley ?" 
 
 " Not I." 
 
 " And you do not think that my emotion 
 was unmanly ?" 
 
 " By no means," said Sir Robert. " It was 
 but natural, after the fearful visitation that had 
 made you an orphan." 
 
 The pilot made no reply, for the relation of 
 the story had affected him much, but h 
 pressed Sir Robert's hand warmly.
 
 CHAPTER, VIII. 
 
 THE FREEBOOTER. 
 
 The great contention of the sea and okies 
 Parted our fellowship : But, hark ! a sail. 
 
 CASSIO. 
 
 SIR ROBERT was much moved by the singular 
 and interesting story of the pilot. The dan* 
 gets which they had so lately shared together 
 rendered them warm friends, and Sir Robert 
 told him cordially that if he would come with 
 him to England with the purpose of making 
 it his future home, he might do so as his son, 
 and that he would in all ways provide for him 
 the same as though this relationship were ce- 
 mented by the ties of blood. In the matter 
 of his pecuniary means, their united discover}', 
 as we have said, had given to either suffi 
 cient to produce an independence, if it could 
 once be safely deposited in any portion of the 
 civilized world. Delighted at the noble dis 
 position and character of his new friend, the 
 pilot cheerfully agreed to this proposition. 
 
 " I have no relations in India, Sir Robert, 
 and therefore no particular reason for return 
 ing thither. We have been together long 
 enough to know each other well, and my good 
 fortune here has given me the means of inde 
 pendence should we succeed in reaching Eng 
 land, and therefore I accept with pleasure your 
 offer cf adoption, and I shall take both pride 
 and joy in looking towards you as a father." 
 
 " Well spoken, my brave boy," said Sir 
 
 Robert, who really loved the pilot for hi? many 
 fine characteristics. " Well spoken, and I 
 doubt not we shall get on favorably together. 
 So from this hour you are my son." 
 
 " With all my heart, Sir Robert." 
 
 "I am a peculiar man," said Sir Robert, 
 " such an one as nine-tenths of the world des 
 pise, I presume, fot I equally despise just about 
 that proportion myself." 
 
 " You have been unfortunate, perhaps, and 
 have thus been rendered in your feelings a 
 little misanthropic ; but I can count a mass of 
 good qualities in you, sir, that a casual eye 
 even, might see." 
 
 " Don't flatter me," said Sir Robert, with 
 honest disgust ; " I can't bear that." 
 
 " I meant what I said most honestly, and 
 therefore said it bluntly " 
 
 "I believe you, 1 believe you," said Sir 
 Robert heartily, offering his hand. 
 
 " Thank you," said the pilot, pressing it 
 warmly and sincerely. 
 
 " Well, now," said Sir Robert, to change 
 the subject, " how comes on the new craft 1 
 She should be launched, according to our 
 first calculation, during this month." 
 
 ' True, the month is nearly up, but the hull
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 comes on famously ; a gang of shipwrights 
 with all their tools, could hardly have done 
 better than these raw hands have done." 
 
 " How long before we shall be able to launch 
 her, think you ?" 
 
 " She'll be ready in a fortnight." 
 
 " Heaven grant that she may be able to car 
 ry us to good firm English ground, once more. 
 I never look about me here but this speck of an 
 island seems to be floating out to sea." 
 
 " It is fast anchored, sir, you may depend," 
 said the pilot, laughing, "and will hardly fetch 
 away from here short of a volcano, or an 
 earthquake to help it move." 
 
 " Most likely, most likely," said Sir Robert ; 
 " but it is hard to divest one's imagination of 
 such fancies when there is such an extent of 
 blue waters. Let us go around to the craft." 
 
 " Very well, sir ; you have not seen her for 
 some days." 
 
 " What shall we call the craft ? Some ap 
 propriate name what shall it be ?" 
 
 "The Northumberland, junior," suggested 
 the pilot, after a few moments' thought. 
 
 " That's too long," said Sir Robert, counting 
 the letters upon his fingers. 
 
 " It is rather long." 
 
 " Try again," said Sir Robert. 
 
 " Well," said the pilot, musing, " how do 
 you like The Islander." 
 
 " Pretty good, but not just the thing," said 
 Sir Robert, pausing to reflect for a moment, 
 and then said : " What think you now of The 
 Substitute ? Short and pithy, eh ? Easily 
 called, and expressive." 
 
 " Good," said the pilot, repeating the name 
 several times to himself, " very good." 
 
 " It tells half the story of our troubles at 
 once ; eh, Mr. Pilot ?" 
 
 " A better name could not be possibly con 
 ceived," he answered. 
 
 " Then the Substitute it shall be," said Sir 
 Robert, as they turned an angle of the hill 
 side, and came in view of the busy crew em 
 ployed upon the new craft. 
 
 The sloop had indeed progressed rapidly, 
 and now, although scarcely six months had 
 expired since they anchored the Northumber 
 land in the little bay, it presented a most cred 
 itable completeness of hull and rigging. It 
 was almost a miracle to realize that so trim 
 and perfect a little vessel had grown up under 
 those inexperienced hands in so short a peri 
 
 od, and was an evidence of what industry and 
 perseverance will accomplish. Of course, the 
 men had worked at much disadvantage in 
 many respects, but what they lacked in con 
 veniences, they more than made up for in 
 zeal. Besides which, they found much of the 
 material which it was necessary for them to 
 use, already prepared to their hands, inasmuch 
 as it was applied to the same use and parts 
 it had filled in the larger vessel, its dimensions 
 only being so reduced as to correspond with 
 the size and requisites of the new craft. 
 
 The whole number of souls saved from the 
 fearful wreck of the first night after they had 
 left port, numbered but fifteen, including Sir 
 Robert and the pilot. It was calculated to ar 
 range the Substitute so that she should afford 
 ample and commodious accommodations for 
 these, and also to carry sufficient provisions 
 to serve them bountifully, even if their voy 
 age to England should prove a long one. 
 The original provisions of the ship were near 
 ly all exhausted, though such as could be kept 
 had been preserved, as better suited for sea 
 service than anything they could prepare on 
 the island. But the place of those provisions, 
 that generally form a ship's outfit, had been 
 well supplied by the party that had been se 
 lected for that purpose. The sea bread, 
 especially, became a great luxury, and was 
 dealt out most sparingly, that some might be 
 reserved for the coming voyage. But the 
 crew hardly required or coveted it, having 
 such abundance of fried plantains, kid's flesh 
 and young deer, with turtle meat and many 
 green vegetables, and already had they be 
 come adepts .in making what has in modern 
 times become so popular, turtle soup. 
 
 The mainmast of the ship served for the 
 same purpose in the sloop, with much trim 
 ming and patient cutting down, while the 
 Northumberland's bowsprit, with equal labor 
 expended upon it, answered a like purpose on 
 board the Substitute. As to sails, there were 
 a plenty of spare ones, new and of the best 
 sort, as well as ample ropes and cordage of all 
 kinds ready to their very hands, taken from 
 the supply that tho ship had carried. So 
 that, in fact, when with reiterated shouts of 
 joy, they launched the Substitute, and slie 
 glided into the element that was to be her fu 
 ture home, she was in reality very well fitted 
 and found in every respect, even for such a
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 voyage as Sir Robert and his companions con 
 templated to make in her across the ocean. 
 
 The ecstacy of the crew knew no bounds 
 when the sloop was once finally afloat ; they 
 acted like children as they gazed upon the 
 work of their own hands, and Jack Spencer 
 declared, with a hitch at his pants, that: 
 
 " It is worth bein' cast away, anyhow, to 
 see such a jolly sight as that !" 
 
 " My hies, how square she sits," cried a 
 foremast hand, in raptures. 
 
 " With her draft a little abaft the beam," 
 suggested the pilot, who stood among them, 
 and who designed this point in the sloop, as 
 one of no little beauty and utility in sailing. 
 
 " Yes, your honor," said the foremastman, 
 " and just enough rake in her mast to match." 
 
 " She floats like a swan," said Sir Robert, 
 with no less appreciation, but less nautical taste. 
 
 Nearly everything was launched in the sloop 
 from the ways where she was built, and as 
 she glided off, she was almost ready to hoist 
 her mainsail and jib, and fill away on her 
 course. 
 
 And now how natural it was that, when 
 all was prepared, when the last boat came off 
 from the shore and everything was on board, 
 they should look back upon the friendly shel 
 ter they had so long enjoyed, this garden of 
 the ocean, this oasis in the desert of waters, 
 with silent, but sincere regret at the parting. 
 Sir Robert was compelled to acknowledge to 
 himself, that he felt very sad, and many of 
 the rough tars dropped a tear on the forecastle, 
 as they turned away from the solitary but 
 friendly island. Even the kids and other 
 animals came down to the shore, as the main 
 sail was set, seeming to wish them a hearty 
 farewell, and the few goats, that had been do 
 mesticated about their immediate dwellings, 
 now came together towards the shore, and 
 bleated after those who had kindly fed and 
 petted them so long ! 
 
 " There is more true humanity there," said 
 Sir Robert, pointing at the sight on the shore, 
 as the pilot and himself stood upon the deck 
 together, " than one often meets among hu 
 man beings." 
 
 " It is a remarkable scene, indeed," said the 
 young pilot, as the sails began slowly to fill. 
 and the hull, feeling the impetus thus given, 
 fell gracefully into her course to the north 
 west. 
 
 "Farewell," said Sir Robert, leaning over 
 the taffrail, and gazing back, " thou hast been 
 a friendly spot to us." 
 
 Remarkably fine weather accompanied the 
 sloop on her course for many days, and for 
 tune seemed to have .taken them under her 
 peculiar care and favor, until, according to 
 their reckoning, the Substitute was some five 
 days' sail from the English Channel. It was 
 just nightfall, when the pilot gave the order 
 to get in the sails, for his experienced eye fore 
 saw heavy weather brewing, and the sun, 
 which had gone down like a ball of fire, look 
 ed to the seamen's eye as if inflamed. 
 
 Hardly had everything been properly secur 
 ed on board the Substitute, before the gale 
 was upon them. It was with sorrowful faces 
 that the crew saw the head of their craft turn 
 ed to the west, before the gale, and noted the 
 lightning-like speed with which she ploughed 
 her course away from the homes they had 
 hoped so soon to see. But it was their only 
 hope, and thus they stood before the gale for 
 several days, and it seemed to be sweeping 
 them across the ocean. The sloop was most 
 weatherly, but beyond control in such a gale 
 as this, though all were safe, and they felt lit 
 tle fear of immediate danger, but sad enough 
 when they realized how long it would require 
 to gain once more this lost ground. 
 
 On the morning of the eighth day, the sun 
 rose clear and bright, the storm was over, but 
 alas ! those on board the Substitute were 
 thousands of miles from their native land. An 
 observation soon showed them that they were 
 in the latitude of St. Domingo, and indeed 
 they made out one or two of the West India 
 isles. This enabled them more correctly once 
 more to lay their course, and, thankful for 
 their deliverance from the gale, the canvass 
 was again spread. 
 
 These were times when the honest trader 
 scarcely dared to enter the low latitudes at all, 
 or if he did so, every precaution was adopted 
 to avoid meeting with the remorseless Free 
 booters, that then flooded the isles and chan 
 nels of the Spanish Indies, as they were then 
 called ; and these seas were the theatre of the 
 most bloody exploits that redden the pages of 
 history. Though the pirates warred mainly 
 against the Spaniards, to whose oppression 
 they owed their origin, still they had become 
 hardened by bloodshed and booty, and wer
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 47 
 
 net scrupulous as to what flag a rich cargo 
 sailed under. 
 
 In such times as these, and in such a locali 
 ty as the Substitute was now in, it will not be 
 wondered at that the pilot and Sir Robert felt 
 not a little anxiety, when they discovered a 
 sharp, rakish craft standing out from the gulf 
 stream to the north of Cuba, near where they 
 had found themselves on the storm's clearing 
 up. The Substitute was rather a fast sailer, 
 but she could not compete with the rover, for 
 such his black flag at once bespoke him, and 
 though by the superior manoeuvres of the 
 pilot much time was gained, yet the stranger 
 neared them fast. 
 
 The arms on board the sloop were of no or 
 dinary character. In those days, such a ship 
 as the Northumberland did not sail without a 
 heavy arm chest, and this, well stored with 
 weapons and ammunition, had been carefully 
 transported on board the sloop. It was very 
 evident to Sir Robert and the pilot that a col 
 lision must take place between themselves and 
 the rover, and, therefore, the arms were dealt 
 out, giving to each man a boarding cutlass 
 and a brace of pistols, besides to several who 
 were known to be good shots, a gun each. 
 
 In the meantime, the pirate was overhaul 
 ing them length after length ; but, in order to 
 gain time, the pilot had put the sloop before the 
 wind, and thus the chase was a stern one, and 
 gave the people of the Substitute ample time 
 to prepare. Already were the two vessels 
 sufficiently near to discern the people upon the 
 decks of either. That of the rover was full, 
 or nearly so, of blood-thirsty looking men, of 
 all nations and appearances. On they came, 
 until at last was heard a coarse hail across the 
 intervening water, from the pirate's quarter 
 deck. 
 
 " Heave to, or I'll fire into you!" growled a 
 hoarse voice through a trumpet. 
 
 " We'll see," said Sir Robert, levelling a 
 gun, and being an excellent shot, almost with 
 the flash of his weapon the commander of the 
 rover's craft, who had hailed them from the 
 shrouds of his vessel, fell a corpse into the 
 sea ! 
 
 Doubly enraged at this, the pirates swung 
 their craft alongside of the Substitute, grap 
 pled with her at the bows, and the two crafts,, 
 nearly of a size, swung round with the cur 
 rent together. 
 
 " Boarders away !" shouted a stern voice on 
 board the rover, at this moment. 
 
 " Follow me, boys !" said the pilot, rushing 
 forward with Sir Robert, cutlass in hand. 
 
 The pirates numbered some forty men, all 
 told ; but they were fighting for booty, while 
 those on board the Substitute were struggling 
 for their lives. On came the rovers to the 
 bow of the sloop, when they were met by Sir 
 Robert and the pilot with their crew in a hand 
 to hand conflict. In some respects, those on 
 board of the Substitute had the advantage ; 
 they were all armed alike, and with a weapon 
 that every English sailor of those days knew 
 how to wield, while their enemies had armed 
 themselves with such weapons as chance had 
 afforded them some only with guns, others 
 hatchets, and a few with swords and pistols, 
 besides which, the pirates had lost their com 
 mander at the onset, though he who led on the 
 boarding party seemed a master spirit and 
 held his men in awe and obedience. 
 
 " Steady, boys, steady," said the pilot, 
 " wait till they are close on you, and fire low." 
 
 The men understood the meaning of the 
 order and obeyed it. 
 
 Sir Robert, with his herculean strength, 
 was dealing death at the heel of the bowsprit 
 to every man that came over the bows of the 
 sloop, at the spot where he stood. He had 
 chosen a partially sheltered point, where he 
 was not seen, and as each man stepped over 
 the bulwark upon the deck, he cut him down ; 
 nor was the trick discovered until nine of the 
 pirates lay dead upon the forecastle, from the 
 stroke of his cutlass. In the meantime, the 
 pilot and the men were doing good execution 
 at anothej point on the bow, where the rovers 
 were attempting to board. Only two of the 
 Substitute's people had been shot, while four 
 teen of the rovers were already laid low, when 
 the leader of the boarding party discovered 
 the manner in which he was losing his men 
 by the trick Sir Robert was playing him, and 
 gave the signal of recall. 
 
 The pirates were enraged beyond all con 
 trol, to think that so many of their number 
 had been killed, and that they should meet 
 with such determined resistance from so small 
 a number of men. The truth was, the people 
 of the Substitute were under strict discipline, 
 and obeyed implicitly every order^nd, having 
 been so long together, acted in perfect concert.
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 One poor fellow, Jack Spencer, who was shot 
 in the leg after doing good execution upon the 
 rovers, was now unable to stand, and drawing 
 his body under the lee of the bulwark, he call 
 ed on his messmates to pass him their pistols, 
 which he kept loaded for them, putting two 
 bullets into each, by way of interest as he 
 said, for the wound he'd got. 
 
 It was no trifling assistance to the crew,, to 
 be supplied with loaded weapons as quick as 
 they had discharged those they held. It was 
 equal to adding six or eight efficient men to 
 their number, and the pilot, seeing how well 
 this operated, had a dozen extra pistols and 
 plenty of ammunition handed out to Jack Spen 
 cer, that he might be able to give them loaded 
 arms as fast as they called for them. Neither 
 the pirate nor those on board the Substitute 
 had any cannon the battle was entirely car 
 ried on with small arms by both parties. 
 
 " Jack," said the pilot, as he came to renew 
 his pistols, both of which he had discharged 
 with good effect, " you are worth a dozen of 
 those I rascals still, though you are shot so 
 badly." 
 
 " Never mind me, your honor." said Jack, 
 " just give 'em cold lead to pay for it that's 
 all." 
 
 There was a pause now in the conflict ; the 
 pirates, feeling the effect of the deadly aim of 
 Sir Robert and the pilot, had shrunk back to 
 shelter, for they had suffered terribly. But 
 those on board the Substitute knew very well 
 that this was only a temporary lull in the 
 fight, and that it would soon be renewed with 
 increased vigor. And this was the case, for 
 the pirates, seemingly resolved upon a desper 
 ate sally, came in large numbers and together. 
 This should have been their policy in the first 
 place. They now placed the Substitute's peo 
 ple at fault, and came down upon the deck a 
 half-dozen* at a time. The leader of the 
 boarders appeared to be carried away with 
 madness, and led on his men in the most reck 
 less manner, his clear, stern voice ringing 
 loudly above the din of the fight. 
 
 Of course, the crew of the Substitute were 
 obliged to yield before such overwhelming 
 numbers, and were already driven abaft the 
 main hatch, when Sir Robert found himself 
 nearly confronted by the leader of the board 
 ers. At first he started back with sur 
 prise, and lowered the point of his weapon ; he 
 
 was certain that he knew that face, and the 
 voice too was not unfamiliar to his ear, as the 
 orders were issued to his followers. The 
 pause was but for one moment, and the next 
 all was forgotten, and the leader and Sir Rob 
 ert crossed swords. A. few strokes served to 
 show that both were masters of the weapon 
 they held, but Sir Robert's herculean strength 
 seemed to place the skill of the other at fault ; 
 a rapid pass, following up a feint made in an 
 other quarter, cut the cords of the rover's 
 left wrist terribly, and maddened him so, that 
 before Sir Robert could recover, he dashed his 
 sword from him with one skilful blow. Sir 
 Robert was now completely disarmed, but his 
 presence of mind did not desert him, for he 
 seized the rover about his body, just below the 
 waist, before the latter could understand the 
 attack, and, with his extraordinary muscular 
 power, bore him to the side and threw him 
 into the sea. 
 
 It was all the work of an instant of time, 
 and Sir Robert sprang, with a cutlass caught 
 up from the deck, once more upon the assail 
 ants. His arm swept like a scythe among 
 them, and already they began to waver, hav 
 ing lost the directing orders of him that Sir 
 Robert had cast into the sea. It was soon 
 whispered around among them that he was 
 overboard, and that they must attempt his res 
 cue. They began to fall back once more, and 
 as they did so, they passed again within range 
 of Jack Spencer's arm, who had a dozen pistols 
 loaded by his side. These he coolly deliver 
 ed one by one upon the rovers, making terri 
 ble havoc, for he was within six feet of the 
 most of them as he fired. The effect was 
 electric. The rovers could stand this cross 
 fire no longer, and the few of them that were 
 able, retreated most precipitately to the deck 
 of their own vessel. 
 
 There was now probably not a dozen ef 
 fective men among the pirates, so severely 
 had they been disabled ; in the first place by 
 Sir Robert's trick, which cost them ten of 
 their number in some three or four minutes of 
 time, and then by Jack Spencer's raking fire 
 upon them, as they fell back after the loss of 
 the second officer, who had led them on. 
 They were completely overcome and beaten, 
 and had Sir Robert and the pilot chosen, they 
 might have gone on board and taken the pi 
 ratical craft. But many of the people of the
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 Substitute were severely wounded, and the 
 pilot gave orders for a couple of men to go 
 forward and cut the grapnels that bound 
 the vessels together at the bow. This was 
 quickly done, and the two crafts swung clear 
 of each other. 
 
 The pirates were but too happy to be left 
 alone, to attempt any pursuit of the Substitute, 
 and before night-fall the two vessels were far 
 out of sight from each other. 
 
 Doubtless ere this, the reader has surmised 
 that the two persons described in the early 
 part of this story, and who befriended the poor 
 girl Edith, bringing her with so much trouble 
 from the tap room in St. Giles, London, were 
 Sir Robert Brompton and the pilot Walter 
 Manning* 
 
 The Substitute at last brought them safe to 
 England, and the arrival of Sir Robert proved 
 to be most opportune, as it regarded his pecuni 
 ary interests, for he found that his faithful 
 agent and friend, Frederick Howard, had sud 
 denly died, a few weeks previous, of a violent 
 attack of brain fever, leaving Sir Robert's af 
 fairs in the most exposed and critical situation, 
 and yet, as Sir Robert himself observed, in as 
 good shape as could be expected under the 
 circumstances. Another reason why Sir 
 Robert's arrival at this time was most oppor 
 tune, was the fact that it had been generally 
 believed in England, owing to his long absence 
 and loss on the island, that he had been 
 drowned at sea, and in a few weeks more, had 
 he not appeared to claim his property, the 
 courts under the law would have taken it in 
 charge, and have proceeded to administer upon 
 it accordingly. 
 
 ''Report had got me dead and buried, or 
 rather eaten up by the fishes, Walter." 
 
 " And your heirs at law; Sir Robert, were 
 perfectly willing to submit to the will of Prov 
 idence." 
 
 " O, yes, particularly, as in my case, those 
 heirs at law were embraced in the govern 
 ment." 
 
 "Have you none of sufficient nearness 
 in blood to have claimed to be your heir ?" 
 asked Walter. 
 
 " None." 
 
 " That is odd." 
 
 " I am a lone man, Walter." 
 
 '* But not withouf many warm friends, Sir 
 Robert," said Walter. 
 4 
 
 " Bah ! sunshine friends, fair-weather sym 
 pathizers ; they would fade away like a Janu 
 ary thaw, if 1 were suddenly to become poor. 
 But I care not for them. I will fix my own 
 affairs now." 
 
 " You are more than half right, Sir Rob 
 ert." 
 
 All these matters were duly arranged, and 
 Sir Robert and Walter settled down in domes 
 tic life at home. 
 
 Walter Manning observed immediately after 
 their arrival that there was something upon 
 Sir Robert's mind that troubled him greatly 
 a subject, however, to which Walter, never 
 referred, nor did Sir Robert ever allude to the 
 matter, but kept 'it most sacredly within his 
 own breast. Fearing to annoy or tease him by 
 referring to the matter, Walter remained quiet, 
 though he could not help often speculating in 
 his own mind upon its cause. Sometimes he 
 thought that Sir Robert must play, and lose 
 largely, and that his loss perhaps annoyed him ; 
 bu^yet as he was never short of money, but 
 operated whenever he had occasion to do so free 
 ly, and at will, commanding ample resources, 
 this supposition did not seem reasonable. 
 
 Not un frequently Sir Robert Brompton 
 would be absent for days at a time, and no one 
 of the family knew where he was, and after 
 such periods of absence he would return quite 
 exhausted and worn out from apparent exposure 
 and physical exertions, and more gloomy and 
 depressed than he had been before. But Wal 
 ter Manning reasoned that if he chose to keep 
 his business a secret, he had a perfect right to 
 do so, nor was it his part to be inquisitive ia 
 his patron's private affairs; true, he would like 
 to have administered to his relief if possible, 
 but this, perhaps, might not be. 
 
 Walter Manning in the meantime pursued 
 his studies with unremitting diligence, and 
 read law with an eminent barrister of Londen, 
 under the liberal patronage of his friend Sir 
 Robert, though the gems they had brought from 
 the lone island had produced him ample means 
 for support, a sum exceeding forty thousand 
 pounds. Five years passed on thus, until tha 
 period when we have introduced the readers 
 to these pages in one of the tap rooms of 
 London. 
 
 And now we must again return to the gen 
 tle Edith and her history, at a most important 
 period to her.
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 THE BURGLARY. 
 
 " Outlaw. Stand, sir, and throw us that you have about you." 
 
 " Val. Ruffians, forego that rude, uncivil touch." Two GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. 
 
 HAVING brought the reader once more safe 
 ly to London, after a long voyage and many 
 adventures, let us introduce him again to the 
 household of Sir Robert Brompton, where 
 Edith is sharing the kind solicitude of the 
 good Mrs. Marlow, and where Sir Robert and 
 Walter Manning are enjoying a quiet domes* 
 tic happiness. The observant reader will un 
 derstand that the scenes which we have de 
 picted in the last four chapters, were of prior 
 occurrence to the opening scenes of our story, 
 and we may yet, in the relation of the varied 
 scenes that we portray, go back still farther, 
 to lay before him such phases of our plot as 
 shall best entertain and interest him. 
 
 Sir Robert Brompton's household consisted 
 of himself, Walter, Edith, Mrs. Marlow, and 
 four servantp of each sex. Sir Robert had em 
 ployed Mrs. Marlow since his return from 
 India, and found in her just such a person as 
 his necessities required. Edith during the 
 day was constantly engaged with her masters, 
 but the evening was devoted to cheerful fire 
 side associations, when Walter would read 
 aloud from some interesting book, or they 
 would converse or play some simple game 
 together, even Sir Robert joining with avidity 
 in the performance. 
 
 A twelvemonth of this sort of life, and the 
 
 advantages of the best instructors, had vastly 
 improved Edith, who now bore no perceptible 
 traces of her former life. Her manners had 
 gradually become polished and easy, her Ian* 
 guage, under the able instructers her patron 
 provided, was elegant and correct, and every 
 evidence of her taste gave token of delicacy 
 and refinement. The life of ease and health* 
 ful exercise which she now enjoyed, had also 
 much changed her in person. She was taller, 
 and her figure was more full and rounded in 
 outline, than when we first met her. The 
 natural color of her cheek, which was fitful 
 before, had now become permanent, giving a 
 rose-like freshness to her fair complexion^ 
 while the sweet influence of intelligence and 
 mental culture upon the physiognomy, lighted 
 up her already marked beauty of feature. 
 This decided change in his protegee seemed 
 to please and gratify Sir Robert not a Iittle 5 
 nor was Walter Manning an unobservant wit 
 ness. Sir Robert doted upon her as though 
 she had been his own child, Walter loved her 
 as a sister. 
 
 Associates of her own age and sex were 
 found for Edith, and of a class to add to her 
 improvement by their intimacy and companion- 
 ship, and the poor orphan who had so lately 
 performed the most menial offices of a vulgar
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 51 
 
 tap-room, with thieves and pickpockets for its 
 frequenters, now found herself happy, and 
 receiving all the comfort and consideration of 
 the most favored child of fortune. She her 
 self was not unmindful of the contrast that 
 frequently presented itself to her mind, and 
 its realization would often puzzle her. But she 
 was very happy and thankful to those who 
 had befriended her. She had learned to look 
 for the return of Sir Robert whenever he was 
 absent, with the utmost impatience and love, 
 and when he did come from his pleasure or 
 business engagements in town, she received 
 him always with such pure, unaffected glad 
 ness of heart, that its sincerity and truth even 
 with Sir Robert's jealous and sensitive dispo 
 sition, were not to be misconstrued or doubt 
 ed. 
 
 Sir Robert was still very sensitive in rela 
 tion to his personal appearance ; and his lame 
 ness, as well as the marks upon his face, left 
 by the sickness he had experienced in India, 
 were both sources of constant chagrin to his 
 over-sensitive mind ; but he was happy in be 
 lieving that these external objects had no 
 weight with such an affection as Edith bore 
 him, and once in his life he felt assured that 
 he was loved for himself alone, sincerely lov 
 ed by a pure and 7 innocent creature to whom 
 he became hourly more devoted and attached. 
 His heart had yearned for some such affection 
 as he now enjoyed, for many years, long be 
 fore he was married, ay, and when he was 
 married, too: for his jealousy then often ren 
 dered him most miserable. But now his for 
 tune seemed changed the sunny side of the 
 picture presented itself to his view, and Sir 
 Robert Brompton was comparatively a happy 
 man ; no one is wholly so. 
 
 Yet it was a strange sight to see them 
 together, Sir Robert with his coarsej pitted 
 face, and limping gait, contrasted with Edith's 
 fair complexion and faultless form. Still, as 
 she hung upon his arm and looked up into his 
 face to see as well as hear him speak, the most 
 casual observer would have marked the depth 
 and sincerity of the love that beamed from 
 her large, plaintive, blue eyes. It acted like 
 a charm upon Sir Robert. 
 
 " Do you get on pleasantly with your in- 
 structers, Edith ?'' he asked, kissing her fair 
 forehead as she leaned thus affectionately upon 
 him. 
 
 " O yes, Sir Robert, they are very atten 
 tive," she replied, " and strive to teach me 
 everything." 
 
 "And your music?" continued Sir Robert, 
 toying with her soft and luxuriant hair. 
 
 " Is so delightful." 
 
 " You really like it then, Edith ?" asked 
 her patron, with evident satisfaction. 
 
 " Indeed I do," she replied, earnestly. " I 
 practise all the time you are away." 
 
 " That is right, Edith. I would have you 
 improve in all things, and become as accom 
 plished as the proudest lady in London. 
 Come, Edith, will you try for this ?" 
 
 " O, indeed I will, for your sake, who have 
 been so kind to me, if not for my own. It W 
 my greatest pleasure to do anything that 
 pleases you, Sir Robert." 
 
 " Does Mrs. Marlow strive to make you 
 happy, Edith?" 
 
 " She is only too good, Sir Robert, and is 
 never tired of serving me." 
 
 " It is well ; that shall be her constant du 
 ty," he replied. 
 
 " Would that there was some way for me 
 to repay all this kindness." 
 
 " You are a dear good girl, Edith," said 
 her protector, " and repay me, doubly repay 
 me, every day. To-morrow will be Christ- 
 mas, and though I shall then have a token for 
 you.of my own choosing, yet I know very 
 well that a young lady can suit her own tasto 
 so much better than an old fellow like me can 
 do for her, that I want you to go out and 
 choose for yourself this afternoon, and here is 
 a purse for you to spend for the holidays." 
 
 " You are too generous with me, dear Sir 
 Robert," said Edith, hesitating to receive the 
 money. " Why, I have over twenty pounds 
 in my purse from your last present, which 
 I have not yet expended, and it will more, 
 much more than serve my wishes." 
 
 "Nay, Edith, take it, and use it as you 
 will. You know I have often told you that I 
 have enough to supply the most extravagant 
 desires, and it pleases me to have you enjoy 
 it." 
 
 "Thank you kindly, Sir Robert," said 
 Edith. " I can only thank you." 
 
 Edith went to her chamber to dress for tbe 
 afternoon, and to calculate what she should 
 purchase for the kind housekeeper, Mrs. Mar- 
 low, and what for Jane and Mary and the rest
 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 of the servants, all of whom were so kind to 
 their dear young lady, as they always called 
 her. Edith really loved them in return for 
 their kindness and assiduity. Her remarkable 
 change of life made no difference in her feel 
 ings : she was the same simple and true- 
 hearted girl as before her elevation. Though 
 with half a dozen persons at her beck and 
 call, she assumed no airs of petty authority, 
 and what she directed, was so done that it 
 seemed a privilege to obey her, and thus she 
 fell naturally into her position, well gracing it. 
 
 It was a cold and cheerless night in Decem- 
 / her, heavy clouds coursed over the sky and 
 obscured even the pale light of the stars, for 
 the moon had long since gone down. There 
 was a chilly, biting frost in the air, as though 
 the atmosphere were out of humor, and the 
 clock even, which had just struck two, did it 
 in a most doleful tone. Shadows were deep 
 and dark over the great city, and none were 
 abroad save the thickly muffled watchmen, 
 and they kept so close in each friendly shelter 
 that offered, you would have thought no one 
 was stirring at ah 1 . The city had wrapped its 
 mantle of night about it, and lay down to 
 sleep, and though there was no motion, no 
 bustle now, yet its great heart of humanity 
 throbbed on, and its pulses beat as quickly as 
 ever ; the body only slumbered. 
 
 At this lone hour, fitting time for deeds of 
 darkness, two men and a boy crept stealthily 
 one after the other, over the high wooden fence 
 that enclosed the yard in the rear of Sir Rob 
 ert Brompton's house. Had they been three 
 cats instead of three human beings, they could 
 scarcely have accomplished this feat more 
 quietly, or with more facility. The one who 
 first went over placed a short hand screw in 
 the fence, evidently made for the purpose, 
 turning it quite through to the other side, 
 about one third way up the height of the wall, 
 at such a distance from the ground as to be ea 
 sily reached by the foot. Standing upon this 
 instrument, another one was inserted in a like 
 manner above it, the two, in connection with 
 the top of the fence, thus forming an easy 
 pair of steps on either side of the wall to as 
 cend or descend upon. 
 
 With these preliminary arrangements, the 
 three passed quietly over the fence into the 
 yurd beyond. 
 
 The boy was very small, though by his rea 
 
 dy movements and the easy manner in whic 
 he bestowed himself, he was evidently no 
 stranger to the part he was expected to per 
 form. He spoke not a word, though he was 
 suffering evidently from the chilly influences 
 of the night air, and was in fact very thinly 
 clad, but keeping as closely as possible to the 
 other rough looking objects who were his com 
 panions, he seemed quietly to wait the proper 
 time for him to act. Not a word was spoken 
 by either of them ; their greatest object seem 
 ed to be not to make the least noise. But 
 they had no need of words, for they seemed 
 to understand each other fully, proceeding with 
 perfect intelligence and speed, nor did they 
 pause here even for a single moment to ar 
 range any matter. 
 
 Once they did pause, and drew close togeth 
 er as they heard the growl of a dog. 
 
 " Curse it," whispered the larger one of the 
 party, "you didn't say there was any dog 
 here." 
 
 " Isn't that over the fence ?" asked the other, 
 listening. 
 
 " It's goin'along the street," whispered the 
 boy, returning from the fence, where he had 
 put his ear. 
 
 It was so ; some one passing was accompa 
 nied by a dog, whose instinct had detected 
 something wrong about the spot, and had led 
 him to utter the low, but deep growl peculiar 
 to this animal when he scents danger. 
 
 One of the men now took his station neai 
 the fence, at the spot where they had come 
 over, and from whence he could not only hear 
 what was going on upon the opposite side, 
 but could also overlook the several directions 
 of approach in the yard itself. This com 
 panion with the boy immediately approached a 
 back door of the house opening to the south, 
 and at once commenced operations in good 
 earnest, to effect an entrance. 
 
 A sharp and peculiarly shaped knife was 
 first introduced into the thinnest part of the 
 door, being a lower pannel; a small hole being 
 thus formed, the burglar introduced' a small 
 circular saw, so sharp and cunningly handled 
 as to cut its way with scarcely a particle of 
 noise. At this the man worked with the most 
 unyielding industry for nearly twenty minutes, 
 when he was enabled to remove a piece of the 
 pannel, leaving an aperture of some twenty 
 inches in circumference. The boy had been
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME, 
 
 53 
 
 a silent observer of this operation, but as soon 
 as the piece was removed, he at once threw off 
 his cap and jacket, and placing his head and 
 shoulders within the hole, was thrust through 
 to the other side of the door by his older com 
 panion, until he had quite disappeared. 
 
 " Be careful how you move the key and 
 bolt," whispered the man, placing his face at 
 die hole through which he had thus thrust 
 the boy. " Turn the key easy, and slip the 
 bolt lightly. Don't be in a hurry now, and 
 make a noise ; do you understand ? Do it 
 slowly, remember that, boy, slow and still !" 
 
 "I knows how, hasn't I done it afore," said 
 die boy, confidently to the other, as he prepar 
 ed to open the door as directed, and admit his 
 older companions. 
 
 " Is he in ?" asked the man who had been 
 waiting at the fence all the while, and who 
 now came up to the spot somewhat impatient 
 ly. " I say is he in ?" 
 
 " Yes, he's just gone in. Hark ! There 
 goes the lock, well done, too," replied the 
 other, as the key was gently turned by the 
 boy on the inside, who showed that he was 
 no novice at the business. 
 
 u And that's the bolt," said his companion, 
 as the second fastening was quietly removed 
 from the eye by the little adept within. 
 
 " That's a smart boy, Bill ; he's worth his 
 weight in guineas. Don't he work like a 
 charm, eh 1" said he who had cut the door and 
 put the boy through it. 
 
 " Ay ; he's well enough in a small way" 
 whispered the other, jokingly, " but come on, 
 we must work lively, or we shall have the 
 daylight upon us before we have bagged the 
 game." 
 
 " My fingers itch to handle some of that 
 rich plate they say the old fellow brought with 
 him from India," said he who had cut through 
 the pannel." 
 
 " Open the way, my little jewel," whisper 
 ed the larger of the two to the boy. 
 
 " Is you all ready ?" asked the boy. 
 
 " Yes, yes ; open it quietly." 
 
 IB the next moment the door was quietly 
 
 opened by the boy on the inside, and the two 
 burglars had successfully effected an entrance 
 into Sir Robert's house. 
 
 Once on the inside, they looked carefully 
 about them, to see the arrangement of the 
 house, peering along the passage way or en 
 try, and making out to their satisfaction which 
 was the kitchen, which the store room, etc. 
 They were old hands at the business ; they did 
 not dive at once into a search, but like skilful 
 soldiers, laid their plans coolly, and surveyed 
 the ground before they commenced the attack. 
 Having acquainted themselves with the " lay 
 of the land," as one of them remarked, they 
 returned again to the door to see that all was 
 clear for the retreat when it was necessary to 
 do so. 
 
 " Boy," whispered one of them, cautious 
 ly, as they approached. 
 
 " Yes," answered the boy, shrugging hie 
 shoulders with the cold. 
 
 " Are you sleepy, you rogue ?" asked one 
 of the men. 
 
 " No, I ain't sleepy." 
 
 " Well, come here." 
 
 "Take this," said the larger of the two 
 men, handing the boy a small silver whistle ; 
 " and if there is any sign of discovery, blow 
 it and give us the alarm. Do you under 
 stand ?" 
 
 " Yes," said the boy. 
 
 " No false alarms now, don't blow it unless 
 diere is good reason remember that." 
 
 " And mind you don't get to sleep now," 
 said the other. 
 
 Though the boy had resumed his coat and 
 cap, still he was, as we have said, very thinly 
 clad for the season, and though uncomplain 
 ing, was shivering with the cold, which the 
 last speaker observing, he took off his own 
 outside garment, and threw it about the child's 
 body, again repeating his instructions as to 
 watchfulness. 
 
 This done, the burglars proceeded to pros 
 ecute their designs on Sir Robert's plate, each 
 one unloosing a bag that had been tied about 
 his waist until now, intended to hold their 
 plunder.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE ABDUCTION. 
 
 Let us lift up the curtain, and observe 
 What passes in that chamber. 
 
 OPENING their dark lanterns, the two burglars 
 who had thus effected their entrance into the 
 house left the boy, as we have said, and prepar 
 ed to search for the plate that they seemed to 
 have learned was in the establishment. In 
 deed a large service of plate was to be found 
 at that period in every house with any preten 
 sions to gentility or wealth in London. But 
 it seemed that Sir Robert's had possessed un 
 usual attraction for the burglars. 
 
 Closet after closet was ransacked and over 
 hauled, drawers were tossed indiscriminately 
 mto the midst of the rooms, and every nook 
 and corner was carefully though noiselessly 
 searched, but though they occasionally found 
 some articles deemed worthy of a place in 
 their sacks, yet they could neither discover the 
 plate nor any signs of it. In this dilemma, 
 they resolved to seek the sleeping apartments 
 of some of the family, and by threats, so to act 
 upon their fears as to cause them to discover 
 where the articles which they sought were now 
 stored. 
 
 " Have a care," said the larger of the two, 
 " that we wake up but one." 
 
 " Shall I try the doors ?" 
 
 "Lightly on that side I will try these," 
 said the other, proceeding to do so. 
 
 "They are all locked curse the luckj 
 what's to be done ?" asked he who cut through 
 the door. 
 
 " Stay, here is one that is not locked," 
 whispered the larger of the two, just as they 
 were about to give up the plan of seeking any 
 of the inmates of the family. 
 
 They shaded their lanterns and crept stealth 
 ily into the room with a step so light that it 
 gave no sound to the ear, a practice that they 
 had become so perfect in as to perform it with 
 wonderful dexterity. The furniture in the 
 room showed the villains at once that they 
 were in the apartment of some respected mem 
 ber of the family, and not that of a servant, 
 as they stole towards the richly hung bed 
 stead. 
 
 " There's some one sleeping here," whis 
 pered the smaller of the two men to the other, 
 pointing to the bed on which they turned the 
 light of their lanterns for a moment. 
 
 " Is it a man or a woman," whispered the 
 other, peering about the room in the dim light 
 of the dark lanterns which they carried. 
 
 " It is a woman, don't you see ?" said his 
 companion, pointing to some clothes that lay 
 upon a chair near by, and which indicated the 
 occupant of the room.
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 " The better for our purpose," said the other, 
 with evident satisfaction. 
 
 " Hark ! did you hear nothing ?" whispered 
 the smaller of the two men. 
 
 " Nothing." 
 
 " Stay, there it is again. I was sure I heard 
 something." 
 
 " It's only a rusty sign turning upon its 
 hinges," said the other. 
 
 " Curse the noise, it sounds so like a human 
 voice that it almost speaks." 
 
 " Fudge, never mind the noise. We're 
 losing precious time." 
 
 " Well, well," whispered the other, " I am 
 a little nervous, I know." 
 
 "Don't play the woman here," said the 
 other, sternly, " Come close." 
 
 As they drew close to the bedside, the light 
 of both lanterns was thrown full upon the 
 face of the unconscious sleeper, as she lay 
 there in innocent slumber, while the two vil 
 lains leaned over her ! 
 
 What a contrast there was between their 
 rough, forbidding countenances and that of the 
 sleeper ! A picture, a tableau of innocence 
 and of guilt ! How gently the breast of the 
 sleeper heaved, how calm, how sweet 
 and serene the expression of her lips ! The 
 sight of so much loveliness and purity made 
 these guilty men pause and look at each other 
 almost in doubt whether to turn and leave her 
 there, or to go on and carry out their design 
 of forcing from her the information that they 
 so eagerly sought to obtain. 
 
 " Why do you look at me in that way ?" 
 asked the larger of the two of his companion. 
 
 " I don't know," said the other, absently ; 
 " wasn't you looking at me ?" 
 
 " To be sure I was," said the other. " How 
 handsome and innocent she looks," he contin 
 ued, gazing intently upon the fair creature be 
 fore them, while her gentle bosom rose and fell 
 in innocent unconsciousness. 
 
 " Handsome," said the other, with emphasis, 
 as he whispered in his companion's ear, 
 " that's all outside. But what would you give, 
 Bill, to sleep like that ?" 
 
 He who was thus addressed mused for a 
 moment in silence, reflecting upon what the 
 other had said. 
 
 " Stay, she is waking," said he at last start 
 ing from his reverie, as the sleeper moved a 
 little. " Turn the light a little one side," he 
 
 continued, " and be ready to stop her mouth 
 with the sheet." 
 
 " Never fear for me when the time comes 
 for action," said the other. 
 
 It was no sooner said than done, and as the 
 startled and bewildered girl opened her eyes, 
 the sheet was quickly forced against hor lips, 
 and firmly holden there, so as completely to 
 smother any effort at articulation. At the 
 same time he who held his hand upon her 
 mouth in this way, told her that she need not 
 fear, that they would not harm her if she 
 would direct them where to find the articles 
 that they were in search of, but at the same 
 time solemnly assuring her that the first word 
 that escaped her lips louder than a whisper, 
 would be the signal for her instant death. 
 Still stronger to enforce this threat and to pre 
 vent her from attempting to give any alarm 
 to the persons in the house, he who had been 
 called Bill drew from his bosom a heavy bladed 
 sheath knife, and deliberately prepared it for 
 use before her very eyes. As he did so he 
 came more nearly to the girl, and once 
 more bringing the light so as to fall full upon 
 her face, he paused and seemed to gaze in 
 amazement for more than a minute at her, and 
 then said in a hoarse whisper : 
 
 " Is it possible, Edith, that this is you ! 
 Have I found you at last?" 
 
 '/ I know you not," said Edith, in an agony 
 of fear, as she gazed upon his face frowning 
 ominously upon her. 
 
 " Don't you know me, don't you know Bill 
 at mother Giles' ?" 
 
 " Alas ! yes, I do remember you," she said, 
 covering her face with her hands, and shud 
 dering as though a chilling blast of the night 
 air had swept over her unprotected person. 
 
 " I thought you could hardly have forgot- 
 , ten me," replied the man, with a sarcastic 
 smile that became merged in a ghastly grin, so 
 villanous was his expression. 
 
 Dazzled and bewildered by the light, the 
 startled girl had not before carefully observed 
 the faces of the men who were before her, but 
 she now discovered in her interrogator, the per 
 son of one of the most daring and reckless vil 
 lains who had frequented the tap room in St. 
 Giles, and indeed one of the very party whom 
 Sir Robert Brompton and Walter Manning 
 had so signally and promptly overcome at the 
 time when they brought her away from her
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 fearful associations on that well remembered 
 night. She knew not what to do in this fear 
 ful dilemma. She did Hot dare to lift her 
 voice to give the alarm, for she knew the char 
 acter of these men too well, and that they 
 would count the taking of her life of not a 
 pin's importance, provided it was necessary to 
 further their object of plunder. And then 
 one of them had recognized her! That thrill 
 ed her to the very soul, and in that exciting 
 moment even, she paused to realize it, for it 
 was the first time this had occurred since she 
 left their vile haunts. 
 
 " Come v ," said the largest burglar, " you 
 must up and show us where the plate is 
 kept." 
 
 " 0, spare me, as you hope for mercy, spare 
 me," said Edith. 
 
 " Will you not show where the plate is ?" 
 asked Bill, meaningly. 
 
 " Go, and leave me, I pray you go. I 
 promise you not to discover that you have been 
 here." 
 
 " We must handle the plate first," said the 
 other burglar ; " come, girl, tell us where it 
 is." 
 
 " I know not where the articles are that you 
 seek, upon my soul I do not," said the poor 
 girl, after a moment's pause, while she sat 
 trembling in bed. 
 
 *' It is something to have found you !" re 
 plied he who had recognized her, " if we don't 
 find the silver at all. Come, get up, Edith, 
 you must follow us, and quickly, too !" 
 
 " O, no, I can't go, I can't," she sobbed bit 
 terly, as she drew the clothes tightly about 
 her. 
 
 I " Then I shall make you ; I'm no trifler, 
 Edith, and I say you must come with me." 
 
 " O, do not take me away, I pray you do 
 not. I will give you all that I have got, all 
 my money and jewels. I will do anything 
 for you that I can. There, in that upper 
 drawer is my purse, there are a hundred 
 pounds in it, but do not, oh ! do not take me 
 from here," she sobbed most bitterly. 
 
 " Hist," said the other villain, " you make 
 too much noise ;" at the same moment he 
 opened the drawer and secured the money that 
 had been referred to, with evidences of strong 
 satisfaction. 
 
 *' Gal, I think you know me," said he who 
 had recognized her. " Now if you do not 
 
 get up and dress and follow us at once, that 
 is your winding sheet." 
 
 As the burglar spoke, he pointed with the 
 blade he held, to the clothes that covered the 
 affrighted girl. At this moment, as the bur 
 glar completed his threat, a low, but shrill 
 whistle resounded upon their ears from the 
 boy at the door, being repeated thrice in quick 
 succession. 
 
 " Hark !" said the larger of the two, " that 
 is the boy's whistle." 
 
 " It is the signal : we are discovered !" said 
 the other, much excited. 
 
 " Gc down and see what that means," said 
 he who was called Bill; "I will remain here," 
 and then turning to Edith, he continued, 
 " come, Miss, hurry on these things, there is 
 no time to be lost quick, I say," and the vil 
 lain laid his rough hands upon her arm, forci 
 bly hurrying her from the bed to the floor, 
 when she hastily put on her clothes. 
 
 "Oil pray you do not take me from here," 
 she sobbed, at last sinking upon the floor in 
 an agony of grief and fear. " Surely, I can 
 do you no good, and it will make me so mis 
 erable." 
 
 " Edith," he said " I swear that unless you 
 follow me peaceably, you shall die. Think 
 you I am one to keep my word upon such a 
 subject or not ?" 
 
 " But I can be of no use to you do not 
 take me away." 
 
 " I talk no more," said the burglar, gazing 
 sternly upon her features ; " you will either go 
 with me out of this house, or, mark me, I 
 will leave you a corpse in it." 
 
 Edith's heart sank within her, she saw that 
 it was of no avail to oppose her captor ; but 
 still she hoped that something might happen 
 to protect her, and affright the burglars away. 
 At this moment the other burglar with the 
 boy re-appeared silently in the room, and re 
 ported that the watch had discovered some 
 thing that excited their suspicions, and had 
 evidently found the screws in the fence, and 
 when they left the door, they were clambering 
 the fence, and were over in the yard below. 
 
 " Did you lock the door ?" asked the person 
 who seemed to be the leader, now that a case 
 of emergency had arrived, and who had re 
 mained with Edith. 
 
 " Yes, we locked it, and bolted it too," said 
 the little boy.
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 57 
 
 " Then we must escape by the front. Go 
 down to the basement, and open the way. 
 I'll follow quickly. Come, Miss, at the first 
 step that you falter, I will bury this knife to 
 the hilt in your very heart." 
 
 " Here, come back," said the larger of the 
 two men to the other, " we shall have to sup 
 port her." 
 
 " Softly," said the other, " this noise in the 
 yard may awake the sleepers. Shall I open 
 the lantern ?" 
 
 " Yes, quietly, now." 
 
 " Here, boy, take my bag." 
 
 " No ' blunt ' ?" asked the boy, as he weigh 
 ed the bag in his hand, surprised that it was 
 so light. 
 
 "The easier for you to carry, be easy and 
 go on," replied the man. 
 
 The boy threw the sack over his shoulder, 
 and said no more. 
 
 Thus prepared, with the trembling girl be 
 tween them, and so weak that she was almost 
 insensible, the two burglars and the boy stole 
 down stairs slowly to the front basement, 
 where their tools were quickly brought to bear 
 upon one of the windows on the inside, and a 
 passage was soon cleared for them into the 
 street, by removing a part of a sash and sev 
 eral panes of glass. Terrified beyond endur 
 ance, Edith had now fainted, and the burglars 
 saw that if they would take her with them, 
 they must do so by main strength, for she was 
 perfectly insensible. 
 
 At this state of affairs they heard the watch 
 men in the yard, who seemed to have discov 
 ered the hole in the door, and thus became sat 
 isfied of foul play, and were preparing for a 
 regular search. Already they had begun to 
 thunder at the door to awake the inmates, and 
 the burglars knew very well that a posse would 
 soon be summoned to surround the house and 
 cut off their retreat. As yet, there seemed to 
 be but two of the watchmen at the door, and 
 both of these were still at the back of the house, 
 but their rattles were already sprung. 
 
 The boy had crept through the window, 
 and had charge of the booty. 
 
 " Bill, it wont do to take the girl I tell 
 you, it wont it will lead to our being taken 
 ourselves," said the other burglar, hurriedly. 
 
 "Nonsense bear a hand here." 
 
 " But I tell you, it's downright folly," con 
 tinued the other, earnestly. 
 
 " If you are afraid, take care of yourself. 
 I'm in no hurry." 
 
 " I'm not afraid, Bill you know that ain't 
 my failin'." 
 
 All this while the larger of the burglars had 
 been arranging Edith's dress about her, an 
 tying her frock about her feet with his neck 
 handkerchief, and depositing her lifeless body 
 on the sill of the window. This done, he 
 said : 
 
 " Will you help me, my cove, or shall I op 
 erate alone ?" 
 
 " Come, Bill, take my advice, and leave the 
 girl," said the other, coaxingly. 
 
 " Go she shall, though I carry her alone," 
 he replied. " There is no more time to be lost. 
 Step through there, and I'll pass her along." 
 
 " Well, if you say so, Bill, but I don't like 
 this part of the business," said the olher. " It 
 isn't what we came here for, and we risk all, 
 without gaining anything." 
 
 The lifeless body of the poor girl, still hap 
 pily insensible, was passed through the win 
 dow, and the burglar sprang quickly through 
 after it, and lifting her from the ground as 
 though she had been a mere child, and throw 
 ing her upon his shoulder, was soon lost in the 
 darkness and maze of streets that run towards 
 the east part of the town. 
 
 The watch seeing the door fastened, pre 
 sumed, of course, that the robber had fled, and 
 therefore did not take such steps as they would 
 have done if they had supposed it at all prob 
 able that they were on the premises. After 
 effecting their entrance by arousing the family, 
 they saw the mistake, and were satisfied that 
 while they were operating at the back of the 
 house, the burglars were escaping from the 
 front part. 
 
 Edith's loss drove the whole family circle at 
 Sir Robert Brompton's house almost frantic.
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 THE ROBBER OF THE RHINE. 
 
 The good old plan 
 
 That they should get, who have the power, 
 And they should keep, who can. 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 LEAVING busy London, with all its crime 
 and splendor, its poverty and wealth, the read 
 er will now come with us to the valley of val 
 leys, the romantic and classic Rhine. 
 
 The singular combination of beautiful 
 scenery and miserable associations, is perhaps 
 no where so strongly combined, as in that valley 
 so famed in story, and from which have sprung 
 so many wild and thrilling legends. The 
 beautiful banks of the far famed river, orna 
 mented with soft luxuriant groves and stately 
 castles, and remarkable everywhere for its 
 many classic associations, presents as a 
 whole one of the most romantic pictures in all 
 of Europe. Still the deep blue eyes of the 
 poor peasant girls, so strangely large, glare 
 upon you oftentimes with the scowl of famine, 
 while they are compelled to labor like beasts 
 of burthen for the humblest means of subsist 
 ence. The starving hamlet and the stately 
 castle are here side;by side, forming a painter's 
 paradise, and a grave for a poet's heart. 
 
 Springing as the noble river does from the 
 very bosom of the Alps, midway between 
 Italy and Switzerland, it runs a course through 
 the valley, of four hundred leagues before it 
 meets the ocean. Its banks on either side for 
 two thirds df the distance are covered with 
 richly yielding and highly cultivated vineyards, 
 with ancient and stately castles, and towers 
 
 and convents, and the strong holds of the old 
 feudal lords and knights of the soil, in times 
 when might made right, and every castle had 
 its secret dungeon and tales of horror. When 
 daring robbers, Under the cloak of knighthood, 
 committed the vilest deeds, and stole away 
 noble ladies from their fathers' halls, of 
 emptied the coffers of a neighboring convent. 
 Innumerable are the legends and stories of 
 mysterious interest hanging over these an 
 cient piles, now mostly gone to ruin and decay, 
 moss covered, and tenanted by the bats and 
 owls, suggestive themes, in their picturesque 
 beauty, to the imagination. 
 
 At this period, gentle reader, when we 
 would conduct you to this romantic spot, the 
 banks of the Rhine and the surrounding or im 
 mediate country were the theatre of exploits 
 and the haunts of men as extraordinary as 
 the world has ever produced. The unsettled 
 state of the government, and the conflicting 
 opinions of the various parties, gave prevalence 
 to a lawless and reckless spirit, which seemed 
 to pervade every class of the community ; not 
 even excepting a portion of the peasantry 
 themselves, and giving rise to a reign of ter 
 ror that is registered in letters of blood on the 
 pages of history. At this startling period, 
 fostered and matured by the wild spirit of the 
 times, there sprang up innumerable roving
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 bands of robbers and banditti, who preyed 
 upon the resources of the people, generally, 
 however, favoring the humbler classes, and, 
 in fact, for a considerable period, making them 
 selves actual masters of the valley of the 
 Rhine. 
 
 If any of the leaders of these bands were 
 particularly marked out, or pursued by any 
 local interest, they found but little diffi 
 culty in making good their escape from 
 their pursuers and from justice. From Bel 
 gium, for instance, they would easily pass 
 into Holland, if pursuit was strongly pressed, 
 or into the countries bordering on the Rhine, 
 and there the minute subdivision of the Ger 
 manic confederation, in which each petty 
 prince maintained a most jealous spirit of in 
 dependence of the rest, rendered pursuit of 
 the fugitives among their respective domains, 
 almost a hopeless and fruitless task, and the 
 most noted banditti often thus escaped. 
 
 Of these times, particularly, we wish to 
 speak, in the drawing of our story for the 
 reader. 
 
 Among the leaders of the bands referred to, 
 were the well known names of Picard, Bre- 
 bault, Mersen, Rospeck, and that pattern of 
 chivalry among banditti, the renowned Schin- 
 derhanes. This latter, known all over Europe 
 by the title of the Robber of the Rhine, is 
 as famed for his eccentricity of character as 
 for his boldness and bravery, as noted for his 
 charities as for his robberies, and as much loved 
 by the poor as he was hated by the proud and 
 noble in rank, and whose life forms a series of 
 romantic adventures, rather than of deeds of 
 bloodshed. But yet he could be cruel, and 
 his hands were not unsteeped in Wood. He 
 was born of humble parentage, somewhere 
 upon the banks of the river, where he was en 
 gaged from boyhood in the lowly occupation 
 of a peasant and a vinedresser, until for some 
 petty and innocent breach of the law, he was 
 sentenced and publicly whipped. It was not 
 the pain that he experienced, physically, that 
 was so bitter to his spirit, it was the mental 
 wounds that each stroke of the lash inflicted ; 
 it was the agony of shame that corroded deep 
 er than the sores upon his back, and he told 
 those who had executed the sentence, that it 
 should cost them dear. The humble peasant 
 was in earnest, and from that hour he dedi 
 cated all his energies of body and mind, to 
 
 revenge himself upon that law which had 
 thus, without cause, disgraced him and his 
 name forever. 
 
 The judge who sentenced him was found 
 murdered in his bed, and the executioner who 
 had applied the lash, was discovered near the 
 castle walls, stabbed to the heart 
 
 As he grew in years, so did his deeds grow 
 in magnitude and atrocity, until he collected 
 about him a daring band of men, of spirit con 
 genial with his own, and many of whom were 
 goaded on to revenge by like injuries with 
 that which had embittered the heart of their 
 leader. With this troop, well mounted and 
 well armed, he swept the country, putting at 
 defiance all that the magistrates could send 
 against him. His tactics were of the most 
 shrewd and cunning character, and when force 
 would not accomplish his daring plans, he re 
 sorted to the most subtle strategy. 
 
 By certain preconcerted signs, the various 
 members of his band could always recognize 
 each other, wherever they met, and these 
 signs and tokens were guarded from being 
 divulged by the most awful oaths and penal 
 ties that could be invented, and perhaps have 
 never yet been revealed, except to members of 
 the fraternity. He would sometimes disperse 
 his entire band over the country, in pursuance 
 of some well digested plan ; one here, one 
 there, no two together. Sometimes they were 
 thrown into the walls of the city ; no two 
 lodging together, or offering to recognize each 
 other in the streets, until, their object gained, 
 they met once more at the rendezvous. 
 Names, dresses, character, occupation, com 
 plexion, and even features, were changed with 
 the most bewildering facility, and thus they 
 were often performing their depredations upon 
 others, under a complete and impenetrable 
 mask, eluding all vigilance, and confounding 
 all precedent. 
 
 Schinderhanes was of the most gallant and 
 romantic disposition, being passionately devot 
 ed to the gentler sex. It was this trait that 
 prompted him to make love to the high-born 
 and beautiful Julia Blasius,.a noble German 
 lady, who, after losing her heart to the robber 
 chief, ran away from her parents and her 
 home, to follow his fortunes and to become 
 his wife ; a statement that draws not at all 
 upon fancy for its support, being strictly and 
 historically true.
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 This lovely and devoted girl was scarcely 
 eighteen, when she left her father's halls for 
 the robber's home in the deep wilds of the for 
 est ; but she was ever most true and devoted 
 to him, arid so was the robber to her. But 
 his career was a fearful one, in which domes 
 tic happiness could scarcely have a chance to 
 display itself; his occupation, so bloody, cruel, 
 and unholy, must soon find a tragical end. 
 He was at length taken on the German side 
 of the river, tried and condemned, with nine 
 teen of his band, to die by the hand of the 
 executioner ; his time had come, his fate was 
 sealed. His young and beautiful wife, with 
 her little child, a handsome boy, attended him 
 constantly. No fear of shame, no dread of 
 publicity, could separate the devoted wife 
 from her husband. But the fatal day at last 
 arrived, when Schinderhanes expiated with 
 his companions the many crimes they had 
 committed. 
 
 The faithful wife, the high-born and beauti 
 ful Julia Blasius, sad and broken-hearted at 
 his loss, soon followed her husband to the 
 grave, leaving her boy, Karl, to buffet the 
 world alone. 
 
 Was it not natural that one thus born and 
 thus influenced, should grow up a robber? 
 
 Early realizing the relationship in which 
 he stood to the world, and the position in 
 which fortune from his infancy had placed 
 him, Karl Blasius for by his mother's last 
 request he took her name began, while yet a 
 boy, to look upon the world and the laws, as 
 his natural enemy, and to conceive how best 
 he could prepare himself to meet the iron for 
 tune that seemed to lie in his future path. 
 Through the kindness of those who knew his 
 story, and who had witnessed, during his fath 
 er's trial, the constant devotedness of his 
 mother, Karl was befriended and cared for. 
 His patrons saw in the young orphan germs 
 of unusual intelligence and aptitude. He was 
 consequently sent to school, and afforded no 
 mean opportunity of acquiring a well balanced 
 and liberal education. With gratitude for 
 this kindness, which he keenly realized, Karl 
 was diligent and ambitious in his studies for 
 a period of years ; but there was to be a tragic 
 end to this seeming calm. The blood that 
 flowed in his veins was of a peculiar stock ; 
 he had drawn in rebellion with his mother's 
 milk; it came to him as a natural inherit 
 
 ance, and being one day severely reprimanded 
 and punished by his preceptor, perhaps unjust 
 ly, he stabbed him to the heart, and fled at 
 once to the depths of the forest. 
 
 This single step was sufficient his fate 
 was consummated by the act. That fatal 
 blow made Karl Blasius a robber, for he had 
 wantonly outraged the laws; there was no 
 longer a shelter for him among honest people, 
 and but little more than a boy in years, though 
 with the heart and bitter experience of a man, 
 he enrolled himself among the secret banditti. 
 He deemed, like the fatalist, that he was 
 doomed to be a robber, and that in taking this 
 step he was but fulfilling fate. 
 
 Remarkable for daring and for the almost mys 
 terious success that seemed to clothe his every 
 effort, Karl rose in the estimation of the band, 
 who saw in him the requisite for command, 
 a quick, intelligent, and decisive spirit, which 
 was well calculated to lead them on success 
 fully to the consummation of their wishes. 
 Their principal aim was of course the amass 
 ing of gold, and their depredations were upon 
 the rich only, whom they considered their 
 natural enemies. These feelings and purpose?, 
 Karl heartily subscribed to, and ere many 
 months after he had joined them, though 
 yet but eighteen years of age, he was unani 
 mously chosen captain of the band, which 
 numbered in its ranks more than a hundred 
 men, made up of bold outlaws each one of 
 whom had some real or fancied wrong to spur 
 him on to revenge upon the law, 
 
 Karl's better informed mind saw at once the 
 weakness of the association, of which he had 
 become the head, and with cunning ability, 
 he at once set about a thorough re-organiza 
 tion of the troops. He saw that their safety 
 and success lay solely in union of purpose and 
 action, and that over such a rude mingling of 
 different spirits and tempers, there must be one 
 master, one mind whose -will must be absolute, 
 and of this he soon convinced his comrades, 
 who yielded at once to his well conceived ar 
 guments, and made him in all respects their 
 absolute master. Once endowed with this 
 authority, Karl Blasius took good care to 
 .maintain it, but not abuse the confidence en 
 trusted to him, and he immediately set about 
 organizing one of the most desperate and suc 
 cessful bodies of banditti that had devastated 
 the valley of the Rhine, since the death of his
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 61 
 
 father. No traveller could pass the route 
 that intersected the mountains, or roads with 
 in a couple of leagues of the stronghold of the 
 band, without paying a liberal tribute to the 
 robber's treasury. When they were not re 
 sisted upon the road, in the execution of their 
 object, the banditti simply enforced this tax, 
 but if compelled to it by opposition, they were 
 bold and dangerous. 
 
 Karl knew full well his father's history, and 
 it was not without its effect upon his conduct. 
 Indeed, with a sort of fatality, he seemed to 
 imitate his course as nearly as possible. He 
 knew that it had been a principle of his father 
 to fight against the rich, and to divide his 
 spoils with the poor. He realized that he had 
 stronger incentives to do this than even his 
 father had, for his mother's rich and noble 
 family had disowned and spurned her from 
 their door, when, after his father's death, find 
 ing herself alone and unprotected, she beg 
 ged for shelter and assistance at her father's 
 castle gates. 
 
 The young robber remembered this, and 
 how, indeed, could he forget it ? It was the 
 incentive in many of his daring plans. He 
 revered the memory of his mother, and though 
 he was of such a tender age when she died, 
 he remembered her person well, and often had 
 he sworn that his revenge should be deep and 
 lasting. He resolved that his life should be a 
 crusade against the class whom fortune had 
 placed so far above him, and he was faithful 
 to his plan of action ; for, though he robbed 
 the rich, the humble peasant shared bountiful 
 ly of his gains ; there was no stinting in his 
 gifts ; he was generosity's self, and his chari 
 ty was as copious and free as the flow of the 
 river that washed the banks of the noble val 
 ley. 
 
 Karl became a complete adept in his profes 
 sion ; he was so perfect at disguises, that he 
 had often for the experiment's sake, deceived 
 the members of his own band, and his re 
 markable knowledge of all that transpired in 
 the busy circles of the neighboring cities, 
 showed that, in assumed characters, he must 
 be often among them. On market days, he 
 and his band moved among the busy and 
 thoughtless masses, disguised so as to repre 
 sent dealers and inarketmen themselves, but 
 only intent upon gaining such information as 
 would be of professional use to them. Watch 
 
 ing rich merchants, and ingratiating them 
 selves into their confidence, and learning their 
 plans and habits, and if they were about to 
 tempt the highway with money in their pos 
 session, and if so, at what hour and point 
 they might be met with. 
 
 Many of these dealers who afterwards en 
 tered the passes of the mountains, or threaded 
 the dark paths of the dense woods, were never 
 heard of again." The knowing ones said that 
 such had resisted until by exasperating the 
 robbers, they lost their lives as well as their 
 gold. Others would reach their homes, de 
 claring that they had been so mysteriously 
 robbed, that they thought it must be evil 
 spirits that had done it, not men. Some said 
 they were surrounded by the woods seeming 
 ly, and nothing else, save the hooting noise 
 of owls, or the cry of some startled bird. 
 Terrified at this, they would pass on, and 
 strive to get through the route. But when 
 they had entered some lonely pass, or more 
 deeply shaded path, or night had darkened 
 their way, some huge, dark object brushed 
 against them, and then almost instantly van 
 ished. Oftentimes this was actually all the 
 encounter they experienced, and yet to their 
 astonishment, their gold was gone. 
 
 This mystery that hung about the opera 
 tions of the banditti, rendered them more potent 
 than any kind of force could have done ; and 
 people spoke of them or their deeds with a 
 trembling voice. or in whispers, looking about 
 them half as though they expected some 
 strange spirit might be at hand to take re 
 venge upon them. In the inns and hostelriea 
 where their deeds were often recounted, the 
 humble people never mentioned Karl or hia 
 band, without crossing themselves; and it 
 was universally believed that the robbers had 
 formed some potent league with the evil spirit, 
 who aided them in their plans and objects. 
 It was a superstitious period, and those influ 
 ences upon the credulity of the people were 
 of no small advantage to the robbers them 
 selves. 
 
 Mounted on spirited horses, the band thus 
 would sometimes appear in numbers upon the 
 highway, and boldly, in the light of mid day, 
 stop the travelling carriage of some nobleman, 
 and with the blandest courtesy possible, in 
 form him that it was the custom, in these 
 parts, for all who passed that way to pay tri-
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 bute to their treasury, and thus, with scarce 
 ly the show of force, they would fleece their 
 victim. Of course this could not always be 
 the case, for sometimes the banditti would fall 
 in with some men of a brave and stubborn dis 
 position, who were not inclined to part with 
 their property without striking a blow in its 
 behalf, and consequently resisted with fatal 
 effect the attack of the robbers. When this 
 was the case, the authorities perhaps, on the 
 subsequent day, would have their attention 
 drawn to the spot by information given by 
 some traveller, and there find a perfect wreck 
 of carriage, harness and trunks, the body of 
 the owner, oftentimes, beneath the wheels 
 and rubbish, with a brace of balls through his 
 brains. The price of resistance ! 
 
 The strangest fancies seemed to govern the 
 movements of the banditti, who robbed, as we 
 have shown, sometimes in one way, some 
 times in another, at times with the most pro 
 found secrecy and mystery, at others with 
 open force ; and thus they put al calculation 
 as to the form in which they might be expect 
 ed, quite at fault, and people at ast deemed 
 all preventive measures little better than a 
 useless precaution. Indeed, wnen these mea 
 sures were adopted and evident, they seemed 
 to attract the robbers' ambition to overcome 
 them, and they rarely failed to do so. 
 
 Nor were the cities free from their occa 
 sional visits and depredations. The house of 
 a rich and high official would perhaps be dis 
 turbed in the middle of the night, by the 
 knocking of a supposed neighbor at the door, 
 earnestly begging for some medicine, or assist 
 ance of some sort in an emergency of sick 
 ness. When, yielding to the dictates of 
 humanity, the door would finally be opened 
 by the servant, the supposed old woman would 
 overpower him or her, as the case might be, 
 and a score of banditti would file quietly into 
 the entrance, and without noise take immedi 
 ate possession of the house, and placing a 
 guard over each of the inmates, prevent an 
 alarm being given. 
 
 This having been accomplished without 
 
 any serious noise, the halls and chambers 
 were then thoroughly ransacked, and every 
 article of value abstracted and disposed of by 
 those who stood ready hard by, in various dis 
 guises to take them. The leader of the band 
 would then coolly tell the master of the house, 
 that the building should be burned to the 
 ground on the following night, if he attempt 
 ed to raise any alarm after th*ey commenced 
 to retreat. The robbers then deliberately left 
 the premises, while the members of the band 
 separated to such points as had already been 
 arranged for their security, to meet again at 
 their rendezvous in the forest, when the city 
 gates should once more be opened, and they 
 in their disguises be enabled to leave the 
 town unknown and unsuspected. 
 
 This was the usual mode of their trans 
 actions within the city. 
 
 Further to perfect their means of obtaining 
 information, a number of resident Jews were 
 always enrolled in their ranks, as auxiliaries, 
 though not admitted to the full secrets of the 
 fraternity. It was their especial business to 
 keep the banditti informed of all important 
 movements, especially of such as might lead 
 to their intercepting gold or other treasures, 
 by knowing the time and route, when and 
 where they would be transported. 
 
 These Jews were bound by as fearful oaths, 
 as any of the troop, to faithfulness, and well 
 they knew that the laws of the band were so 
 severe against treachery, that their own lives 
 were not worth a feather's weight, if they in 
 any instance proved unfaithful or traitorous. 
 The robbers had found it necessary to make 
 one or two examples of them, and this was 
 remembered, and acted as a sufficient check 
 upon them ever after, and no re ward, however 
 large and liberal in its spirit, had since tempt 
 ed them to betray their knowledge. Thus 
 secured and perfected, these organizations 
 were of the most dangerous and fearful sta 
 bility, almost beyond the reach and power of 
 the law. 
 
 But we must change the scene, in order to 
 bring up other characters of our story.
 
 CHAPTER XII, 
 
 THE UNKNOWN TRAVELLER, 
 
 Excellent ! I smell a device. TWELFTH NIGHT. 
 
 It was at the little inn of Morentz, on one 
 fine summer afternoon, that a pleasure-seek 
 ing traveller, to judge by his appearance, was 
 settling his bill for refreshments, when he 
 asked the good-natured landlord, as he took 
 up his pack and staff, which road would lead 
 him to Bronts. 
 
 " Bronts," said the host, " do you go there 
 to-night, and alone ?" 
 
 " Yes," said the traveller, " it is not more 
 than three leagues." 
 
 " True." 
 
 " And I can walk that distance before 
 nightfall," said the traveller. 
 
 " No doubt, you can easily walk that dis* 
 tance, provided you are uninterrupted, but " 
 
 " But ! but what ?" asked the traveller, not 
 a little interested. 
 
 " Why the road, you know, is a bad one, 
 and the robbers only last week, killed a noble 
 man arid all his suite, not more than half way 
 between here and Bronts." 
 
 " Indeed," said the traveller, coolly strap 
 ping on his pack. " Well, I suppose they had 
 some object in so doing, sir. But I think that 
 it would hardly pay them to shoot such game 
 RS I should proved' 
 
 " Don't be too sure of that," said the land' 
 lord ; " none escape their scrutiny." 
 
 " Say you so ?" said the traveller, musing to 
 himself. 
 
 " Wont you stay until a party go over the 
 mountains to-morrow ?" 
 
 " O, no ! I never turned back from danger 
 yet, and I'll not commence now." 
 
 " As you will, but I would not go to Bronte 
 to-night, and alone, for a dozen ounces," said 
 the landlord, with a sincerity that attracted the 
 traveller's attention. 
 
 The traveller was a young man and evident* 
 ly an Englishman. His dress was one chosen 
 for service, and seemed to indicate in its style 
 and convenience that the wearer was trudging 
 through this beautiful valley on foot, in order 
 that he might the better enjoy and appreciate 
 its romantic loveliness. His countenance in 
 dicated the man of taste; his manners were 
 courteous and refined, showing those unmis 
 takable tokens of high breeding, that one who 
 has seen much of the world and in good soci* 
 ety acquires, even in matters of trivial import. 
 The little pack that was slung upon his back 
 and secured across the chest by a strap and 
 buckle, was only large enough to contain a 
 change of linen and a few trifling necessities,
 
 64 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 while everything about him bespoke the indo 
 lence and comfort of one who seeks his own 
 pleasure, and who was quite at liberty to go 
 on or stay, at his will. 
 
 At the moment when the landlord made the 
 last remark relating to the safety of the road, 
 a person who had also been sharing the re 
 freshments of the house, approached them to 
 pay for the same. He laid down the money, 
 and having received the proper change, turned 
 to the Englishman, and said : 
 
 " Did you say you were going to Bronts to 
 night, friend ?" 
 
 " I did," replied the other, turning towards 
 his interrogator in a friendly manner. 
 
 " So am I." 
 
 " Indeed ? Do you walk ?" 
 
 " Yes and you ?" 
 
 " Walk also." 
 
 " Why not go together, then ?" said the 
 other. " The road is a lone one at best." 
 
 "With all my heart," replied the English 
 man, with evident pleasure ; " but mine host 
 here tells me that it is a most dangerous route, 
 and that the banditti scour it at all hours." 
 
 "That is very true, and if you have money 
 or aught else of value about you, it were bet 
 ter for you to wait until to-morrow, and take 
 advantage of some escort," suggested the 
 other. " As for myself, in the first place I 
 have nothing to lose, and in the next, I am 
 well armed, and therefore I shall go through 
 to-night." 
 
 " I have nothing with me of any value to 
 others," said the Englishman, " for the robbers 
 would hardly find my letters of introduction 
 of any value to them, and I have nothing 
 else, except some linen with me." 
 
 " Letters of introduction ?" repeated his 
 new acquaintance, inquiringly. 
 
 " Ay, a few to some of the best families in 
 Bronts," said the other. 
 
 " Shall we go on then together, or do you 
 prefer to await an escort ?" 
 
 " If you can go, I see no reason why I may 
 *mot do so as well." 
 
 " So it looks to me ; but you are your own 
 guide," said the other." 
 
 " Then 1 shall go, so good Mr. Landlord 
 give me your prayers." 
 
 " I wish you God speed,if you resolve to go." 
 
 " Are you armed ?" asked his new acquaint 
 ance of the Englishman. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " With pistols and knife ?" 
 
 " Both." 
 
 " I have a brace of trusty pistols and this 
 sword cane," said the other, half unsheathing 
 the weapon, "and unless, they come in force, 
 we might trouble even a half dozen of the 
 banditti to capture us." 
 
 " Let us go on then, at once," said the 
 Englishman, shaking hands with the landlord 
 in leave-taking, " We shall not want to 
 borrow of the night under the circumstances." 
 
 " Aliens, then," said the other, cheerfully, 
 as they passed out together. 
 
 The stranger who had thus introduced him 
 self, was a young man of some twenty-four 
 years of age, and bearing in his appearance 
 the token and bearing of a German student. 
 Like the Englishman, he wore a small, light 
 pack upon his shoulders, the almost universal 
 accompaniment of foot travellers of that pe 
 riod. By a close inspection of the loosened 
 top of the pack, the implements for sketching 
 and painting that an artist might use, were 
 visible. The stranger was fine looking, with 
 a clear, brilliant eye, and manly forehead. 
 He wore his beard unshaven, in the style of 
 the period, au naturel, and his countenance 
 had the olive hue that tints the skin under 
 Italian skies. In person he was not stoutly 
 built, and yet there was an air of strength in 
 his well knit frame, and a spirit of decision 
 in the lines of his mouth, that would have 
 made you prefer him for a friend rather than 
 an enemy in a time of emergency. His step, 
 which is a stronger mark of spirit than most 
 of us are aware of, was characteristic, and 
 he walked with a free, bold air as they left the* 
 hostelry for the high road. 
 
 Such were the impressions that a casual 
 glance would afford of the stranger. 
 
 The other was perhaps a few years older 
 than the student, while his frame was broader 
 at the chest, and altogether he seemed. much 
 the stronger of the two, though as we have 
 intimated, both were of that class that it were 
 better perhaps to count as friends. They both 
 fell at once into that ease of manner and 
 conversation that characterizes men of the 
 world. Leaving the inn thus together, they 
 turned to the forked road that ascends the 
 hills, and with a free and steady movement 
 pressed on their way towards Bronts. 
 
 The third number of this book witt be published May &th.
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 CHAPTER XII .[CONTINUED.] 
 
 Ere long the road wound into the depths of 
 the forest, along narrow paths, and even 
 broken grounds, when the student quietly 
 loosened his pistols, and the Englishman fol 
 lowed his example. It seemed to he an odd 
 path they had taken, but the student said he 
 knew the path very well, and that he had taken 
 a shorter way than that commonly travelled, 
 and they would soon discover that they had 
 gained by this. Already had the sun set be- 
 *fore they had got half way, and as the wood 
 shut out what little light there was left, the 
 travellers found themselves in comparative 
 darkness. 
 
 Suddenly a screech thrilled across their 
 path, so wild and piercing that the Englishman 
 gave an involuntary start and laid his hand 
 upon his dagger, while his companion, though 
 taken less by surprise, seemed to listen with 
 profound attention to the echo that rang 
 through the forest's depths. 
 
 " In heaven's name, what sound was that ?" 
 asked the Englishman, drawing a long breath. 
 
 " An owl, I should think, and yet it was too 
 shrill and keen for that," replied the other, 
 bending his ear to the ground for a moment, 
 as if to catch the last echo, which, to the 
 
 Englishman's ears, sounded like an answering 
 cry! 
 
 " No bird ever cried like that," said the 
 Englishman, earnestly, trying at the same 
 time to pass through the dense obscurity that 
 now surrounded their path. 
 
 At that moment a deep, hoarse laugh rang 
 in their ears, and seemingly uttered close be 
 hind them, so wild and unearthly in its sounds, 
 that both paused for a moment where they 
 stood, then hurried forward at a'n accelerated 
 speed. 
 
 " What do you make of that strange noise ?" 
 asked the Englishman. '.'Are we beset by 
 devils, or what strange influence is at work to 
 terrify and bewilder us ?" 
 
 " They are strange and startling," said the 
 other, still pressing on in the darkness. 
 
 " Are they not new also to you?" 
 
 " I have heard stories of these woods being 
 haunted," said the German, " but I have 
 heretofore given but little faith to such mat 
 ters, and yet, when we remember that it must 
 contain so many dead bodies and fleshless 
 skeletons of those persons the robbers have 
 slain in these lonely paths, why is it not a
 
 6S 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 fitting place for ghosts, if any such spot there 
 be upon the earth ?" said the other. 
 
 " It is a very lonely spot, and there seems 
 to be no end to this path." 
 
 " Have courage," said the student, " every 
 step must lessen our distance." 
 
 " From our destination, I begin to think, for 
 we must have lost our way here." 
 
 As he thus spoke, again was that terrific 
 scream uttered, so shrill and near to their ears 
 that the Englishman almost broke into a run, 
 in his haste to hurry forward. 
 
 " By heaven, but this is very strange," said 
 he. 
 
 " Strange, indeed," said his companion, 
 pressing on his way, 
 
 " ' Like one that on a lonesome road 
 
 Doth walk in fear and dread, 
 And having once turned round, walks on, 
 
 And turns no more his head ; 
 Because he knows a frightful fiend 
 
 Doth close behind him tread.' 
 
 "I would some form might confront me 
 now, of flesh and blood like ourselves, or that 
 we might have to cut our way through a 
 score of robbers well armed, so we could but 
 see our danger, and not be thus saluted at 
 every step by unearthly sounds and phantom 
 shapes," said the Englishman, despondingly. 
 
 The cold perspiration stood upon his brow, 
 and he seemed to feel physically that there 
 were superhuman influences about him, while 
 his companion appeared only bent upon get 
 ting ahead as fast as possible on their way. 
 Suddenly as they thus hurried on, a dark body 
 crossed their path swiftly, and so close as to 
 rub the persons of both of the travellers, but 
 almost instantly disappeared in the depth 
 and intricacies of the forest; yet not until 
 the Englishman had drawn forth and present 
 ed one of his pistols, when just as he was 
 about to fire, the German turned one side, 
 saying : 
 
 " Stay, are you crazy ? Surely you would 
 not waste powder and ball upon such a thing 
 as that, would you ? Do you think that all 
 your weapons put together could harm it ?" 
 
 " Indeed, indeed, I know not," said the 
 Englishman, putting up his weapon and breath 
 ing hurriedly. "It was but the impulse of a 
 moment. Would to God the banditti or any 
 other human creatures would confront us. 
 
 I have no fear of flesh and blood, but this is 
 terrible it unmans one at once." 
 
 " Let us hurry on," said the student, evi 
 dently less affected by these influences than 
 his companion. " As I said before, every step 
 brings us nearer to Bronts, and unless we has 
 ten, we may be lost here entirely, for I see a 
 storm is already gathering, and cjouds are be 
 ginning to shut out what little light the stats 
 have been yielding us." 
 
 " It grows dark very fast," said the English 
 man, watching the thronging .clouds over 
 head. 
 
 " We shall have the storm upon us direct 
 ly," said the other. 
 
 This was indeed the case, and each moment 
 the road grew less and less distinct, until the 
 travellers became aware that they must have 
 lost the beaten track by some means, for they 
 were now half climbing, half stumbling over 
 an uneven and broken path, that they could 
 only feel their way over. Already, though of 
 vigorous form, the Englishman breathed deep 
 and heavily from fatigue, though doubtless the 
 mental annoyance he had experienced had done 
 more to produce this than the physical strength 
 he had expended in his efforts to advance on . 
 their way. 
 
 To add to the dread and discomfort which 
 beset them in their passage of the forest, loud 
 peals of thunder began to startle them and to 
 reverberate through the woods with terrific 
 violence and ominous echoes. Now and then 
 the vivid lightning would flash across their 
 path, and lighting its most minute parts for a 
 moment, reveal to them the gloomy and rocky 
 way they trod ; and then all was once more 
 suddenly shrouded in the almost tangible 
 darkness, so dense did it appear to them. It 
 required a most persevering spirit to bear one 
 up against such a combination of untoward 
 circumstances. The student did not seem to 
 quail much, though he showed some signs of 
 fatigue, and grumbled at the extraordinary 
 darkness. He seemed evidently more used 
 to such scenes than the Englishman, who ap 
 peared almost discouraged. 
 
 "Hold," said the latter, in a voice of des 
 pair ; " let us stop here, for we know not 
 whither we are going, and may be only plung 
 ing deeper and deeper into this accursed 
 forest. Let us stop here, I say, until the 
 morning, or we shall spend what little strength
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 69 
 
 we have left, to no purpose but our own 
 harm." 
 
 " Not yet, not yet," said the student, ear 
 nestly, " not yet, a littlejonger." 
 
 " But why ? Does not the path each mo 
 ment grow worse and worse ?" 
 
 " True," said the other, " but twice have I 
 seen what appeared to me to be a lamp through 
 the darkness and the trees. I think we are 
 approaching it fast, so let us press on at least 
 a while longer." 
 
 "A few moments, to satisfy you, but no 
 more," said the Englishman. 
 
 "Thre, see you nothing just here through 
 these trucks ?" asked the student. 
 
 " Stay, I do see something, but it is gone 
 again ; did it seem to you a light ?" 
 
 " Yes, now and then obscured by some ob 
 ject passing before it," said the other. 
 
 Still they passed on, until at last the Eng 
 lishman also distinctly saw the light referred 
 to, and though they knew not from whence it 
 came, whether from friend or foe, the English 
 man felt strangely gladdened at heart by the 
 sight, after the trials that they had just expe 
 rienced. The rough way no longer seemed 
 painful to accomplish, their steps were freer 
 now, and their spirits came back again as the 
 light grew more and more distinct before their 
 gazing eyes, until both, in their satisfaction, 
 began to joke at their late uneasiness arid 
 fear of unknown danger. 
 
 As they went on, the light which had guid 
 ed them so far, seemed to change in appear 
 ance and shape, and now to become merged 
 into a number of different ones, and proving it 
 to be yet a long distance off. The truth was, 
 that the light they had seen was the combined 
 blaze of a number, which at a great distance 
 seemed to be but one, but which on a nearer 
 approach, assumed their individual distinct 
 ness. Thus encouraged, they no longer flag 
 ged, but put forth every effort to press onward, 
 until at last they came out upon a clear, open 
 piece of ground in the wood, and just at the 
 base of an ascending hill or large rock, from 
 a cave in which the light issued. 
 
 Both paused to gaze for a moment upon the 
 scene that presented itself to their eyes. 
 
 The mouth of a large cave was before them, 
 lighted up by hanging lanterns, and its en 
 trance guarded by a sentinel, who leaned 
 within the shelter upon his carbine, in a half 
 
 dreamy mood. The mouth of the cavern 
 opened immediately upon the clearing referred 
 to, which covered some acre or more of soft 
 green sward, a spot evidently redeemed at 
 great labor by the hand of men, from the 
 densest part of the forest. 
 
 At this moment the sentinel, who must 
 have been half asleep upon his weapon, sud 
 denly discovered them, sprang forward and 
 levelled his carbine at them, and by the click 
 of the lock, was evidently about to fire, when 
 this was prevented by the student, who raised 
 his cap, and said : 
 
 " It is well, Carli ; your vigilance is com 
 mendable, but you need not fire !" 
 
 The man recovered his weapon almost as 
 quickly as he had assumed the threatening 
 attitude, and lifting his cap respectfully, stood 
 on one side for the travellers to enter the cave. 
 
 " What does this mean ?" asked the English 
 man, turning to his companion. 
 
 " That we are to shelter here for the night," 
 said the other, carelessly. 
 
 " But this seem? to be a strong hold of 
 robbers," said the Englishman. 
 
 " Well." 
 
 " But it is not well, that we become volun 
 tarily prisoners here." 
 
 " There is no other resort for us now," said 
 the other, eoolly. 
 
 " It is walking into the lion's jaws, to seek 
 for a shelter here." 
 
 " What would you do once more attempt 
 the forest path in the dark ?" 
 
 " But you seem to be known here," said 
 the Englishman, inquiringly, 
 
 " I am." 
 
 " And who are you ?" asked the English 
 man, in amazement. 
 
 " Karl Blasius !" 
 
 " The robber ?" asked the other. 
 
 " Yes, if the title suits you ; at all events, 
 I am captain of this free band." 
 
 The bearing of the traveller was at once 
 wholly changed. He assumed the authority 
 that was most evidently his right, and the 
 Englishman found that he was at once to con 
 sider himself a prisoner, while an under officer 
 suggested to him that he would trouble him 
 for his pack and such weapons as he might 
 have in his possession. 
 
 Resistance would have been fool-hardy, and 
 therefore the Englishman quietly submitted.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 LADY GUSTINE AND THE JEW. 
 
 See how the skillful lover spreads his toils. 
 
 STILLINGFLEET. 
 
 IT was midnight in the gay city of Bronts, 
 and the streets shone like a star, so brightly 
 were the windows of the nobility illuminated, 
 while from many, soft music stole out upon 
 the evening air, of most bewitchfng melody. 
 But the reader must come with us to this lofty 
 old pile that skirts the river's bank upon the 
 overhanging bank or rock. It is the castle of 
 Ghertstein, belonging to the noble family of 
 that name, who held a prominent place on the 
 page of history that records the times gone 
 by in that valley. . 
 
 It was one of those fine old piles of the 
 past, the token of feudal power and wealth, 
 such as cover the banks of the Rhine, from its 
 rise to its mingling with the bosom of the 
 ocean itself. 
 
 The banquetingn hall was one blaze of light 
 and beauty, and the princely company were bu 
 sy in the mazes of the giddy dance and waltz. 
 Arms were encircling slender taper waists, and 
 eyes fraught with tender homage were drink 
 ing from the blue depths of lovely and be 
 witching glances. The dazzling light cast 
 from the gorgeous chandeliers, the glittering 
 ornaments of the spacious rooms, the brilliant 
 mirrors reflecting back the white arms and 
 
 heaving bosoms of the owners of those be 
 witching eyes, all, all together seemed like 
 some fairy picture of enchantment, a spot 
 where joy and regal mirth reigned supreme, 
 and the hearts of the dancers were as light 
 as their feet. 
 
 Now there passes by the most lovely form 
 of all amidst this array of beauty, the fair 
 daughter of this noble house of Ghertstein, 
 leaning familiarly upon the arm of the noblest 
 looking gentleman of all the goodly throng 
 about them. 
 
 The lady herself was the last represen 
 tative of a long line of ancestors, the last 
 scion of a noble house. They seemed to the 
 casual observer to be most happily matched, 
 in those outward evidences that meet the eye. 
 The lady might have seen eighteen summers, 
 while her companion could count but little 
 over twenty. It was not alone the sweet ex 
 pressiveness of the lady's features that con 
 stituted her beauty. This gave it a gentle 
 and intellectual cast; but the high, clear fore 
 head, the majestic carriage, and the deep 
 blue eyes, in perfect accordance with the ex 
 pression, gave also to it a dignity and high 
 toned beauty all its own.
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 71 
 
 Her companion had the figure of an Indian 
 Apollo, with eyes and features that compared 
 well with her at his side, while his bearing was 
 no less free and dignified than the lady's, and in 
 his every movement was written the very 
 tone of command. He listened, with undis 
 guised devotedness, to every word that fell 
 from the lips of her by his side, and she in 
 turn seemed to dwell with pleasure upon the 
 full, manly, and musical tones of his voice. 
 They have already danced thrice together, 
 and fatigued with the exertion, the lady now 
 seeks the retirement of an alcove, from which 
 there was a slight projecting balcony, over 
 looking the river far below. She seated her 
 self for a moment in the soft, refreshing cool 
 ness, that swept like a gentle trade wind 
 through the valley. 
 
 " I fear you are fatigued," said the gentle 
 man, with tender solicitude. 
 
 " 0, no," said the lady, panting to regain 
 the breath she had expended in the waltz. 
 
 There was a pause for a moment between 
 them, while the gentleman's eye seemed fixed 
 upon the scene below, and his thoughts to be 
 wandering far away from the spot. 
 
 "Mr. Stanley, your eyes seem rivetted 
 upon the water to-night." 
 
 " Did you speak ?" he asked, seeming to 
 recall himself from some absorbing thought. 
 
 " I remarked your eyes seem rivetted upon 
 the scene below; are "you dreaming?" 
 
 " O, no, lady," he replied, striving to recov 
 er himself ; " I I was thinking how truly the 
 passage of yonder tiny craft resembles that 
 of our own life bark on the tide of time." 
 
 " And how ?" 
 
 " See you not how quietly its hull is borne 
 along with the current ? Not even the sail 
 is set, and the helmsman nods at his post. 
 There is not a ripple beneath the prow ; she 
 moves bodily with the tide itself, silently, but 
 quickly, to the end of the river, and anon she 
 will be in the ocean beyond." 
 
 " Well," said the lady, interested in the 
 tone and manner, as much as in the subject of 
 his conversation. 
 
 " Thus are we moving now, lady, rapidly, 
 with silent, but steady, and never ceasing mo 
 tion, down the swift river of time, that sets 
 through the valley of life ; all unconsciously we 
 glide on, nodding like this same helmsman, 
 indifferently, as we hold the rudder that guides 
 
 our own fate while we swiftly approach the 
 ocean of eternity." 
 
 " You color highly, Mr. Stanley," said the 
 lady, thoughtfully. 
 
 " But truthfully, I trust; have I not spoken 
 truly, lady ? 
 
 "Doubtless," she replied, and then con 
 tinued, as her mind evidently followed out the 
 thoughts that her companion's mind had sug 
 gested. " And so you believe, Mr. Stanley, 
 that when the river is passed, and we come 
 at last to that ocean beyond, that it will then 
 be a sunny sea, as yonder craft may find with 
 the promises of this star-light night; or shall 
 many of us meet with storms, and perhaps 
 even be wrecked ?" 
 
 " I believe that there will be no wrecks 
 upon that sea. The high waters of life 
 are sufficiently fraught with disasters and 
 misery. The life to come must surely be a 
 haven of rest. But we are getting serious, 
 and talking of subjects that would better fit us 
 in the cloister than the ball-room. Shall we 
 enter again ?" 
 
 " Observe you how attentive and constant 
 this young Stanley is to our lady, the fair Gus- 
 tine ?" asked one of the young gentlemen of 
 another, as the two came once more into the 
 room from the balcony. 
 
 " Ay, he seems to share her undivided at 
 tention to-night," was the answer. 
 
 " Not much of a compliment to us," said 
 the first speaker. " The fact is, these English 
 men come hither from London, and think to 
 carry all things after their own taste and 
 fashion." 
 
 " That's true ; and somehow or other they 
 generally manage to succeed." 
 
 " But who is the gentleman, do you know ?" 
 asked the first speaker. "Is he of gentle 
 blood, or has he any marked claim upon the 
 courtesy of such a lady as the heiress of this 
 house ?" 
 
 " I only know that he is Robert Stanley, as ' 
 my lord introduced him to me, and that he 
 brings with him good letters of introduction 
 from high sources in England." 
 
 " It can't be denied that he's a fine looking 
 fellow." 
 
 " Yes, but yet I don't half like his way of 
 addressing one, it's overbearing." 
 
 " Never mind that. I speak of his good looks, 
 at this moment, for instance as he dances with
 
 72 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 lady Gustine. Fortf heaven, but they are a 
 noble dtouple." 
 
 " That is a fact, and well matched as far 
 as looks go," said the other. 
 
 " See, they sit down again together, and 
 now the lady smiles upon him ; he has a free 
 and ready tongue, and dwells upon the beau 
 ties of her native valley like one born in it, 
 and speaks the language as well." 
 
 "Yes, he's a ready dog," said the other, 
 with a jealous sneer. 
 
 " By the mass, but I envy the Englishman," 
 continued the other, honestly. " Think you 
 his blood is good enough to warrant such con 
 nection with the noble house of Ghertstein, as 
 this intimacy might in the end lead to ? Half 
 the assembly think them engaged already." 
 
 " Your true Englishman feels good enough 
 in blood for any one, though to speak honest 
 ly of yonder gallant, he comes of a knightly 
 family, and is vastly rich withal." 
 
 " Perhaps that last clause is the secret of 
 my lord's quiet acquiescence." 
 
 " True, I didn't think of that." 
 
 " You know the coffers of Ghertstein are 
 not bottomless, and would well bear replenish 
 ing." 
 
 Robert Stanley was the son of an English 
 family of high standing, and having, as his 
 letters represented, finished his studies at 
 home, he was now passing a couple of years 
 ia travel upon the continent, for amusement 
 and information. Having letters, as it appear 
 ed, to many of the first families of Bronts, he 
 had tarried here for some weeks, having free 
 access to a circle that brought him often into 
 the society of the lady Gustine, until the days 
 prescribed for his stay wore away, and he 
 found that he had already lost his heart to 
 the fair being by his side. There seemed to 
 be a mysterious influence prompting him, some 
 secret regret or fear that influenced his mind, 
 , and which betrayed itself to those who watched 
 him narrowly. But he was warmly received, 
 and made many friends in the circle to which 
 he had became introduced, even in the short 
 period that he had been here. 
 
 " Dear lady," he said, " I find, now the 
 period has arrived when I must prepare to 
 leave this fair city, that I am tied to it by 
 strong, yet silken bonds, so profuse is the hos 
 pitality that has greeted me on every hand, so 
 dear and tender the associations that already 
 
 cluster so thickly, and so twine themselves 
 about my heart, in the memory of each pleas 
 ant hour that I have passed here." 
 
 " Our lovely valley seems ever to enchant 
 your countrymen, as with a most potent spell," 
 said the lady Gustine, smiling at the earnest 
 ness with which he spoke. 
 
 " True, lady, though not for its picturesque 
 beauties of landscape alone, but for the fair 
 beings who dwell on its river's banks, and un 
 der its castle's fairy halls, by their enchanting 
 power." 
 
 " You are inclined to flattery, I think, Mr. 
 Stanley," said the lady. 
 
 " Upon my soul, lady, I speak only the 
 honest promptings of the heart." 
 
 The lady smiled again, half incredulously, 
 half archly, then turned once more to the 
 throng about her. It was very evident to a 
 careful observer that although the stranger 
 was most constant and devoted to her, yet she 
 seemed only pleased, not charmed with him. 
 That she was interested in him, was equally 
 evident, and also that she enjoyed the society 
 of one so well informed, so free and original 
 in conversation, and who appreciated so keen 
 ly the peculiar beauties of her native valley. 
 The lady Gustine was no coquette, and yet 
 the devoted and assiduous attention of such a 
 man could not but minister in some degree to 
 her pride ; nor did she feel that she was sacri 
 ficing any principle of right in receiving, and 
 perhaps slightly encouraging, those gentle at 
 tentions. 
 
 This was the true relationship that existed 
 between him known as Kobert Stanley, and the 
 lady Gustine. 
 
 It is market-day in Bronts, the streets and 
 squares being thronged by merchants and ven 
 ders of all degrees and conditions ; market- 
 women in their gay dresses are driving hiiher 
 and thither, and trading Jews and rich brokers 
 are threading their way among the busy 
 throng of human beings. Here are humble 
 peasants staring with wonder stricken counten 
 ances at the profuse display of finery and gew 
 gaws, and here trips by a pretty village girl, 
 come to town to see all the wonders of Bronts. 
 Loud laughter and merry jests rang out from 
 the assembled throats, and the occasion, like 
 that of similar meetings all over Europe, was 
 a real gala day. 
 
 Among this motley throng of humanity, an
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 73 
 
 observant eye might have noticed two or three 
 men, whom, had they followed, they might 
 have noticed to be working for some extra 
 ordinary purpose in concert. One was dress 
 ed as a humble peasant of the mountains, an 
 other seemed to have driven some cattle to 
 market, and having disposed of them, was 
 now strolling about, whip in hand, among the 
 crowd for his own pleasure. A third was 
 clothed in a citizen's dress, and seemed to be 
 a mere looker-on at this motley picture. Add 
 ed to these, still another, to whom the rest 
 seemed to pay no little deference, and indeed 
 from whom they appeared to receive their in 
 structions. 
 
 He was dressed in. the long hanging gar 
 ments and cloth cap of the Jewish costume, 
 while a grizzly beard swept his breast; still, 
 although age had seemingly laid its stamp 
 upon his brow, his step was firm, and his 
 form erect; nor did his large quick eye 
 permit anything to escape its vision. He ap 
 peared to be one of the brokers who infest the 
 large squares of the city on such occasions as 
 the present, and seemed to a casual observer, 
 to be in the quiet occupation of his trade as a 
 money changer. But one of the three, of 
 whom we have spoken, now approached him, 
 as if by, accident, or as though he wished to 
 consult him upon some business relating to 
 his calling, when he who wore the garb of 
 a Jew, said : 
 
 " Carli." 
 
 " Captain." 
 
 " Mark yonder tradesman bending at the 
 jeweller's stall." 
 
 " With the scarlet doublet ?" asked the oth 
 er, trying to make out the person referred to. 
 
 " Ay. He leaves town this afternoon, I 
 have learned, and with a heavy purse." 
 
 " By what route, captain ?" 
 
 " He must be met at the northern pass, and 
 be relieved of his purse. You have your or 
 ders." 
 
 ' I understand, captain," said the other, 
 respectfully, " but here is a rich merchant 
 from Aix-la-Chapelle, who is actually weigh 
 ed down with doubloons and ounces. I have 
 had my eye on him for the last hour, and was 
 following him when 1 saw your signal. Per 
 haps I had better " 
 
 " Obey orders !" said the other, sternly, as 
 he turned his eye upon the man with an ex 
 
 pression that seemed to thrill the fellow 
 through, as he went submissively away. 
 
 Another and another joined him at inter 
 vals, who wore the Jew's garb, and received or 
 ders not dissimilar to that just related, one of 
 .them concerning the merchant from Aix-la- 
 Chapelle, already referred to, and who had 
 not escaped the quick, searching glances of 
 the robber chief, for such he evidently was. 
 At last the Jew turned out of the square on to 
 the high road that leads towards the moun 
 tains, and along which, with staff in hand, he 
 pursued his way, as though seeking his home 
 after the close of the day's business. 
 
 Scarcely had the Jew left the din and bus 
 tle of the scene we have described behind him, 
 when looking up he discovered approaching 
 him, and at no great distance, a party of ladies 
 and gentlemen, who had evidently been seek 
 ing equestrian exercise among the hills and 
 vales tha* border the river's course. They 
 must pass him in the road very nearly, and 
 he seemed to realize and dread this, for some 
 reason best known to himself, since he plainly 
 evinced much uneasiness of manner and ner 
 vous trepidation, while his face seemed at one 
 time to blanch as though fear had completely 
 chilled his blood. But on came the gallant 
 party in high spirits; their prancing steeds 
 showing by their impatience of the restraint 
 they felt under the curb, the fire and mettle 
 that coursed in their veins. 
 
 At the head of this fair company, rode the 
 lord of Ghertstein, in all the pride of the class 
 to which he belonged. He was a fine look 
 ing man, with a military aspect, and his gray 
 hair gave him a rather venerable appearance, 
 though he was but little past fifty years of 
 age. He sat on his horse with a princely air, 
 and like one who had been accustomed to the 
 saddle from his youth. By her father's side, 
 rode the fair lady Gustine, the natural hue 
 of her cheek heightened to a glowing color by 
 the vigor of exercise, and her eyes beaming 
 with spirit. 
 
 As the party approached still nearer the Jew, 
 he seemed, by an extraordinary struggle, to 
 regain his self-possession, and to assume once 
 more, successfully, the plodding and uncon 
 cerned air of an ordinary trader, on his way 
 homeward after the labors of the day, and 
 now as they dashed by his very side, he bow 
 ed humbly to the noble throng, and was soon
 
 74 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 left far behind. And yet they did not pass 
 him so swiftly, but that he heard the lady 
 Gustine say to her father : 
 
 " Did you note that Jew, my lord ?" at the 
 same time turning slightly, to get a second 
 glance at him. 
 
 " I noticed that we passed one of the race, 
 nothing more," said the father. 
 
 " It is strange !" said the lady Gustine, half 
 reining up her horse, and musing. 
 
 " What is strange, my child ?" asked her 
 father, regarding her closely. 
 
 " Why, that th% man's eye should have 
 struck me so particularly," she replied. 
 
 " How so, my child 1" asked the lord of 
 Ghertstein. 
 
 " They seemed so familiar to me, and to 
 awake such undefined memories as I cannot 
 describe," she replied, still musing absently 
 within herself. 
 
 " Bouse up, my child, you are dreaming," 
 said the lord of Ghertstein, smiling at the 
 earnestness of expression that he saw depicted 
 in his daughter's face. 
 
 "Indeed it was no dream," she replied, 
 thoughtfully, but tapping her horse with the 
 riding whip, he sprang into an easy hand gal 
 lop, and followed by her friends, she thus en 
 tered the town. 
 
 Of course, the Jew heard only the first 
 words of the dialogue between the lady Gus 
 tine and her father, but that which he had 
 overheard, seemed once more to revive his 
 agitation of manner, and he hurried forward 
 with accelerated speed towards the summit of 
 the hill before him. Once or twice he turned 
 his head to look after the receding forms of 
 the party referred to, with a nervous air, as 
 though he half feared they would turn and 
 follow him, and though he still continued to 
 meet other parties, and be overtaken by many, 
 yet he did not heed them at all. His thoughts 
 had evidently flown away with the party 
 among whom rode the lady Gustine. Some 
 strange interest seemed to relate to them, as 
 it regarded himself. 
 
 Having reached the height of the nearest 
 elevation, he seemed to single out the party 
 on the river road, as it wound on its way up 
 to the crag on which stood the ancient castle 
 of Gherlstein, nor did he move from the spot 
 until he had seen the cortege wind its way 
 beneath the lofty portals of the old gate. 
 
 * Lost in reverie, the Jew hastened forward, 
 heeding nothing that passed him, until he 
 came to a fork of the road, where he turned 
 to the lower or river route, as though he 
 would follow it, but soon after he struck into 
 the woods, and was at once- lost in the paths 
 of the thick forest. 
 
 Between the time that the Jew had lost 
 sight of the party referred to, and that when 
 he once more discovered them winding up the 
 craggy ascent, they had paused in the market 
 place of the city, to see the graceful but gro 
 tesque dance of a tamborine girl, accompanied 
 by one who seemed to be a blind fiddler. 
 The girl was quite young, and presented the 
 very picture of good health and rural beauty. 
 Her deep blue eyes were full of light hearted- 
 ness; her cheeks were like the rose itself in 
 color, and her childlike figure was light and 
 well formed. The child saw the party pause 
 to note her, and turning her steps towards 
 them, as also had her friend, the musician, 
 who soon commenced to play, while the girl 
 danced to the united music of his instrument 
 and the ringing notes of her tamborine, hung 
 with tiny brass bells. 
 
 " By our lady, but the child dances well," 
 said the lord of Ghertstein. 
 
 "Charmingly," said Gustine, making a 
 sign for her to approach, as she closed her 
 dance, and as she did so, tossing a piece of gold 
 into her extended tamborine. 
 
 " Is he thou leadest thy father ?" asked the 
 lady. 
 
 " Only an humble friend," replied the girl, 
 courtseying. 
 
 "Is he blind?" 
 
 The girl bowed an assent. 
 
 Amid a cheer from the crowd, the party 
 dashed off through the town. 
 
 Had the lady Gustine scrutinized him whom 
 the girl pretended to lead as a blind man, she 
 could have discovered that his sight was as 
 quick and faithful as her own, and that the 
 blindness was but a feint to some object even 
 beyond that of the small sums that charitable 
 persons might thus be induced to give. As 
 night drew on, both the girl and the musician 
 turned their steps away from the market-place, 
 and passed out upon the high road together, 
 taking the same route that the Jew had pur 
 sued, even after they entered the shades of the 
 forest.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 THE BANDIT'S STORY. 
 
 Why did she love him? curious fool, be etill! 
 la human love the growth of human will ? 
 To her he might be gentleness ! 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 THE reader must return with us to the rob 
 ber's cave in the forest where we left the En 
 glishman, after his long and fearful passage 
 over the broken and mysterious route. He 
 was not one to look on the dark side of any 
 subject, and finding that he was treated as a 
 prisoner, and that no remonstrance was of any 
 avail, like a true philosopher, he strove to make 
 himself as comfortable under the circumstances 
 as was possible. At the time when we would 
 introduce the reader to the cave, he sat near 
 its mouth just inside the sentinel who guarded 
 the entrance with a loaded carbine. 
 
 " Your country is full of story and romance," 
 said the Englisman to the sentinel. 
 
 "Yes, Mein Herr," replied the robber, 
 " there's not even a child in the whole land 
 but has its head crammed with tales and old 
 legends of the valley. Did you notice, for in 
 stance, the old ruined tower in the middle of the 
 river upon a little island, n^t far above Bronts ?" 
 
 " I saw it four weeks since, when I passed 
 over the road," said the Englishman, " but it 
 was evening, and I had only the twilight to 
 aid my view. But what of the olrlpile ?" 
 
 " It is called Butha's town," continued the 
 robber. " Jf you have a fancy that way, I'll 
 tell you its story." 
 
 "Nothing would suit me better, just now/' 
 replied the prisoner. 
 
 The sentinel who was then on duty, was 
 the same who had held that post when the En r 
 glishman first entered the cave. His name 
 was Carli, and his own story, as told to the 
 prisoner one day, was fraught with romance. 
 He possessed a very good education, and un 
 til some five-and-twenty years of his life had 
 passed, was the universal favorite of a brilliant 
 circle of friends. But in an unlucky moment 
 he outraged the laws by a sudden act of vio 
 lence, and from that time became an outcast, 
 and for the sake of self-preservation joined the 
 banditti. The Englishman could discern by 
 his language and manner that he had been 
 born and bred a gentleman, and that there 
 were many noble traits that but slumbered in 
 his bosom. 
 
 Carli seated himself on a rough bench, and 
 crossing his limbs over his carbine, began :. 
 
 "A long time since," commenced Carli, 
 " there was a famous noble chief known by the 
 name of Plaitzerthe bold. He was still quite 
 a young man when the fame of his exploits 
 filled all the country round about his rendez 
 vous. It was said that he came of a gentle
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 family, and that some deed of wrong drove 
 him forth into the wilderness to despoil those 
 who had despoiled him before, I do not recol 
 lect now what it was, but it was some act of 
 cruelty which turns men's blood to flame; for 
 those were days when no law was acknowl 
 edged but castle law, and the might of the 
 sword's blow. But Plaitzer had a noble dis 
 position, and scorned petty game, aiming 
 chiefly at the nobles, whom he hated. It was 
 but rarely that he meddled with peaceable 
 burghers or single travellers; and then only 
 when his men were hard pressed for means, 
 and were perhaps getting a little refractory. 
 
 " Plaitzer's quarters were mostly in the for 
 est that skirts the river some leagues above 
 here, and latterly it was seldom that he ven 
 tured his band towards the river's banks, for 
 his name and person, together with those of 
 his troops, had got to be so noted, and the 
 chain of communication between *hs chief 
 tains, whose castles overlooked the Rhine, 
 was so complete, that the band of. robbers 
 dreaded to make themselves too conspicuous 
 by venturing forth unduly. 
 
 " The Lord of Eiswaldt was, doubtless, well 
 assured of the safety of his own neighborhood, 
 and therefore thought of no danger when suf 
 fering his daughter, the fair Butha, to set out 
 with a small escort for the burgher town of 
 Ransfeld, about a league distant from his cas 
 tle gates. The route, after leaving the cas 
 tle's height, was mostly over a regular decliv 
 ity, with hardly a tree to break the prospect, 
 but midway from the castle ^o the town, the 
 road sank into a slight hollow, and rising again 
 from thence continued without further variety 
 to its termination. It was in this hollow that 
 the company that formed Butha's escort were 
 attacked by a party of Plaitzer's band. The 
 craven guard dispersed in every direction, with 
 the exception of a few who were made pris 
 oners by the robbeis. Plaitzer, who had been 
 engaged in another quarter, came up with the 
 rest of the band just as the robbers were about 
 to despoil the terrified maiden of her jewels. 
 
 " ' Hold, villains !' shouted the enraged chief 
 tain, in a voice of thunder. ' Have I not charg 
 ed you not to meddle with the poor, nor with 
 helpless women ? Desist or die !' 
 
 <l The terrified ruffians recoiled, and Plaitzer 
 approaching the trembling girl, addressed her 
 in courteous speech, entreating her to cast 
 
 away all fear, and restoring the jewels of which 
 she had been robbed, ad 
 
 " ' Fair lady, neither thy name nor the fame 
 of thy beauty is unknown to me, yet these 
 are not needed to protect thee from danger at 
 my hands. I, myself, will guard them till with 
 in sight of thy father's halls, and thy ser 
 vants, too, cowards though they have proved 
 themselves, shall accompany us on the way.' 
 
 " As he had said, so he performed, and ac 
 companied the lady Butha to her father's halls, 
 and as he turned to leave her, his expressive 
 face told how gladly he would have tarried 
 jonger. As he left her he said : 
 
 " 'Think not, gentle lady, that men, such as 
 myself, choose a robber's life from love of law 
 lessness and vice. No, full oft it is that cruel 
 and stinging wrongs drive us to the paths we 
 lead. Then, lady, pity us and our sad fate.' 
 
 " The robber chief was about to depart, when 
 a gesture from the lady arrested his attention. 
 Trembling with modest agitation, she unloos 
 ed a golden clasp from her arm and placed it 
 in the hand of Plaitzer, saying : 
 
 " ' Take this as a token of my gratitude, and 
 O, Sir Knight, for such you deserve to be, if 
 such you are not, I entreat thee to draw 
 away from this unlawful life. Go, and heed 
 the words of a timid but grateful daughter of 
 the Rhine.' 
 
 " With tears in her dark, earnest eyes, the 
 lady Butha turned away, while Plaitzer, over 
 come by a strong inward impulse, spurred his 
 horse and dashed down the hill side. Like 
 the barbed arrow, whose brightly glittering 
 point but pierces the deeper for its keen bril 
 liancy, the words of the lady fastened within 
 the breast of the chief of the robbers, awaking 
 all the bitter feelings of his soul. He looked 
 upon the clasp and sighed. 
 
 " ' Ah, lady, would that a kind heaven might 
 lend me opportunity to reprieve the dark taint 
 which clings to , my name, then perchance I 
 might be deemed worthy to wear thy valued 
 gift.' 
 
 " The stars looked with pitying eyes u pen 
 the penitence o/ the noble chief, and soon 
 brought him the opportunity that he so much 
 coveted. The burgher towns, and travellers 
 on the Rhine, had been long oppressed by cer 
 tain haughty nobles, who exacted heavy trib 
 ute and committed acts of grievous tyranny. 
 To such a height did this cruelty at last arise,
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 77 
 
 that the once submissive burghers rose in 
 wrath and claimed the ready aid of the lord 
 of Eiswaldt and Bergen, who had long been 
 their steady friends. Eiswaldt, himself, was 
 chosen leader of the burgher confederacy, and 
 gladly did he accept the proffered assistance, of 
 Plaitzer and such of his band as could fol 
 low him. 
 
 " Eiswaldt, resolving if possible to be before 
 hand with the enemy, set forth with Plaitzer 
 and a body of knights and troopers to surprise 
 the stronghold of Ertezen, belonging to the 
 league of the tyrannical nobles. But the pur 
 pose of their march was anticipated ; they 
 were met by superior numbers near Grunthalz 
 mountain, and were driven back in confusion, 
 for the burghers were unused to cope with 
 well trained soldiers, and Eiswaldt and Plait 
 zer threw themselves into the castle of the for 
 mer, where they were at once besieged. For 
 three days the castle held out against every 
 effort that was brought against it, but on the 
 third eve a low-born churl, actuated both by 
 fear and by hope of rich reward, stole secretly 
 forth from the castle, and stipulated for a cer 
 tain sum of money to show an entrance into 
 the fortress. The proposal was accepted, and 
 the traitor led the way to a ladder which he 
 had let fall along the face of the precipice, 
 which sheered perpendicularly down from the 
 castle wall. 
 
 " Soon a wild uproar arose within the walls 
 of castle Eiswaldt. The walls re-echoed with 
 all the terrors of a stormed fortress. The de 
 fenders, borne down by overwhelming numbers, 
 craved no mercy, and the brave knight of 
 Eiswaldt was cut down before the eyes of his 
 daughter, who, rushing from the horrid sight, 
 threw herself from the precipice which over 
 hung the river, finding a refuge beneath the 
 deep waters of the Rhine from her ruthless 
 pursuers, who shrunk back in horror from the 
 sight of such a sacrifice. 
 
 " Baron Sinvern, who was the leader of the 
 assailants, ordered the castle to be set on fire, 
 and the victorious party retired, bearing with 
 them, as prisoner, the person of young Plait 
 zer, sadly wounded. On arriving at the castle 
 of the Baron, he was thrown into a deep dun 
 geon, where he long languished in utter obscu 
 rity, until a retainer of the baron's, who had 
 once received a favor from the prisoner when 
 he was commander of his old band, succeeded 
 
 in setting him free. Once more at liberty, he 
 visited, in disguise, the town of Ransfeld, 
 where he now for the first time learned the 
 fate of Butha. Buried in despair, he then 
 realized how strongly her image was implant 
 ed in his bosom, and in the depth of his sor 
 row, he made a vow to travel to the Holy Land 
 and there to fight the Turks in behalf of sa 
 cred Jerusalem. 
 
 " Wearily he journeyed thither, and on the 
 fields of Palestine joined the veteran ranks of 
 Richard of England. Bravely he fought the 
 Saracen, and on the blood-stained plains of 
 Ascalon, received from the hands of Coeur de 
 Lion, the order of the Sepulchre, which none 
 but the well-tried crusader might bear. 
 
 " At last with an ever aching heart Plaitzer, 
 Knight of the Sable Plume, turned his face 
 once more towards his native valley, there to 
 relinquish his sorrow and his life together. 
 War-worn and sad he journeyed through Hun 
 gary, accompanied only by a faithful page, and 
 at nightfall of a summer's day, reached the 
 towers of an old chieftain whose son had but 
 lately returned from Palestine. Most welcome 
 was the weary knight to the hospitality of the 
 Hungarian. Here he remained for a few days 
 to recruit his exhausted strength, in the com 
 pany of the young soldier, his father, and the 
 beautiful Ada, the old man's daughter and his 
 pride. In her sweet company the knight for 
 awhile forgot his grief and pains, and listened 
 joyfully to the soft music of her songs, so 
 soothing to his restless soul. 
 
 " It was in vain for the gentle Ada to disguise 
 the interest that the noble knight had created 
 in her bosom, and when he left them, impelled 
 as he said by duty, she looked the feelings her 
 tongue might not utter, and watched his nod 
 ding plume until it was out of sight. 
 
 " The knight soon after arrived in sight of his 
 native valley, and once more beheld the old 
 familiar hills and the scenes which in his ab 
 sence had changed so little. But, alas ! the 
 soul of the wanderer was changed indeed ; dark 
 as the discolored walls that crowned the heights 
 of Eiswaldt, the heart of Plaitzer reflected not 
 the rays of peace and cheerfulness that shone 
 around him. Yet feeling that life was destin 
 ed for use and action, he struggled stoutly 
 against the griefs that preyed upon his mind. 
 
 " The burghers having invoked the protection 
 of the emperor, and bought the patronage of
 
 78 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 counts and barons, had finally succeeded in 
 throwing off the yoke imposed by a league of 
 insatiate nobles. Plaitzer, on his return, was 
 besought to add the influence of his name and 
 presence in protecting the rights of liberty. 
 Pleased at the suggestion, and determined to 
 fix his abode in the neighborhood consecrated 
 by Butha's death, he built upon an island in 
 the middle of the Rhine a strong and lofty 
 tower, to which he gave the name of the loved 
 and lost maiden. There he lived in solitude 
 except the companionship of his trusty and 
 faithful page. 
 
 " ' Wilhelm,' he said one day, ' are thy harp 
 strings all untuned.' 
 
 " Nay, my dear master, it is long since I 
 sang to thee, wilt listen to me now ?' 
 
 " ' Yes, boy, sing to me.' 
 
 " The youth bent o'er the instrument as he 
 adjusted its strings, and then brushing back 
 the dark locks from his forehead, burst forth 
 with a full, deep voice, singing the following 
 lyric : 
 
 THE PAGE'S SONG. 
 
 Awake, Sir Knight : the trumpet sounds, 
 
 Its summons calls away : 
 Why lettest thou thine armor rust, 
 
 Thine heart so brave decay ? 
 
 O, there are deeds for brave men's will, 
 
 And laurels fair to win : 
 And he who heeds not blood to spill, 
 
 Should love the battle's din. 
 
 Then speed ye to the distant fields, 
 
 Where kings and nobles all 
 Strike for the prize of valiant meed, 
 
 Upon the plains of Gaul. 
 
 O, 'tis a sight to stir the blood, 
 And flame the forehead's flush 
 
 Yon battle's wild and glorious flood, 
 Yon lancer's furious rush. 
 
 Up, then ! who sit in silent trance, 
 
 Or slumber in your halls, 
 Spring up ; and seize the martial lance, 
 
 Nor rest when glory calls ! 
 
 Then up, sir knight ! the trumpet sounds, 
 
 Its larum bids away ! 
 Why lettest thou thine armor rust, 
 
 Thy strength and heart decay ? 
 
 " The page paused and cast a stealthy glance 
 at his master, whose countenance was flushed 
 and sternly knit, and then carelessly and as if 
 not observing the emotion depicted there, the 
 boy said : 
 
 " ' It is a song which I heard a damsel sing 
 the other day, as she was washing linen by the 
 river side. I believe it is part of an old ballad, 
 but of that I am not sure.' 
 
 " The knight cast on the boy a piercing 
 glance, but his countenance relaxed as a smile 
 dispelled the cloud which had gathered over 
 his features, as he replied : 
 
 " ' Many thanks, Wilhelm, for the lesson thy 
 song doth teach me ; but I fancy that thine own 
 head has done much towards furnishing the 
 material of the verses. Yet their precepts are 
 a little ill-timed.' 
 
 " A short silence ensued, for Wilhelm was 
 too much abashed at the reception of his song 
 and the failure of its innocent purpose, to offer 
 any answer to his master. 
 
 " ' Look, Wilhelm,' resumed the knight, as 
 going to a window of the castle which com 
 manded a view eastward, he directed the eyes 
 of the page to the undulating horizon. ' Yon 
 der lies my path ; to the land of Palestine once 
 more, but not as the steel-clad warrior to fight 
 for the cross and scale the walls of the Mos 
 lem. No, for the glorious victory has been 
 won, and the flag of the crusader waves over 
 the towers of Jerusalem. I go now with the 
 pilgrim's staff and scallop shell, to bend in 
 penitence at the foot of the sepulchre. I give 
 my castle to thy charge ; if I return no more 
 it is thine own, and thy service is none too 
 well repaid. Open my coffers to the poor, and 
 give them freely of the treasures you find 
 there. Nay, stay thy remonstrance, my will 
 is fixed, Wilhelm.' 
 
 " And so the knight was once more an exile 
 from the scenes of Fatherland. Days and 
 nights fled on, mountain-pass and valley-depth 
 were trodden, murmuring streams and rush 
 ing rivers were passed over, yet no rest came 
 to the feet of the pilgrim save from the slum 
 ber which nature demanded, until again at set 
 of sun, the wanderer paused by the rude way 
 stone, from whence was again to be seen the 
 towers of the Hungarian, whose hospitable roof 
 had sheltered the knight when returning from 
 Holy-Land. An honest peasant rested from 
 his burthen, then beside the stone, and to him 
 the knight addressed his inquiries concerning 
 those he remembered so well beneath yonder 
 roof. 
 
 " ' Can'st tell me, friend, concerning the wel 
 fare of those who dwell in yonder castle ? I
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 79 
 
 am, as thou seest, a pilgrim bound to Holy- 
 Land ; but as once I found good shelter there, 
 I feel no little solicitude for its inmates.' 
 
 " ' Good palmer,' the peasant answered, ' the 
 baron of yonder castle is my own lord, and a 
 most kindly one beside ; all is well with them, 
 but the old baron sadly mourns the loss of his 
 daughter, Ada.' 
 
 " ' The beautiful Ada dead?' said the palm 
 er, with a deep sigh. 
 
 " ' Even so. Ah ! she was beautiful as the 
 rising morn, but grief will eat out the life 
 from these flowers of loveliness, and so when 
 heart-sickness finds no relief they fade and 
 perish.' 
 
 " ' Thou speakest in riddles, fellow,' said 
 Plaitzer, almost fiercely, for an undefined fear 
 seemed to thrill through his veins. 
 
 " ' Then thou knowest not the story ?' said 
 the peasant, earnestly. 
 
 "'Not I.' 
 
 " ' Listen then, and I will tell thee : There 
 came hither, not long sinse, a knight, return 
 ing from Palestine shore; he had wrought 
 many mighty deeds of valor, and he was hos 
 pitably received by the old baron and his 
 daughter. Here the knight remained for a 
 while and sweetly passed the time with them. 
 The stranger and the baron's son, who had al 
 so been a soldier of the cross, oft recounted 
 their adventurous experience, and Ada, gentle 
 and artless, drank in the words and the kind 
 speeches of the knight. Thus she gave her 
 heart's love to him, and when the cruel and 
 capricious stranger discovered that he was 
 master of her affections, he left the fair Ada 
 to die of a broken heart and ' 
 
 " ' Villain,' shouted the incensed palmer, 
 'thou liest in thy mouth!' But checking 
 himself he turned away and hastily pursued 
 his path. 
 
 " ' I was wrong,' he ejaculated, ' the peas 
 ant doubtless has believed the story which he 
 uttered. Ada, Ada, would I had slept in 
 death ere I had been the cause of unhappiness 
 to thee.' 
 
 " Soon leaving the road upon his right, the 
 palmer entered the grove below the baronial 
 towers, directing his steps towards an open 
 ing where he had last bade farewell to the hos 
 pitable family. And now how sad were the 
 reflections that crowded upon his mind as he 
 recalled the pensive countenance of the fair 
 
 girl as she bade him a last adieu. It was a 
 sweet retreat, that sylvan bower where he had 
 separated from the hospitable Hungarians, and 
 its glossy carpet of green was studded with 
 golden and azure flowers, which, nestling amid 
 its emerald vines, filled the air with fragrance. 
 The palmer approached the well-remembered 
 place, but started with trembling limbs as he 
 marked a marble monument that stood in the 
 centre of the open space, and saw upon its 
 top the garland of affectionate remembrance. 
 He wept as he read the inscription upon the 
 stone 
 
 "OUR ADA." 
 
 " The palmer knelt and pressed his brow 
 against the cold stone, and with clasped hands 
 prayed for the spirit of the departed. For a 
 moment he even forgot his own long home 
 and hopeless sorrow, in grief for her who 
 slept beneath. 
 
 " The shadows of eve had already gathered 
 round, and anxious to pursue his journey, the 
 pilgrim knight reverentially rose, when lo ! to 
 his astonished eyes the dim light revealed the 
 lineaments of what he felt to be an unearthly 
 shape, whose form was clad in robes of flowing 
 white. Though struck with awe, he address 
 ed the vision : 
 
 " ' Fair Ada, dost thou come to chide me 
 from the grave. Alas ! gentle spirit, I never 
 meant thee harm, for while thankful for thy 
 kindness, thy gentle smiles, my wounded spir 
 it wept, 0, how bitterly for another." 
 
 A sudden shriek pierced the stillness, and 
 the white form as it fell forward was received 
 in the arms of the knight. He staggered back 
 for a moment as he felt the weight of living 
 reality, and parted the hair from the pale fore 
 head of the stranger, and then with strange, 
 uncontrollable emotion, he exclaimed : 
 
 " ' It is Butha ! my long lost, long loved Bu- 
 tha. What miracle is this ?' 
 
 " Cold water from the brook hard by served 
 to revive the fainting form of the lady, and 
 the first transports of joy were soon followed 
 by a calmer happiness. It was then that the 
 mystery was solved, relating to her appear 
 ance. 
 
 " When, as we have seen, Butha rushed forth 
 from the tower of Eiswaldt and threw herself 
 from the precipice which overhangs the Rhine, 
 she sunk down into an under currant, formed 
 by one of the many eddies which occur near
 
 80 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 the river's bank, which swept her away from 
 the spot and brought her again to the surface. 
 Here she was rescued by a craft that was 
 bound up the river. In this vessel, under pro 
 tection of a military escort, was an old noble 
 man who was journeying up the Rhine to his 
 own country after completing a foreign mis 
 sion. On hearing her story, after she had re 
 covered, the nobleman persuaded her to seek 
 the protection of his Hungarian barony. 
 
 " Days and weeks passed by, and Butha 
 found a happy home. Many months had 
 elapsed when a brother of the venerable no 
 bleman visited the castle of Koval. The 
 stranger chief soon heard from his brother's 
 lips the story of Butha's misfortune, whose 
 charms were now heightened by a sweet mel 
 ancholy which added a softened attraction to 
 her fair face. The lord of Saravost looked 
 kindly upon the lovely daughter of the Rhine, 
 and his imagination traced in her features a 
 resemblance to his own gentle Ada. A few 
 days after he said to Butha : 
 
 " ' My child, I have a great favor to ask of 
 thee. I have an only daughter, a year young 
 er than thyself, who is pining for a companion 
 like yourself, who would be a sister to her. 
 She grows paler and weaker each day ; per 
 chance thy company may tend to relieve her 
 spirits and cheer her. Go with me, and thou 
 shalt be to me as mine own child.' 
 
 " ' Alas, my lord, I have suchsorrows of my 
 own that I should be a sorry companion for one 
 like your gentle child,' replied Butha. 
 
 " ' Nay, for that very reason, if for no other, 
 you are most fitted to the purpose, since each 
 may console and cheer the other,' replied the 
 nobleman. 
 
 " My kind friendshere have all the disposal 
 of me. I will take their advice, even though it 
 be to leave them,' she replied, sadly. 
 
 " ' What say you, brother, will you not join 
 me in urging our young friend to come with 
 me and befriend poor Ada, who is so melan 
 choly ?' 
 
 " ' She is free to go or stay,', said the lord of 
 Koval; 'full well she knows, brother, how 
 
 dearly we regard her presence here in our cas 
 tle, and how gladly we would have her stay.' 
 
 " ' Then, my gentle Butha, we have his con 
 sent, provided you are yourself willing. Will 
 you not go then, and if you become weary, I 
 will myself return with you to Koval ?' 
 
 " ' Well, my lord, since you urge me so 
 much, I will go with you, though much I fear 
 one heart so sad as mine will add no joy to 
 your household.' 
 
 " ' Thank you, thank you, my gentle Butha, 
 no fear but we shall rejoice at the change, and 
 we will strive to make you happy,' said her 
 new friend. 
 
 " Thus besought, she consented, and soon af 
 ter became domesticated as the companion of 
 Ada. Butha attempted to dispel the dejec 
 tion which Ada strove, but in vain, to conceal. 
 But all her efforts were vain, and she soon 
 found that some secret grief preyed upon the 
 mind of the gentle girl. Gradually, Butha 
 came to suspect the nature of that grief, and 
 at length, influenced by her tender solicitude, 
 Ada told her all. Struggling against the in 
 ward emotion that she experienced, Butha 
 strove to console her young friend, but the lat 
 ter failed away day by day, and at last sank 
 to sleep forever. 
 
 " As the fair young girl died, she solicited 
 from her father the promise that he would 
 adopt Butha in her place, and this promise so 
 freely given, was as truly kept. Butha ever 
 kept fresh the flowers which graced the fair 
 Ada's grave, and the eve she had met with the 
 lone palmer, she had come to strew it with 
 fragrant buds. 
 
 " But who shall paint the happiness of Butha 
 and the knight of the cross, now that they had 
 met again ? The holy ties of matrinHmy made 
 them one, in the rural chapel of Sera vost, and 
 soon after, Butha's tower on the river island, 
 received its lord, the Knight of the Sable 
 Plume, and his fearless bride, whose name the 
 castle bore." 
 
 " ' Well told, good Carli,' said the prisoner 
 ' thou art a true son of the Rhine.'
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE STRATAGEM. 
 
 Ho, treachery ! ray guards, my scimitar ! 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 ROBERT STANLEY was still a welcome and 
 favored guest at the castle of Ghertstein, and 
 indeed seemed to many a jealous aspirant for 
 the fair lady Gustine's hand, to grow in favor 
 with both parent and child, and in proportion 
 to the amount of courtesy thus extended to 
 him, were the ire and jealousy of those who 
 followed in the lady's train moved. In this 
 state of affairs young Stanley began to realize 
 that he was constantly and most closely 
 watched, in order that some cause of open 
 disagreement might be found against him, 
 whereby his enemies would be enabled to 
 avow their feelings, a-nd hence perhaps by 
 some cunning trick, ensnarl him in some most 
 unpleasant dilemma. Realizing these facts, 
 and fearing apparently that the impetuosity of 
 his disposition might in a hasty moment lead 
 him to do some deed that he should have oc 
 casion to regret, he resolved to press his suit 
 warmly, and if possible, to win at once the 
 hand and love of the peerless Gustine. 
 
 It was about this period one evening, as the 
 young Englishman was approaching the cas 
 tle, actuated by the purpose to which we have 
 just referred, that he met two of the gentle 
 men who were most conspicuous in their at 
 tendance on the fair lady Gustine. He was 
 on his way from the town, and had already 
 nearly ascended the cliff on which the castle 
 6 
 
 stood, when the two persons met him. They 
 were evidently awaiting his coming, and as 
 he drew still nearer to them, which he was 
 compelled to do in pursuing his path, they ut 
 tered some sneering remark relating to the 
 country to which he was supposed to belong. 
 But absorbed with the intention that governed 
 him so strongly, he hardly noticed their speech, 
 and bowing in a dignified manner, he passed 
 on. But the insult was repeated, and with 
 such marked intent that he could no longer 
 pretend to be indifferent to it, and turning 
 toward them with a fire in his eye that they had 
 never seen there before, said with cool irony : 
 
 " Gentlemen, you seem by some chance to 
 have chosen a somewhat remarkable time, 
 place and subject, for diverting yourselves. It 
 is useless to deny that your words were meant 
 for me." 
 
 " We deny nothing," said both, confidently ; 
 the elder, a man of some eight and thirty, all 
 the while playing with the silken sword knot 
 that was attached to his weapon. 
 
 " You acknowledge that you wished to in 
 sult me," continued the Englishman. 
 
 " You are a good interpreter to understand 
 so well," replied the elder of the two. 
 
 " Fools !" said their intended victim, irritat 
 ed to the utmost sufferance. 
 
 " Fools ?" repeated both, in amazement.
 
 82 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 "JAy, both of ye, fools and cowards !" 
 As he uttered the last words, his rapier 
 sprang from its scabbard, and with its flat side 
 he struck them both a blow across the breast, 
 so quick and stoutly as to stagger them, and 
 almost to bring them to the ground. This 
 was the signal for a grand melee, and in an 
 instant after, their swords were striking^fire in 
 the dim hazy twilight of the hour. 
 
 But the two who had thus provoked the at 
 tack, had not counted upon the skill of their 
 successful rival, for although themselves by no 
 means indifferent swordsmen, yet they could 
 not touch him with the points of their weapons, 
 so keen was his eye, and so subtle his fence. 
 Already their faces were blackened with the 
 excitement of their passion and disappoint 
 ment, when, with a boldness and dexterity 
 that astounded and confused them, he who 
 bore the name of Stanley dashed at them, and 
 by coup-de-main disarmed them both, casting 
 their swords far over the cliff into the very 
 bed of the Rhine, where they sank to be seen 
 no more. The two men who had thus set 
 upon the other single one, now looked crest 
 fallen and ashamed, for he spared their lives 
 so completely at his mercy. 
 
 " Your luck has served you well," said the 
 spokesman of the two, " but we shall meet 
 again when skill will be called into requisition ; 
 this affair does not end here." 
 
 " When you please, where you please, and 
 with what you please," said the Englishman, 
 coolly. 
 
 " Your confidence serves you well," con 
 tinued the other, " but we shall humble you." 
 
 " At present you have evidently counted 
 without your host, gentlemen," he replied, 
 coolly, as he now returned his own weapon to 
 the scabbard. " You had best retire and con 
 sider your folly in secret." 
 
 " We will see you again." 
 
 " At your own pleasure," added the English 
 man, quite indifferently. 
 
 And with a muttered curse from the discom 
 fited party, they separated. 
 
 More than ever impressed with the impor 
 tance of bringing his suit to an immediate 
 issue, the more successful follower of the lady 
 Gustine resolved that he would, if possible, 
 make some appointment with her that very 
 evening, in which they alone might participate, 
 and then if his fortune still favored him, he 
 
 would openly declare his love, and strive to 
 win from her a promise of her hand and 
 heart. With this intent, he approached the 
 castle, and being announced, was received with 
 the cordial welcome that ha d^ver greeted him 
 in the halls of Ghertstein. 
 
 He found the lady alone, and engaged in 
 reading one of those German legends with 
 which the few books of that period were rilled. 
 She received him with marked kindness and 
 consideration, but you would have looked in 
 vain for any token of love on her part. There 
 was no such language in the depth of her 
 large, blue eyes, though their expression of 
 pleasure in his society was unmistakable. 
 She spoke of the story she was reading ; it 
 was one of those wild and romantic legends 
 of the upper Rhine, and he listened with most 
 respectful attention. And then her companion 
 related another, which showed him to be as 
 familiar with the beautiful valley as herself, 
 and to know its wild and romantic story of 
 cliff or ruined tower, like one who had been 
 born upon the river's banks. 
 
 He told her of the ruined tower of Corbetz, 
 and the story of the unhappy spirit of a fair 
 young girl that was said still to linger about 
 its mossy aisles and decayed courts. He in 
 vested all with such a soft hue of romance, 
 that he found the lady Gustine a willing lis 
 tener. 
 
 " You speak like one whose days have been 
 passed upon the spots you describe." 
 
 " One could hardly inhabit your lovely val 
 ley, even temporarily, without imbibing its 
 spirit of romance." 
 
 " You have been an apt sojourner among 
 us, Mr. Stanley, so soon to have drunk in the 
 spirit." 
 
 " There are many of these legends and stories 
 that I have treasured in memory, but doubtless 
 they are all familiar to you, lady, who are na 
 tive here, in this fair valley." 
 
 " But I never tire of listening to them," 
 she replied ; " they please me much." 
 
 . " There was one that interested me much, 
 and which for its locale had this very neigh 
 borhood." 
 
 "Indeed?" 
 
 " Yes, shall I tell it to you ?'' 
 
 " Do so." 
 
 And then in a low and gentle voice he told 
 her how a noble lady of t'le neighboring val-
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 83 
 
 ley, while she was yet but a mere girl, had 
 seen a youth remarkable for his grace and 
 beauty. That as years passed on, they often 
 met, the lady caring not for the humble estate 
 of the youth, for" he was hardly more than a 
 peasant. This his dress at once betrayed, but 
 preferring love to power, she gave no weight 
 to the chance that had given him birth in a 
 humbler station than herself, but sacrificed her 
 pride to her love, and freely gave her heart to 
 him who had wooed her in secret. At last, 
 having prepared a modest and humble home 
 in the forest for this tender flower which had 
 been nursed and reared in lavish luxuriance, 
 he came o.-ie night, and meeting her by ap 
 pointment at the castle gate, they fled from 
 her father's halls. 
 
 But alas ! for her true love, she found that 
 her husband, though young and handsome, 
 tender of heart as a child to her, and gentle 
 by nature to all, was yet the leader of a pow 
 erful fraternity of banditti. But her woman 
 heart was true to the last, and she followed 
 his fortunes, though they were often of the 
 severest character, and faithful were they to 
 'each other, until finally the law claimed its 
 victim, when he was taken, condemned, and 
 executed with many of his comrades. Then 
 it was that the young wife, with her little boy, 
 after suffering and privation had overcome her 
 sense of pride, returned to her father's gates, 
 not to beg of him to reinstate her to the 
 honored place she had once filled at his fire 
 side ; no, she did not aspire to this, but she 
 humbly begged for charity, for the bare means 
 of supporting life within herself and her lit 
 tle son. But her proud father's heart was 
 made of iron, and the young mother was rude 
 ly driven from his door, to perish of misery 
 and want. 
 
 "While the narrator spoke* thus, he grew so 
 animated and earnest that his cheek was flush 
 ed, his speech quick, and his eye almost wild 
 with excitement. Indeed, he seemed to have 
 forgotten himself in the interest he evinced, 
 and the lady too showed no trifling degree of 
 emotion. 
 
 " And the child ?" suggested the lady Gus- 
 tine, "what became of him ?" 
 
 " What should you think, lady, would 
 probably be the after life of that boy ?" 
 
 " Indeed, 1 cannot divine," she answered, 
 evidently ill at ease about some sad thought. 
 
 " I will tell you. He grew up, determined 
 to avenge himself, first upon the laws^for his 
 father's death, and then upon the proud nobil 
 ity of the land for his mother's suffering." 
 
 " This is a strange story to tell me, Mr. 
 Stanley," said the lady, somewhat markedly. 
 
 " And why stranger than if I had chosen 
 any other story of the valley ?" he asked. 
 
 " Because it relates to my own cousin, the 
 lord Blasius, and his sister, who unfortunately 
 as you have related, became the wife of the 
 far-famed and unprincipled Schinderkanes." 
 
 " Is it possible that I have been so unfor 
 tunate as to refer, though inadvertently, to 
 any matter that is unpleasant to you ? Jf so 
 I can only plead my ignorance, and ask your 
 forgiveness, lady." 
 
 " You have it most cordially," she replied, 
 smiling upon him as she spoke. 
 
 " Thank you, lady ; far be it from me to 
 render one moment of your life unhappy." 
 
 " It matters not, Mr. Stanley, and if I ap 
 peared for a moment moved, it was only at the 
 eloquence yourself displayed, and the interest 
 you seemed to experience in the story as you 
 told it." 
 
 " Nay, I had noted it only as other legends 
 that I have listened to of your valley," he 
 replied. 
 
 " This son of Julia Blasius," continued the 
 lady; "was named Karl, and as you have said, 
 became like his father an outlaw, still defying 
 the authorities of the valley, with a well or 
 ganized band." 
 
 " Indeed ?" 
 
 " Yes, and report speaks much of his sin 
 gular and eccentric character." 
 
 " There is an old tower on the main road 
 thaf leads from Bronts towards the north,' 
 said her companion, " some league or there 
 abouts from here, of which I have heard a 
 very curious story, and from a source also that 
 I am inclined most fully to credit. ,1 thought 
 it so remarkable and characteristic, and was 
 so impressed with the details of the story, 
 that I have visited and explored the spot since 
 I have been here, carefully examining the lo 
 calities upon which it largely depends for its 
 interest. The legend when listened to upon 
 the spot, becomes so impressive that no candid 
 mind can doubt its truth though it is by far 
 the most romantic in its character of any I 
 have yet heard in the Rhine valley. Do you 
 know the ruins I refer to ?"
 
 84 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 " On the main road from Bronts towards 
 the north?" asked the lady. 
 
 Yes." 
 
 " I do not, and yet I am familiar with that 
 road. Is it isolated, or on some prominent 
 point ?" 
 
 " Situated a little off the main road, on a 
 forest path, that leads to a gentle ascent." 
 
 " It is singular that I have never heard of 
 the ruins, and yet have been so near to 
 them." 
 
 " They are not set down in our maps, and 
 indeed, 1 found them but little known, lying 
 as they do off the main road, at the inner 
 edge of the forest, where it crowns the 
 hills." 
 
 " I should like above all things to see the 
 tower, and hear you relate the story." 
 
 "Nothing would delight me more than to 
 visit the spot with you, lady Gustine, and as 
 I shall be obliged to depart for the south on 
 the day after to-morrow, might we not do so 
 on the coming afternoon ?" 
 
 " O, yes, if it be safe in that neighbor 
 hood," she replied. 
 
 " It is the most quiet portion of the coun 
 try for leagues about." 
 
 " I will order my horse early then, that we 
 may get home in time from the ruins to greet 
 my father, who will be returning at the close 
 of the day from a business trip to the upper 
 valley." 
 
 " I shall be quite at your service, lady, as to 
 time," replied her companion. 
 
 On the day following the meeting just des 
 cribed, a little after meridian, the two, mount 
 ed on superb chargers, dashed spiritedly 
 through the town of Bronts and took the high 
 road that led towards the mountains. A hun 
 dred eyes were turned to admire the splendid 
 horsemanship of the gentleman, who strode 
 a coal black steed of wondrous power and 
 beauty of action, while the lady's milk-white 
 charger was no less completely in her com 
 mand. They were a noble looking pair, and 
 elicited many an earnest compliment of admi 
 ration as they passed the throng of people. 
 
 If the fair lady Gustine had thought her 
 new friend entertaining before, when he had 
 so amused her within her father's halls, she 
 now thought him eloquence itself. Not a 
 natural beauty escaped his quick, observant 
 eye, nor a curious spot his remark, while he 
 
 seemed to know the beauties of the count ry 
 like one who had studied them with both a 
 poet's and a painter's eye. So agreeable in 
 deed did he prove, that the lady Gustine had 
 not once recalled the object of their excursion, 
 though they had already left Bronts fully a 
 league or more behind them, and still they 
 sped on, while her companion, seemingly in 
 unwonted good spirits, absorbed and entertain 
 ed her thoughts. 
 
 At last they approached a road that seemed 
 to be but little used, and though it might af 
 ford comfortable passage for equestrians, was 
 yet hardly accessible for a vehicle of any 
 kind. Here they turned off the main road, 
 when for a moment the lady's attention was 
 called to the route they were pursuing, and 
 she said : 
 
 " A league, Mr. Stanley, why this must be 
 nearly two from Bronts ?" 
 
 " Do you feel fatigued, lady ?" he rejoined, 
 with evident interest. 
 
 " O, no," she replied, " but we must calculate 
 accordingly for the distance, in our hour for 
 returning.'' 
 
 Bu both seemed to be in the highest spirits, 
 and still chatting, they dashed on through the 
 winding forest path, it could hardly be called 
 a road, until it was deemed high time for 
 them to have found the ruined tower, and at 
 last it was concluded that by some chance, 
 they must have passed the path that led to 
 it, or have taken the wrong road when they 
 first entered the forest. Yet her companion 
 was so positive that this was the route he had 
 so lately travelled, that they resolved to keep 
 on still a little longer, fully to satisfy them 
 selves. And thus they continued on for some 
 time longer, until at last they came to a small 
 open plat of ground, of a circular form, 
 around which they rode, endeavoring to find 
 some outlet that might lead towards the ruins 
 which they sought. From this circular plat 
 there opened two forest paths, the one by 
 which they had entered, and one opposite, 
 which led deeper into the wood. Either by 
 accident or purpose, when they left the circu 
 lar plat, although ostensibly for the purpose of 
 returning, having already abandoned as useless 
 their purpose of seeking the ruined tower, 
 they took the wrong road. 
 
 " We must ride with a free rein," said the 
 lady, "for already the sun is declining."
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 85 
 
 " We have exhausted much time unwitting 
 ly," said her companion, " in this fruitless 
 search." 
 
 "My father I fear will chide this impru 
 dence," said the lady Gustine, seeming to re 
 alize for the first time that she was alone in 
 the deep wood, with one who was a compara 
 tive stranger to her. 
 
 " It is I who am to blame, lady, for attempt 
 ing to play the guide when I knew so little 
 about the road." 
 
 " Let us on now, and make up for lost 
 time," said the lady, touching her horse with 
 the whip. 
 
 The lady Gustine was perfect mistress of 
 the menage, and tired not, while her com 
 panion accommodated himself to her mood, 
 riding slow or fast as she chose, with that in 
 different ease that showed him long used to 
 the saddle, But now it began to grow dark, 
 and the twilight hour was clothing nature in 
 its dreamy hues. Long shadows were already 
 cast across the paths, and still they seemed to 
 be plunging deeper and deeper into the forest, 
 rather than pursuing a path that would finally 
 bring them to the highway again. Though 
 the lady expressed no fear, yet it was evident 
 that she was exercised by no slight degree of 
 uneasiness as she became at last convinced 
 that this was perhaps the case, and now for 
 the first time heeded with a careless ear the 
 converse of her loquacious companion. She 
 hurried forward her horse, as though she hop 
 ed to obtain some light ere long as to their posi 
 tion, while her companion pleaded his igno 
 rance of the character of the country paths 
 and by-roads, but still seemed inclined to press 
 forward, which they did until it became quite 
 dark. When suddenly the lady Gustine drew 
 up her horse, and said in a spirit almost of 
 despair : 
 
 " Indeed, this is very, very unfortunate, Mr. 
 Stanley ; how will it end ?" 
 
 " I regret it deeply for your sake," replied 
 her companion, "but we will hope for the 
 best." 
 
 " How could we have been so thoughtless 
 and careless as to get lost here ?" 
 
 " I fear that I am wholly to blame, for I 
 have led you here." 
 
 " And these woods, too, Mr. Stanley," said 
 the lady, with a shudder, " are not unfrequent- 
 
 ly infested by robbers. Alas ! I feel as though 
 I should drop from my horse with fright." 
 
 " I assure you there is no cause for alarm, 
 lady," said her companion ; " come what may, 
 you are safe from all harm. You may rely 
 upon my words." 
 
 " You speak confidently, Mr. Stanley," said 
 the lady, somewhat surprised. 
 
 " If I speak confidently, it is the more suc 
 cessfully to assure you, lady, but still you may 
 rely upon my words." 
 
 The singular calmness of her companion 
 under the exciting circumstances, and a pecu 
 liar manner that seemed to have suddenly 
 crept over him, also became a cause of suspi 
 cion to the lady Gustine, and she felt like one 
 certainly deserted and surrounded by myriads 
 of undefined dangers. She now realized how 
 imprudent she had been to leave home thus 
 unattended, and her heart sank within her 
 with regret and fear. Naturally of a nervous 
 temperament, her strength now began to fail 
 her, and though she struggled hard for mas 
 tery, her physical powers were not equal to 
 her mental resolve ; and declaring that she 
 could sit on her horse no longer, her compan 
 ion sprang to the ground only in time to re 
 ceive her fainting form in his arms, and gently 
 to lay her upon the green sward and moss of 
 the forest, pale as death itself, and now quite 
 insensible to anything about her. He paused 
 for a moment as she lay there so pale, yet so 
 beautiful, to note by the dim light the extraor 
 dinary loveliness that presented itself to his 
 gaze. Within the last half hour his manner 
 had changed in a marked degree. There was 
 a bolder and freer air in his bearing, and he 
 looked about him like one who felt at home, 
 not like a person who had lost his way in the 
 forest. He was no longer the effeminate and 
 gentle suitor who had frequented the halls of 
 Ghertstein ; there was a proud defiance in his 
 eye, and a self-reliance in every action, t v at 
 bespoke him to be a man accustomed to bold 
 and ready action. 
 
 He paused only for a moment, as he bent 
 over the lifeless form of the lady Gustine, 
 then drawing from his breast a small silver 
 call, he uttered a shrill rolling note that was 
 answered in a moment after before the echoes 
 had died way among the aisles of the forest. 
 Before the lady had fairly recovered her 
 senses, six horsemen dashed up to the scene,
 
 86 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 armed cap-a-pie in the costume of Italian 
 banditti. 
 
 " Carli," said the lady's companion, to the 
 foremost of the party. 
 
 " Captain," said the robber, whom the 
 reader has already met. 
 
 " Make a light litter of small boughs, and 
 throw your coats over it. The lady must be 
 carried." 
 
 The order was instantly obeyed, and a few 
 green boughs ingeniously braided together, 
 were covered with the upper garments of the 
 men, after which, her late companion lifted 
 her still half unconscious form upon it, and 
 thus she was conveyed still deeper into the 
 forest's depth, as gently as though she slept 
 upon her bed. 
 
 The party had not proceeded more than a 
 quarter of a mile, followed by their well train 
 ed horses, before they came out upon the open 
 circle or clearing, before described in these 
 pages, and upon which opened on the east 
 side the mouth of the Banditti's Cave ! 
 
 Into this the party gently filed, under the di 
 rection of their leader, and the lady was safe 
 ly deposited within with as much quiet uncon 
 cern and want of curiosity on the part of the 
 men as though it were all an every day occur 
 rence with them. But a keen observer would 
 have noticed that they constantly watched 
 their leader's eye. 
 
 True authority effects its will without either 
 bustle or confusion. It is not your ranting, 
 profane commander who is quickest obeyed, 
 but it is rather he, who, feeling he requires 
 no foreign aid of effect to enforce his orders, 
 issues them almost in a whisper, or may be 
 by a look. It was thus with him who directed 
 and controlled the party we have referred to ; 
 his slightest sign was noted and its import at 
 once understood ; his every movement had an 
 air of authority about it, and doubtless his 
 right to the respect that he thus elicited, had 
 been sustained by more than one fearful ex 
 ample. 
 
 It seemed perhaps a little singular to see 
 those fierce and daring spirits thus held in 
 
 check and directed by the silent arm of disci 
 pline ; in physical power not one of them but 
 was far more than a match for their leader, 
 but they had early become aware of the im 
 mense importance in a promiscuous company 
 like theirs of sustaining .the authority, and 
 respecting it, too, of one directing mind. 
 Habit and daily custom had caused this con 
 viction to grow into a law,until he who had been 
 thus entrusted with their entire obedience had 
 shown himself mentally their masters, as well 
 as sustaining that position by appointment and 
 long service. 
 
 The leader looked about him thoughtfully 
 for a moment, as if to take in the position of 
 affairs, and inspect the condition of the cave. 
 Then turning again to his companion, he 
 said: 
 
 " Carli." 
 
 " Yes, captain." 
 
 " Is everything in the usual condition at the 
 cave ?" asked the leader. 
 
 " Yes, captain." 
 
 " And our prisoner ?" 
 
 " Which, captain ?" 
 
 " Which ?" 
 
 " The gentleman, or the lady, captain ?" 
 
 " The lady, Carli, is no prisoner." 
 
 " The other is as quiet as you could possi 
 bly wish, captain. He's a jewel of a prisoner, 
 who loves a good story, and who makes no at 
 tempt to escape after promising not to do 
 so." 
 
 " You have trusted him abroad, then, Car 
 li, have you ?" 
 
 " Only under our own eyes, captain." 
 
 " Is he inquisitive ?" 
 
 " No, captain." 
 
 " And has caused no trouble, then ?" 
 
 " None, save that he will sometimes beat 
 father Blemen at chess." 
 
 The leader smiled and turned away, enter 
 ing another division of the cave, where he 
 might doff the assumed character that he 
 bore. 
 
 The stratagem had succeeded, and the lady 
 Gustkie was a prisoner.
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 KARL BLASIUS, THE ROBBER. 
 
 'Tis of a lady in her earliest youth, 
 The very last of that illustrious race. 
 
 ROGERS. 
 
 WHEN the lady Gustine fully recovered her 
 consciousness, she found herself in an apart 
 ment lighted only by the flame of a single 
 hanging lamp, and from the appearance of the 
 place she knew that she must be in the subdi 
 vision of a cave, for the walls and roof about 
 her were of solid stone, and there was no vis 
 ible opening or outlet, while a half undefined 
 dampness seemed to fill the air and to rest on 
 the cold stones that surrounded her on all sides. 
 A slight cough that escaped her, reverberated 
 with hollow echoes through her cell, with such 
 grum and solemn tones as almost to "startle 
 her. 
 
 She had been sleeping, doubtless, for a con 
 siderable period of time, for % she felt much re 
 freshed in body, at the same time realizing a 
 faintness and hunger that convinced her she 
 must have been long without refreshments. 
 She saw that she had been upon the couch 
 of soft skins, where she had slept with all her 
 clothes about her, and with no change, save 
 that they had been loosened, to admit of a free 
 circulation. On rising she found a small ta 
 ble close by her side, upon which were placed 
 some fruit and wine, and some more substan 
 tial food ; of the latter she partook with avid 
 ity, of the former, sparingly, and making a 
 hasty toilet, she sought for the door of this sin 
 
 gular apartment ; but although she examined 
 every part of the room with the utmost care 
 and patience, she could in no way discover the 
 door, and, indeed, to her eyes, the place seem 
 ed to be a hollow, scooped out from the very 
 interior of the massive rock, without the means 
 of either ingress or egre?s. 
 
 A nervous and superstitious feeling crept 
 over her as she seemed to realize these facts, 
 and she shuddered at her lone condition. She 
 remembered the wild stories that had been told 
 her in childhood about fair young ladies being 
 stolen away by some evil spirits and so en 
 chanted as either to sleep for many years in 
 punishment for some sin, or to be incarcerated 
 until some good fairy should discover and re 
 lease her. It seemed to her but a few hours 
 comparatively since she was safe in her father's 
 hall ; but yet it might be a hundred years ; 
 and thus her fancy ran wild with her imagin 
 ation, into most fantastic improbabilities. 
 
 She could not recall the fact as to how she 
 came there, though she remembered well all 
 things up to the period when she was so exer 
 cised with fatigue and fear in the forest. She 
 could recall even those last moments of con 
 sciousness when her sight began to fail her, 
 and she half slid, half fell from her horse ; but 
 after that moment all was a blank.
 
 88 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 The lady Gustine was not long left in 
 doubt, however, fora snap, as of a secret spring, 
 greeted her ears, and a piece of the rock in one 
 side of the cave flew open as if by magic, and 
 in the next moment she found herself once 
 more with her companion of the previous day. 
 They gazed at each other for some minutes in 
 silence, the lady like one who had been sadly, 
 deeply wronged, her companion with an ex 
 pression combining love, sarcasm and triumph, 
 if such qualities could all be delineated upon 
 the human face at the same moment; a flood 
 of strange and contending feelings seemed 
 coursing through his brain, while his soul ap 
 peared to be too full for utterance. 
 
 His dress had also undergone a marked 
 change since she had seen him last, and alto 
 gether, with the surroundings and associations 
 of the place, he now seemed to her like anoth 
 er being. His plain, rich suit, of English 
 style and cut, had given place to velvet small 
 clothes and brogans, and silk hose, while a 
 close setting scarlet jacket, trimmed with sil 
 ver lace, covered the upper portion of his per 
 son. A velvet cap, ornamented with a single 
 flowing feather of snowy whiteness, completed 
 his costume. The handle of a long dirk knife 
 curiously wrought and inlaid, might be seen 
 discovering itself from the folds of his doublet, 
 and a pair of pistols were worn openly in a 
 sword belt. Though the chains for its sup 
 port being at his side, the latter weapon was not 
 in its place. 
 
 " Am la prisoner here, sir ?" asked the lady 
 Gustine, at length, finding that her singular 
 companion remained silent, and seemingly lost 
 in meditation. 
 
 He started at her words as though he had 
 been in a dream, and then said : 
 
 " A prisoner ? In part, lady, yes, and in 
 part, no, for though you are ostensibly confin 
 ed within this cave, still you are none the less 
 mistress of it and its master !" 
 " The mistress ?" 
 " Ay, lady." 
 
 " You speak in riddles, sir ; I do not under 
 stand you," said the lady. 
 
 " You will find it an easy riddle to solve 
 lady," replied the robber. 
 
 " I understand you not," she reiterated with 
 much earnestness. 
 
 " Then 'tis fitting time that you should do 
 so," he replied. " Know, lady, if you do not 
 
 already realize the fact, that I am no English 
 man, nor is my name Robert Stanley. On the 
 contrary, I am the master of this cave, the 
 leader of this band of free men, and bear a 
 name that has often caused a shudder in that 
 fair bosom." 
 
 " Who are you ?" exclaimed lady Gustine, 
 half suspecting the truth. 
 
 " I am Karl Blasius !" said the robber, bend 
 ing his keen eye upon her. 
 
 " Gracious heaven protect me," exclaimed 
 the lady Gustine, as she shrank still farther 
 from the strange being before her, and trem 
 bling at the disclosure just made her. 
 
 " Nay, lady Gustine, you need not fear me," 
 he said, sadly. "Listen to my story, and 
 then I think you will not shudder so at the 
 sight of me." 
 
 " Go on, sir," said the lady Gustine, appear 
 ing to recover her self-possession suddenly, 
 while a proud and dignified air diffused itself 
 quickly over her expression and bearing. 
 
 " Lady, I once told you the story of my pa 
 rentage, though you then little thought that 
 Karl Blasius spoke to you ; 1 told you then of 
 the influences that had formed the character 
 of the robber's boy. On the laws that had 
 first driven my father from their protection 
 and then punished him so severely, I was daily 
 revenged, and the purses of the proud nobles 
 suffered in their substance at my pleasure. 
 But upon their pride, their honor, their most 
 sacred treasures, I had not revenged myself, 
 and though I had sworn before heaven, one 
 day, to do so, yet the opportunity had never 
 yet occurred for my purpose. 
 
 ' A little more than a month since,- howev 
 er, fortune seemed to favor my purpose, and I 
 at once embarked in its accomplishment. At 
 the little inn of Mornentz, not many weeks 
 since, I chanced to meetwith an Englishman ; 
 our road over the mountain lay through the 
 same path ; I led him hither. He had letters 
 of introduction and credit to many people in 
 Bronts, among the rest to your father. I was 
 no stranger to your family, nor to the report 
 ed beauty of the lady Gustine ; I saw a plan 
 at once in these letters, a plan ready formed to 
 my hands ; I assumed the name of Stanley, 
 and appeared among you." 
 Horrible !" 
 
 " What is so horrible, lady ?" 
 " That YOU should have committed murder
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 to possess yourself of the letters wherewith 
 you deceived my father and myself," said the 
 lady Gustine, with a shudder at the thought. 
 
 " Nay, it is not so bad as you suppose, lady," 
 said the robber ; " we never commit murder, 
 save in self-defence, and then but rarely. But 
 hear my story, for I shall speak most honest 
 ly and truly to you, the only being of thy 
 class or sex who has ever interested or tamed 
 me. Will it please you, lady, to sit down ?" 
 
 The robber saw that the lady was weak 
 from late excitement and nervousness, and she 
 gladly seated herself upon a rough stool, over 
 which her companion threw a wolf skin, as he 
 continued : 
 
 " I came to your father's halls, resolved by 
 untiring assiduity to win your confidence at 
 least, if not your love, and then to steal you 
 away from your home, and, like a gaudy jew 
 el to wear you " 
 
 The lady Gustine seemed exercised by min 
 gled fear and indignation. 
 
 " But alas ! lady," continued the robber, 
 " the chase I ran was my own undoing ; while 
 I wooed thee in jest, as I supposed, my heart 
 was in earnest, and I discovered at last that 1 
 loved you only too sincerely. Nay, sneer not 
 at me, lady, I am but telling thee the truth 
 I am not suing in this place here, I alone 
 command, I am not trying to persuade or in 
 fluence the lady Gustine now it is not my 
 object. Well, you received me kindly, most 
 kindly, you even listened to my words with 
 more than ordinary interest, and I felt that al 
 though you might not love, yet you were much 
 interested in a disguised bandit. At length 
 I invented the story of the ruined tower, and 
 told it to thee to excite thy curiosity. We rode 
 out together and alone, such a chance might 
 never again occur ; you know the rest, lady, 
 you were brought, insensible through fatigue 
 and fear, to this cave." 
 
 " A brave business, truly, to ruin and de 
 ceive a defenceless female," said the lady, 
 struggling to keep down her woman-spirit 
 that promised every moment to burst forth in 
 sobs. 
 
 " Your sarcasm is just," said the robber, 
 with conscious guilt. 
 
 " It vvas base, base beyond precedent," con 
 tinued the lady, bitterly. 
 
 " I acknowledge all," said the robber, " but 
 I could tell thee, lady, of far more bitter griev 
 
 ances by thy class of society, daily and hourly 
 perpetrated upon the humble peasantry of the 
 valley, grievances to which thine would not 
 bear a feather's weight in comparison. 
 What does your noble think of deceiving and 
 betraying the honor of a poor peasant girl ? 
 Nothing, she is humble in the sight of the 
 world, a mere tool, a plaything for the proud 
 and rich : she has no redress, but thus broken 
 hearted and ruined, goes down to the grave, 
 which not even a rude stone will mark out in 
 commemoration." 
 
 " What care your castle-encircled noblemen 
 for the starving hamlets within sight of their 
 turret windows ? Nothing, they laugh and 
 jest as heartily as though there were no such 
 thing as hunger about them, washing down 
 their rich food by draughts of wine that would 
 feed and clothe a province. Lady, belong to 
 that humble class, though your father's cousin, 
 and for years have I robbed the rich to feed the 
 poor, and have humbled the purse-proud to ex 
 alt the lowly." 
 
 " Your father was absent yesterday, lady 
 Gustine, to the northern valley, for the purpose 
 of ejecting a poor tenant from his lease, and 
 drive him from his humble shelter, wife, chil 
 dren and all, because forsooth, his crops had 
 failed him, and he had not the means to pay 
 the stipend demanded. The poor man met 
 him though, with a purse that settled all," said 
 the robber, with a glow of satisfaction upon his 
 cheek ; " for I knew your father's business, 
 and defeated his object, and last night that 
 poor man's prayer was breathed for Karl Bla- 
 sius, the robber ! while thy father, lady, re 
 turned to his princely halls to find his daugh 
 ter stolen away, without the least trace of her, 
 or suspicion whence she had gone." 
 
 Lady Gustine covered her face with her 
 hands, and sobbed aloud. 
 
 " I see you are heeding me closely, lady," 
 said the robber, marking her exhibition of feel 
 ing; "but this is only one instance. I could 
 name you a hundred within an hour, Do you 
 wonder now why the rich are so hated by the 
 poor do you not see how high are the bar 
 riers that exist between the humble and the 
 proud?" 
 
 " And what does all this portend to me ?" 
 at length asked the lady Gustine. " Why do 
 you relate these things to me at this time ?
 
 90 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 How do they affect me, or the injury you have 
 done me ?" 
 
 " These matters I have recited, lady, to show 
 you the influences that have so tempted me, 
 and spurred me on to seek the revenge that I 
 have already named ; but when I look upon 
 thee, as now, I realize how feeble is the will, 
 how subtle the reason within us. I remem 
 ber no longer my vows and my long cherish 
 ed animosity ; they vanish like a dream, and 
 I can only realize how much, how truly I 
 love." 
 
 " Dost remember the story I told thee once 
 at thy father's castle of the fair and beautiful 
 Julia Blasius ?" 
 
 " I remember." 
 
 " Dost realize that I am that child which 
 she bore in her arms when she was spurned 
 from her father's gates?" 
 
 " Yes," said the lady, thoughtfully. 
 
 " Then, lady, can you wonder that I was in 
 cited to such revenge as that of humbling one 
 of thy proud estate ?" 
 
 The lady was silent. 
 
 " And yet," continued the robber, " so dear 
 ly have I learned to love thee, that all the re 
 venge that prompted me is gone. I am no 
 longer bound by its power, but am enchained 
 by quite as binding a force, the silken ties of 
 the heart. My whole purpose of life seems 
 changed. I see the things that surround me 
 with different eyes ; the light that guides me 
 takes the hue of thy divinity; the wood, the 
 glen, even these rude and boisterous spirits 
 that own my authority, all seem changed to 
 me. All my thoughts are of love." 
 
 " Love !" uttered the lady, with deep scorn 
 upon her lip. 
 
 " Ay, lady, love, deep, passionate, absorb 
 ing love. My revenge is gone, my anger is 
 no more. I look and I love, and only turn 
 away to dream and think of love." 
 
 " I scorn both you and the passion you so 
 unblushingly avow." 
 
 " It is not to be wondered at that you should 
 do so at first," he replied. 
 
 " At first !" 
 
 " Ay, until you shall have become famil 
 iar with the change that has come over your 
 fortune." 
 
 And will you really detain me here as a 
 piisoner against my will?" she asked, trem 
 
 bling once more with fear, and losing all the 
 pride that had so lately actuated her. 
 
 " Lady, I have ventured too much in my ef 
 fort to gain possession of the coveted prize, for 
 us to part now," said the robber, with empha 
 sis. 
 
 "Will heaven desert me in this fearful 
 place ?" sobbed the lady Gustine. " Alas, alas, 
 I am lost forever." 
 
 " Nay, Gustine, be calm," said the robber, 
 soothingly, " you need fear no harm here nor 
 enforcement stronger than gentle words ; if 
 these shall fail me to win thy willing hand, 
 then time must change thy purpose, and final 
 ly I think thou wilt go cheerfully with me be 
 fore the priest ay, in spite of that scornful 
 curl of thy beautiful lip, still I shall succeed. 
 I shall see that you are well attended, and want 
 for no comfort that my poor means can com 
 mand. By touching that silver gong that 
 hangs yonder from the walls, you can at all 
 times summon one of your own sex, whose 
 constant duty it will be to attend your pleas 
 ure. And now for the present, lady Gustine, 
 farewell." 
 
 " Stay." 
 
 Well, lady." 
 
 " Will you not free me, and send me back to 
 my father, that I may bless you ?" sobbed the 
 lady Gustine. 
 
 " Lady, I cannot." 
 
 "Be generous; O, set me free again," she 
 exclaimed, in agony of feeling. 
 
 The robber had spoken truly ; he did love 
 the lady, and as she addressed him thus he 
 seemed to waver in his purpose, her tears 
 seemed to move him greatly, and he looked up 
 on her with real anguish depicted in his face. 
 Gustine saw the transient advantage she had 
 gained, and said, approaching, and even kneel 
 ing at his feet : 
 
 " O, take a noble revenge, I pray you, and send 
 me home again." 
 
 " Lady, rise," said the robber, " implore me 
 not thus. I would go through any danger to 
 serve thee, but to part with thee now would 
 be impossible ; I could not bring my mind to 
 that. Still, fear not for thyself, love shall re 
 spect and protect" thee." 
 
 As he said this, the robber hastily withdrew 
 from the apartment, as though he feared for 
 his resolution if he stayed longer.
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE TAMBOURINE GIRL. 
 
 " A dancing shape an image gay 
 To haunt, to startle, to waylay." 
 
 THE lady Gustine remained as the robber 
 had left her, for a long period, musing upon 
 her situation. She reflected upon what he 
 had said, and by weighing each word, endeav 
 ored to judge of his plan and purpose towards 
 herself. She depicted in fearful and vivid col 
 ors her forlorn condition, and she wept bitterly 
 as she thought how terrible would be her fath 
 er's anguish when he found her gone. She 
 knew that no clue could be had as to what 
 had become of her, for she had mentioned her 
 destination to no one when she left the cas 
 tle, and she fully realized that there would be 
 no indicating or guiding circumstances which 
 might lead to her discovery. At one moment 
 she remembered that many must have seen 
 and recognized her as she rode out of the town 
 beside him who had been known as Robert 
 Stanley, but this would form no chain of guid 
 ance, for he who represented the English 
 stranger, was unsuspected of any connection 
 with the robbers, and his disappearance would 
 be looked upon probably as quite as singular 
 as her own, by those who had known him of 
 late. 
 
 In this mood, despair seemed to envelope 
 the very soul of the fair prisoner. 
 
 At last her eyes accidentally settled upon 
 the gong to which the robber had referred, and 
 hoping in some way to learn more of her true 
 situation, she touched it lightly, when a young 
 
 girl of some fifteen summers entered the 
 apartment by the means already described, and 
 asked her pleasure. The lady gazed at her 
 for a moment as if trying to recall her fea 
 tures, for she was sure she had seen them be 
 fore, and in spite of the anxiety of mind that 
 she experienced, she could not but admire the 
 rude, peculiar beauty of the girl's face and 
 form.. 
 
 " Come hither, my good girl, who are 
 you?" asked she. 
 
 " My name is Alanda," said the young girl, 
 curtseying modestly. 
 
 " I have seen you somewhere before, and 
 yet I cannot tell where it was." 
 
 " I remember," she answered, looking arch 
 ly at the lady Gustine. 
 
 " And where was it, pray ?" f 
 
 "In the market place of Bronts, where you 
 gave me a golden eighth." 
 
 " O, I remember; you are the dancing girl," 
 said the lady, recalling the scene before re 
 ferred to." 
 
 " You then were not stolen, away from your 
 home, but perhaps were born here." 
 
 " Stolen ? 0, no, lady, this is my home. 
 My father is lieutenant to the brave Karl Bla- 
 sius." 
 
 " And are you happy and contented to live 
 among robbers, my good girl ?"
 
 92 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 " Among robbers, lady ? Our people only 
 rob the rich, and surely that's no harm." 
 
 " Alas ! for the teaching that has fitted thee 
 for such belief," said the lady half to herself. 
 
 " Are you the lady they say our captain 
 loves so much ?" asked the girl, innocently. 
 
 " I do not know," replied the lady Gustine, 
 with a shudder. 
 
 " Why, the men say that his very nature 
 has changed since he knew you, and that he is 
 moody and thoughtful all the time now-a- 
 days ; he must love you very dearly I should 
 think, to make him alter so much," said the 
 girl innocently, as she looked with admiration 
 upon the lady's beauty. 
 
 " Who lives in this cave ?" asked the lady 
 Gustine, after a few moments' pause. 
 
 " We all live here the single men away 
 back in the rock, and the front part is divided 
 off for the officers and their families. This 
 is the best division, and the folks say it is a 
 great curiosity, and that is the only entrance," 
 said the girl, pointing to the little opening 
 where she had come in. 
 
 "Is there no one else confined here besides 
 myself ?" asked the lady. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "What became of an Englishman named 
 Stanley, who came here some time since ?' ' 
 
 " O, I forgot him ; he's here still," replied 
 the girl, correcting herself. 
 
 " Indeed ?" 
 
 " Yes ; do you know Mr. Stanley ?" asked 
 Alanda, with animation. 
 
 " No." 
 
 " How did you know he was here then ?" 
 asked the child, innocently enough. 
 
 " heard so." 
 
 " O, he's a fine gentleman," continued the 
 girl, " everybody likes him, and they say that 
 the captain is going to let him go again, as he 
 has done with some letters he had of his, and 
 will not now fear to have him at liberty once 
 more." 
 
 " When will Mr. Stanley go, my good 
 girl ?" asked the lady, eagerly. 
 
 " I don't know when ; but it will be in a 
 few days I think." 
 
 Gustine reflected shrewdly for some mo 
 ments upon the information she had thus 
 chanced to gain, and resolved to profit by it. 
 First she wished to obtain the confidence and 
 friendship of the girl, and then she hoped to 
 
 be able to communicate in some way with Mr. 
 Stanley before his departure, so as to let her 
 friends know where she was, if not to attempt 
 to make her escape by his assistance. Though 
 burning with impatience at the plan she had 
 juet conceived, yet the lady Gustine was suffi 
 ciently shrewd not to betray herself even to 
 the young girl who stood before her, but pro 
 ceeded with caution. 
 
 " Alanda, come hither to the light. Do you 
 think this is a pretty ring I" asked she, show 
 ing a chaste pearl, set about with a double cir 
 cle of tiny diamonds. 
 
 " O, beautiful, very beautiful," said the girl, 
 in delight, at the ornament. 
 
 " Well, take it and wear it for my sake. 
 I know that you will be kind to me." 
 
 " O, it is too pretty for me," said the girl, 
 hesitating. "I shouldn't dare to take it; it 
 must be very valuable too, for these are all di 
 amonds," she continued, as she counted the 
 little brilliants. 
 
 " You will wear it for my sake, I know, 
 wont you now, Alanda ?" 
 
 " If you really wish me to, I will," said the 
 young girl, delighted. 
 
 " I do there wear it, it fits very well," she 
 continued, putting it upon her finger. 
 
 " 0, how pretty." 
 
 " Can you read, Alanda ?" asked the lady 
 Gustine, carelessly. 
 
 " No, lady." 
 
 " That's a pity, and if I stay here long I 
 must try to teach you." 
 
 As the lady spoke, she took a small ivory 
 tablet from her pocket, and wrote something 
 hurriedly upon its leaves, while Alanda was 
 busy examining the beauty of her new pres 
 ent, and folding them once more together and 
 securing them by the spring attached, she toy 
 ed with the tablet covers, so small and finely 
 wrought, for some time, as though she were 
 really amused with the examination, and then 
 carelessly turning to the girl, she said : 
 
 " Where is the Englishman confined, Alan- 
 da, do you know, my good girl ?" 
 
 " O, yes, just on the opposite side to this. 
 It's only a few steps." 
 
 " Do you ever go into his apartment ?" 
 
 " O, yes, very often, I always carry him in 
 his dinner," she replied. 
 
 " Have you carried in his dinner to-day ?" 
 asked the lady, with assumed indifference.
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 93 
 
 " Not yet." 
 
 " When you go in, will you hand him this 
 from me, without letting any one see it, Alan- 
 da?" 
 
 "What for, my lady?" 
 
 " O, merely to please me ; but if you should 
 let any one know know it I should be offend 
 ed." 
 
 The girl paused for a moment in thought, 
 evidently considering whether there could be 
 any harm in doing so trifling an errand, and 
 influenced doubtless not a little by her pres 
 ent, she replied : 
 
 " Yes, i will give it to him, if it will please 
 you for me to do so." 
 
 " It will very much." 
 
 " Then 1 will do it." 
 
 " That's a good girl ; now you may go ; put 
 it in your bosom, and be sure that no one sees 
 it at all, save him." 
 
 " She said that she could not read, so un 
 less some one else gets the tablets, there will 
 be no danger of discovery," mused lady Gus- 
 tine to herself. " It cannot be that the girl ap 
 peared thus indifferent that she might deceive 
 me, she was too innocent for that. Mr. Stan 
 ley must be a gentleman, and thus appealed 
 to, I know he will exert himself to relieve me, 
 or else to inform my father of my unhappy sit 
 uation. Hope already beams in upon my de 
 spairing heart. All is not blank and dark." 
 
 Thus saying, she seemed to find fresh life 
 and spirits, and her fair face no longer appear 
 ed the picture of despair that it had so lately 
 presented ; it almost looked cheerful and con 
 tented now. And then she fell to considering 
 what sort of a person the real Mr. Stanley was, 
 whom she had just addressed, whether he was 
 handsome and accomplished ; so active is the 
 mind, under all circumstances. Then she 
 would content herself with the idea that he 
 must be a gentleman, else he would never' 
 have been the rightful possessor of those letters 
 that the robber had presented to her father. 
 
 Thus reasoning with herself, she approach 
 ed the spot at which the door opened in the 
 wall, but so nice was the workmanship, that 
 it was with no little difficulty that she was 
 enabled at last to discover it, and found as she 
 had already presumed, that it opened only 
 from the outer side, where the spring must be 
 inlaid : as it was evidently so constructed as 
 to lock itself on being closed. With nothing 
 
 now to occupy her mind, except indeed, the 
 gloomy thoughts that such a place might be 
 supposed most readily to give risp to, she wan 
 dered hither and thither, examining the cave 
 and its furniture with the most minute exact 
 ness. 
 
 There was a table on one side of the apart 
 ment, upon which was a book written in the 
 Latin language, and before it a rude crucifix, 
 as though some monk or devout person had 
 occupied the cell, and close beside the table 
 there hung upon the wall a representation, 
 finely painted, of the crucifixion of our Sa 
 viour, with some lines written beneath in He 
 brew. Still further on there lay upon a rude 
 couch made from hewn timber, the hood and 
 cowl of a friar, with his staff, gown and san 
 dals. This must be the room recently occu 
 pied by some monk, she thought, and as she 
 walked on, looking here and there, she came 
 upon the dress of a Jew ! A strange train of 
 thought came over her at once; she re 
 membered the person she had met on the high 
 way when riding with her father, and all was 
 now explained. It was no longer a mystery 
 why the eyes of the supposed Jew had raised 
 such a train of thoughts in her memory, now 
 that she knew who he was ! 
 
 In a little niche of the stone wall was an 
 ivory image of the virgin, and beside it lay 
 the buckle and belt of some person, ad a 
 small dagger within its scabbard, which Gus- 
 tine seized, and thrust into her bosom with 
 exultation. It would be in vain to attempt a 
 description of the thoughts that actuated her 
 brain as she seized that tiny, but fatal instru 
 ment ; a whole tragedy passed across her 
 mind in one instant of time, as she hailed 
 her new though silent friend with a fearful 
 smile of gratification. If all else fails me, 
 she thought, this shall be my last resort. 
 
 Still persevering in her search, the lady found 
 in a dark recess, some Latin and German 
 books, but mostly in manuscript, with a high 
 ly illuminated edition of the Bible ; all these 
 tokens went to convince her that the apart 
 ment had been the icsort of some monk, 
 either formerly or perhaps at the present 
 time. 
 
 Near the entrance of the cell, as she look 
 ed on with curious eye, she saw upon the 
 floor marks of blood ! Perhaps the vital tide 
 of some poor wretch confined here like herself,
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 and who in a struggle for liberty was doubt 
 less slain there at the entrance of the cave. 
 It was in dry clots, and in one spot it was 
 slippery, and Gustine knew that it must 
 therefore be fresh ! She shuddered and turn 
 ed pale at the thought, and wandered towards 
 the table upon which were the cross and em 
 blem, and prostrating herself before it, she 
 prayed long 'and fervently, for strength and 
 guidance in her unhappy situation, and more 
 than all, she prayed for comfort and conso 
 lation to her father, who even then was doubt 
 less weeping for her loss. Whatever might 
 be the faults of the lord of Ghertstein en 
 gendered more by his position, doubtless, than 
 from any real hardness of heart his child 
 loved him well and truly ; he had ever been 
 a kind and dear parent to her, and she cherish 
 ed and revered him. Her prayer for him at 
 this trying time was therefore unselfish and 
 devout. 
 
 She rose from her devotion, calmer and 
 more self-possessed, and again traversed the 
 cave, examining its peculiar ornaments and 
 furniture. She tried to read the illumed 
 pages of the Bible that she found lying 
 among the books, but its letters were more 
 like hieroglyphics to her eyes than like any 
 alphabetical characters that she had ever been 
 taught. It was one of those evidences of 
 patience and perseverance emanating from the 
 early priests who thus consumed "midnight oil" 
 in making copies of the holy book which their 
 religion taught them should be read only by 
 themselves, and not trusted to the indiscrim 
 inate masses. The lady gazed upon the fine 
 artistic piece of copying, and interested her 
 self for some time with its pages. 
 
 Then again in her nervous agitation, she 
 reviewed her present situation, recalled the 
 past few weeks of her life from the period 
 when she had first made the acquaintance of 
 him who had so cruelly betrayed her confi 
 dence, and now held her a prisoner. All this 
 was a vivid picture, but when she attempted 
 
 to fathom the future, then she trembled in 
 deed. Of course she knew the robber's pur 
 pose ; he had already avowed it to her that 
 she should become his bride ! 
 
 " The wife of Karl Blasius, the robber !" 
 
 As the lady Gustine repeated these words, 
 they seemed to excite her to such a degree 
 that it brought over her appearance a seeming 
 calmness, and could the robber have seen the 
 expression of her face as she quietly drew the 
 dagger she had found in the cave, from her 
 bosom and examine its point, he would have 
 been satisfied that he could never press that 
 form to his heart without seeing it in the next 
 instant a corpse ! 
 
 At last in her impatience she once more 
 touched the gong and summoned Alanda. 
 
 " Did you give the tablets to Mr. Stanley, 
 my good girl ?" she asked of her. 
 
 " No, my lady," she replied, " I have not 
 yet been into his apartment." 
 
 " Will you not go in there soon ?" asked 
 she, with impatience. 
 
 " As you sounded the gong, I was just going 
 there," said Alanda. 
 
 " Go there, go, quick as thou wilt, I do not 
 want thee any longer," said the lady Gus 
 tine, nervously. 
 
 " Yes, lady, you can ring again, if you want 
 me," replied the girl, pleasantly. 
 
 How impatiently did the lady Gustine 
 await the lapse of sufficient time for her once 
 more to summon the girl. She could scarce 
 ly endure the suspense that she so keenly 
 experienced, but walked her narrow cell with 
 a hurried and irregular step, ever and anon 
 pausing before the entrance, to listen for some 
 sounds without, that might indicate to her the 
 movements there ; and thus she continued to 
 do for some thirty minutes, when becoming 
 nervous beyond longer endurance, and most 
 anxious to kno,w the result of her message by 
 Alanda, she once more sounded the silver 
 gong.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 
 
 THE TWO PRISOJN ERS. 
 
 Morn once again ! Morn in the lone dim cell, 
 The cavern of the prisoner's fever dream, 
 And morn on all the green, rejoicing hills. 
 
 HEMANS. 
 
 THE reader must now go back with us to 
 the night when the two travellers made their 
 way through the depths of the forest, amid 
 those strange and mysterious noises, until 
 they finally arrived where we left them at the 
 bandit's cave. Ere this it has doubtless been 
 understood that the Englishman whom we 
 met at the little inn of Mornentz, and whom 
 the robber chief had cunningly led to his cave, 
 was Robert Stanley, whose letters KarlBlasius 
 had boldly improved, in order to enable him 
 to carry out his designs upon the noble and 
 unsuspecting family of Ghertstein, and during 
 which time, of course, the Englishman had 
 been closely confined at the cave, in order to 
 prevent the discovery of the trick the robber 
 was playing. The reader has already noticed 
 how the prisoner passed his time in listening 
 to the wild stories of the robber band. 
 
 Karl Blasius had now fully succeeded in 
 his evil design upon the gentle lady Gustine, 
 or at least as far as he could do by means of 
 the disguise he had so cunningly assumed, 
 and so well personated, and it now only re 
 mained for him to release his unjustly-retain 
 ed prisoner ; and yet the execution of this 
 design was not unattended with most serious 
 objections to his mind, and he weighed the 
 matter well before he made up his mind to 
 the object. Of course, he knew very well 
 
 that no power upon earth could prevent her 
 father from attacking his stronghold, if he 
 could but discover the right road to it, and be 
 lieved his child to be there ; therefore, though 
 he could easily conduct the Englishman out 
 of the forest by a route so complicated and ob 
 scure as utterly to confound all his ideas of 
 locality, yet the fact of his afterwards appear 
 ing with his story at Bronts, would betray all. 
 
 In this dilemma, the robber seemed to be 
 puzzled as to what he should do. He could 
 not make up his mind to take the English 
 man's life, as he had in no wise offended, but 
 on the contrary had ever made himself most 
 agreeable, companionable and contented, dur 
 ing the period that he was informed at the 
 outset he must remain at the forest cave. 
 Various schemes suggested themselves to the 
 robber's mind, but none appeared to satisfy 
 him. He knew that any promise elicited, 
 would not be considered binding, when the 
 prisoner was once free from the force that had 
 exacted it, and most certainly he could get no 
 voluntary one from the Englishman. Even 
 the sanctity of an oath was annulled, when it 
 was given under forcible eliciting. 
 
 As to the members of the band, they had 
 generally become much attached to the prison 
 er. The fact was, he was a bit of a philoso 
 pher, travelling for his pleasure, and he was
 
 96 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 not one to let any mawkish sense of delicacy 
 prevent him from making himself comfortable. 
 He was a student, too, of human nature, and 
 did not regret this opportunity of undestanding 
 the phases of life he met with among these 
 desperate men, provided he could do so with 
 out material injury to himself or others. 
 Upon voluntarily giving his word as a gentle 
 man that he would not attempt an escape, or 
 to leave the cave until he was permitted to do 
 so freely, he was allowed to go abroad in its 
 immediate vicinity to seek that exercise that 
 he found he so much needed. On such occa 
 sions, he not unfrequently joined in the sports 
 of the band, and created no little envy among 
 them by his feats of strength and remarkable 
 agility in manly exercise. 
 
 This was the state of affairs at the cave, 
 at the period when we would again introduce 
 the reader there, and when the lady Gustine 
 despatched the tablets secretly by the dancing 
 girl, Alanda, to the Englishman. As the 
 young girl entered the apartment of the latter 
 at the usual meal hour to serve it, as was her 
 custom, she placed the food before him, and 
 after a few moments' pause, she handed the 
 tablets as she had been requested by the lady. 
 Not a little surprised, the Englishman opened 
 the tiny leaves, and with much curiosity read 
 the following lines, traced in a hasty hand : 
 
 " SIR : 
 
 " I am, like yourself, a prisoner here. 
 I learn that your name is Stanley, doubtless 
 the gentleman whose letters of introduction to 
 my father's house, and that of many others of 
 Bronts, have been feloniously purloined, and 
 used by another, who has thus been enabled 
 to impose upon us all, and had so far gained 
 my confidence as to be enabled to ensnare me 
 hither and imprison me. The object of this 
 hasty scroll, is to beg that you will, if possi 
 ble, communicate with me. If this may not 
 be, as I learn that you are soon to leave here, 
 1 pray that you will inform my father where I 
 am. He is the lord of Ghertstein, and wift 
 bless you for the service. The bearer of this 
 tells me that she cannot read, and therefore 
 she will not understand this. I have told her 
 to 'give you this as a present from me. 
 think she may be trusted to return it. Write 
 whatever you think best, and send it back, 
 saying to her that it is of no use to you, and 
 
 that I had better keep it. Let my situation 
 be my apology for this. 
 
 " GUSTINE DE B." 
 
 Robert Stanley suppressed the wonder 
 that for a moment possessed him, and whist 
 ling a light air, afterwards partook of some of 
 the food that had been prepared for him, en 
 gaging Alanda in a lively and humorous vein 
 of conversation, and while he did so, stealing 
 an opportunity hastily to write some lines 
 upon the tablets and close them up again. 
 Before the girl left him, he said : 
 
 " Alanda, you may take this back again to 
 the lady, and tell her it is of no use to me ; she 
 had better keep it herself. Wont you, my 
 good girl ? And you needn't let any one 
 know about it, Alanda." 
 
 " 0, yes. I'll do anything for you, Mr. 
 Stanley, and just as you say." 
 
 " That's a good girl, and when I get to the 
 next town, I must send you a present." 
 
 " Did you ever see this lady ?" asked Alan- 
 da, placing the tablets in her bosom. 
 
 " No why ?" 
 
 " You never saw her ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " She's very beautiful." 
 
 " Do you think so ?" said the Englishman. 
 
 " I do indeed ; such hair and eyes, and 
 such a sweet little mouth, I never saw before. 
 She gave me this ring when I was in there 
 see how bright it is is it not beautiful, Mr. 
 Stanley ?" 
 
 " Very, very pretty, Alanda, but don't for 
 get to return her those tablets." 
 
 " O, I'll remember that," replied the girl, 
 still admiring the ring as she went, and evi 
 dently too much taken up with her present to 
 consider the errand that she so thoughtlessly 
 
 undertook. 
 
 i 
 
 At this moment, just as she left the Eng 
 lishman, she heard the gong that lady Gus 
 tine in her impatience had once more rung, 
 and without further delay, she hastened to 
 answer the summons. Perhaps it was fortu 
 nate that the lady Gustine happened to sound 
 the gong at this moment, as it prevent 
 ed Alanda from losing time to go in any 
 other direction with the tablets, which once 
 seen, even by accident, would bave exposed 
 her to a more rigorous and close confinement. 
 
 $ZF The fourth number of this work will ?>e published Saturday May 11.
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIIL [CONTINUED.] 
 
 " Well, did you deliver the tablets, Alanda, 
 as I requested you ?" asked the lady, impa 
 tiently, though she strove to suppress her feel 
 ings, and awaited until the girl had closed the 
 entrance once more behind her. 
 
 " Yes, lady," she replied, taking the article 
 referred to from her bosom. 
 
 " What did he say, Alanda?" 
 
 " He said it was of no use to him, and that 
 you had better keep it yourself." 
 
 " 0, he did," said lady Gustine, taking the 
 tablets, and eagerly reading as follows : 
 
 "LADY : 
 
 " Your singular position is known to 
 me; at this moment I cannot advise you of 
 what means it will be best to adopt for your 
 release, but I will find means to do so ere 
 long. Like yourself, 1 am still a prisoner, 
 though they have informed me that my re 
 lease will soon be granted. Be assured, lady, 
 that I will never desert you here, now that I 
 am aware of your situation, but will discover 
 some means for your escape before I leave the 
 cave myself. You seem to understand that I 
 was captured and my letters of introduction to 
 your father and others, were used by the rob 
 ber, for his own purposes. 
 
 " Be content, lady ; let no fear or forebod 
 ings depress you, and trust in me. 
 
 " ROBERT STANLEY." 
 
 " You may go, Alanda, I shall not want 
 anything at present," said lady Gustine, look 
 ing up from the tablets. 
 
 " I thought you just sounded the gong for 
 me, lady," she answered, a little surprised. 
 
 " Did I ? O, yes, so I did, but it is no mat 
 ter now 1 have changed my mind," she re 
 plied, gently signifying to the girl that she 
 might go, but in vain attempting to conceal 
 the satisfaction that the message from Mr. 
 Stanley gave her. 
 
 As soon as the entrance was closed, the 
 lady again referred to the message, and . read 
 it with the utmost interest ; every word was 
 carefully weighed and considered. 
 
 " How generously he writes," she said to 
 herself, thoughtfully ; " I know he must be a 
 noble and brave man, or he would not write 
 thus. He has never seen me, and yet he 
 pledges himself at once to release me." 
 
 " Be content, lady ; let no fear or forebod 
 ings depress you, and trust in me," she read 
 half aloud, once more. 
 
 "1 will trust in thee, generous man, let 
 what will come of it. There is something in 
 these few lines that gives me fresh hope, 
 fresh confidence, that I shall soon be restored 
 again to my father and my home." 
 
 A new spirit came over the fair lady Gus 
 tine. She was no longer sad and depressed, 
 but notwithstanding her singular position, she 
 seemed to be comparatively cheerful and con-
 
 100 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 tented. This Karl Blasius marked well, and 
 gave it such an interpretation as was best 
 suited to his own wishes, for he did not for a 
 moment suspect that there had been 1 any com 
 munication between his two prisoners. Though 
 the lady met him in his daily visits to her cell 
 with cool and undisguised displeasure, yet he 
 appeared to feel satisfied to think that she had 
 learned to suppress her grief and tearful 
 pleading to be sent back to her father. The 
 robber was little used to judging of the human 
 heart, as evinced in a woman's breast ; he 
 understood human nature as it worked in the 
 bosom of the sterner sex, and could read the 
 character of his men like the open leav.es of a 
 book; but he did not understand the lady Gus- 
 tine, when in his blind hope, he thought that 
 she was gradually becoming contented and 
 reconciled to fill the place that he destined 
 her for his wife. He thought that matters 
 had now assumed such a shape, that he might 
 venture to release the Englishman, with some 
 ordinary precaution as to putting his power of 
 again finding the cave at fault, by having him 
 conducted from the forest by a path that 
 should leave him in the river country, far be 
 low Bronts. 
 
 It was on one calm afternoon, some two 
 weeks subsequent to the date of the lady Gus- 
 tine's arrival at the cave, that the robber chief 
 entered the apartment occupied by Mr. Stan 
 ley, and by his manner at once showed that 
 he had come on an unusual errand. He was 
 greeted with the courtesy that the English 
 man always extended to him when they met ; 
 not that he could regard the robber with any 
 frimdly feelings, but because policy dictated 
 ihit it was the best course for him to pursue 
 while in his power. 
 
 " Well, Mr. Stanley," said the robber, 
 throwing himself carelessly into a vacant seat, 
 " I have come, after acting a jailor to you for 
 so long a time, to set you free at last, and to 
 bid you go in peace from my cave." 
 
 " That's cheerful news," said the English 
 man, " welcome news. When am I at liberty 
 to go?" 
 
 " From this hour," replied Karl Blasius, " I 
 claim no further control over your move 
 ments. The good friar Blemen will guide 
 you to the nearest town, where you will be 
 left in safety to pursue your own course." 
 
 As the robber spoke, he turned from the 
 
 room for a single moment, but soon returned 
 again, bringing the pack that belonged to his 
 prisoner, and laying it down by his side, he 
 said : 
 
 " I return you the contents of your pack, 
 all save the letters. Having improved them 
 for a purpose of my own, of course they are 
 no longer in my possession. Perhaps it will 
 be some satisfaction to you to know that it 
 was they alone that led me to bring you here, 
 and had you not mentioned that they were 
 in your pack on the afternoon that we left the 
 inn at Mornentz, we should have parted that 
 night." 
 
 The Englishman examined the pack for a 
 moment, and then remarked : 
 
 " There are still some articles missing, I 
 believe, captain ; rather important ones, too." 
 
 "What do you refer to?" asked the rob 
 ber. " If my people have dared " 
 
 " 0, there is no cause for crimination," re 
 plied the Englishman, half smiling at the oth 
 er's earnestness. " You see my pistols and 
 dirk have been forgotten they were in the 
 pack when you took charge of it." 
 
 "True," said the robber, quickly, "here 
 are my own, will you accept them?" 
 
 As he spoke, he drew from his belt a pair 
 of superb pistols, inlaid with gold and silver, 
 and also a broad Italian dagger, of most curi 
 ous workmanship. 
 
 " Thank you," said the Englishman, exam 
 ining them with evident interest. " It is some 
 time since I have grasped the like ; it gives 
 me assurance of freedom ! These are trusty 
 weapons, captain." 
 
 " They are indeed," said the robber, signifi 
 cantly, " for I have tried them in more than 
 one emergency." 
 
 "Are the pistols loaded with ball?" asked 
 the Englishman. 
 
 " Yes, I loaded them myself," replied the 
 robber, thrusting in the ramrod to show it. 
 
 "-Good," said the Englishman, putting the 
 weapons into his bosom. 
 
 After packing his few articles of necessity 
 within his wallet, Eobert Stanley went out 
 at the mouth of the cave with a sense of free 
 dom that thrilled through every vein, after the 
 long confinement that he had experienced. 
 It was in the after part of the day, and though, 
 as we have already said, he had been permit 
 ted before this to move about at certain times
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 101 
 
 for exercise without the cave, yet on seeing 
 the open plat at this moment, with a sense of 
 freedom exhilarating him, he wondered that 
 he had not before marked the wild and sylvan 
 beauty of the spot more minutely ; and even 
 the notes of the birds seemed to impart addi 
 tional melody. As he passed along on his 
 way from his own apartment to the mouth of 
 the cave, he marked well the secret door, 
 which he learned from Alanda led to the cell 
 occupied by the lady Gustine. He told the 
 robber chief that if he were to start at that 
 time, it would bring him to the town at a late 
 and inconvenient hour in the evening, and 
 that, with his permission, he would defer his 
 departure until the following morning. This 
 being agreed upon, it was understood gener 
 ally among the band that the Englishman had 
 already been liberated, and that on the follow 
 ing morning he was to leave the cave with 
 the priest, who was to act as his guide, to the 
 nearest market town to the south. 
 
 As night approached, Robert Stanley walk 
 ed in and out of the cave unchallenged by the 
 sentry on duty at its entrance, for orders had 
 been given by the captain to permit him to 
 pass at will. Engaging the attention of 
 Alanda, while thus strolling about, he improv 
 ed a moment when they were unobserved, to 
 inquire of the girl, though with feigned indif 
 ference, the manner in which to open the se 
 cret door that led to the lady Gustine's cell. 
 This the thoughtless girl told him at once, for 
 if she had any scruples as to doing it, she 
 reasoned that he was going to leave them 
 now, and it would do no harm ; besides which 
 she had not forgotten the promise which Mr. 
 Stanley had already renewed to her, of send 
 ing her a present from the next town when he 
 should get there. 
 
 Having gained the information that he de 
 sired, the Englishman adroitly changed the 
 conversation, and soon after, leaving Alanda, 
 retired as he told her, to his bed for the night, 
 though in reality to meditate upon the subject 
 of releasing the fair prisoner, now that he had 
 better surveyed the ground, and understood 
 by what means he might gain admittance to 
 her presence. 
 
 Since the night that the lady Gustine had 
 been brought to the robber's cave, the priest 
 had been quartered in the apartment occupied 
 by the Englishman, and on this account Rob 
 
 ert Stanley realized no little fear lest he 
 should be unable to operate so successfully as 
 he might otherwise have done, in behalf of 
 the lady Gustine. However, as the night ad 
 vanced, and it came at last to the usual hour 
 for them to retire to sleep, the Englishman 
 remembered a bottle of laudanum in his pack, 
 with which he had supplied himself to still a 
 raging tooth some weeks before, in a neighbor 
 ing city, and quietly taking this from its place, 
 he proposed to the priest, as this was to be his 
 last night at the cave, that they should pledge 
 each other in a cup of wine, probably the last 
 that they might ever take together, and to 
 which the companionable friar cheerfully as 
 sented. 
 
 He draped a portion of the powerful nar 
 cotic into the priest's glass, and filled it with 
 a sufficient quantity of wine to disguise any 
 flavor of the drug that might impart itself to 
 the liquor. Then filling another, they drank 
 to each other's future health and happiness, 
 after which the priest, feeling first the exhilar 
 ating effect of the wine warming his veins, as 
 well as the first stimulating effect of the sub 
 tle poison he had drank, proposed to the Eng 
 lishman to join him in a game of chess. 
 Robert Stanley hesitated at first, for this was 
 the priest's favorite game, and whenever in 
 terested, he would be hours in playing a sin 
 gle one. But he dared not refuse, and so 
 making a virtue of necessity, he sat down, 
 fearing that he had given too small a dose to 
 the priest to produce the narcotic effect he had 
 hoped to see follow the drinking of the wine, 
 by his companion. 
 
 But with his thoughts far away from the 
 game, the Englishman moved first ; the priest 
 quickly followed him ; move and move, again, 
 the priest yawned, studied the board for a 
 moment, yawned again, and moved on. But 
 his companion now took more time, as if to 
 study well the board before him, and at the 
 same time cautiously stealing a glance at his 
 partner, whom he discovered to be already 
 nodding unconsciously. - Suddenly he roused 
 himself, rubbed his eyes, and applied himself 
 for a moment to the game again ; but as he ex 
 tended his arm, half undecided as to a move, 
 it dropped heavily upon the board, and at the 
 same time his head sank gently upon his 
 breast, he sighed once or twice, and was 
 asleep.
 
 102 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 How soundly he slept under the influence 
 of the potent draught! Robert Stanley al 
 most feared that he had given him too much, 
 and that the dose might prove fatal, for he 
 could not arouse him to consciousness, even 
 sufficient to cause him to undress and retire. 
 At last finding this to be the case, he took 
 him in his arms and 'carried him to his bed, 
 where he laid him in a comfortable position. 
 He listened for a moment, with a nervous 
 trepidation of feeling to the short, still breath 
 ing that the medicine induced, but in a few 
 moments left the bed-side, and as it had now 
 come to be a quiet hour, he resolved to at 
 tempt to make an entrance into the lady Gus- 
 tine's apartment. 
 
 Looking at his watch, he found that it was 
 already midnight, and, save the half suppress 
 ed song and jest of a party of the band in a 
 distant part of the cave, and the occasional 
 movement of the sentinel, who held the watch 
 at the cavern's mouth, all was still and quiet. 
 Casting aside his shoes, the Englishman stole 
 out into the open division of the cave, and on 
 his hands and knees crept in the deep shadow 
 of an angle of the rocks as far as he could in the 
 direction that he wished to pursue, then rising 
 boldly, but silently, he quickly crossed the 
 spot that came under the eye of the sentinel, 
 when he looked inward upon the cave ; chance 
 favored him, he was unobserved, and sinking 
 once more upon his hands and knees, he crept 
 silently on to the spot where the door opened 
 into the lady's prison. For a moment he 
 paused to realize the awkwardness of his situ 
 ation, in making his first visit at such an 
 hour, but he knew very well that there was 
 no time to be lost, and hesitating no longer, 
 prepared to open the door and enter silently. 
 
 The secret entrance, so cut from within, but 
 quite visible from without, was shaded in such 
 a way that, being reached, he became partially 
 screened from observation, and finding himself 
 thus situated, he touched the spring, and the 
 door gave way to his hand while he silently 
 stepped within, taking care as he closed the 
 door after him, to place his glove cautiously 
 inside the spring, to prevent it from becoming 
 rpuite fast, and thus enable him to open it 
 without the key from within. The lady had 
 started to her feet on the instant that he had 
 opened the door, but as she saw him enter 
 and take the precautions we have named as it 
 
 regarded the secret spring, she seemed at 
 once to know whom he must be, and his ob 
 ject in visiting her at such a singular hour and 
 in this stealthy manner. 
 
 " Lady," he said, in a whisper, as soon as 
 he could turn from the door, "this is no time 
 for ceremony, and fortunately we already un 
 derstand each other. Permit me to remove 
 this lamp, so that its light will not strike 
 through the crack that I have left open in the 
 door ; it might catch the sentinel's eye, or that 
 of some person in the cave." 
 
 "O, sir, do you think there is any possibil 
 ity of my escaping from this place ?" 
 
 " If we are only discreet, I am sure it can 
 be done, and that too almost at once." 
 
 " Heaven bless you for saying so," replied 
 the lady Gustine, suppressing her tears. 
 
 " In the first place, then, I am to leave the 
 cave early on the coming morning." 
 
 " So soon !" 
 
 " Yes ; but you must leave also, lady, for 
 I shall not go without you." 
 
 " How can this be done ? I saw sentinels at 
 the door of the cave when I looked out yester 
 day." 
 
 " It will be necessary, of course, lady Gus 
 tine, that you should be disguised. The priest 
 who occupied this cell before you, was to be 
 my guide from the woods, to-morrow; you must 
 take his place, and personate his character. I 
 will presently bring you sufficient of his gar 
 ments to form a complete disguise for your per 
 son." 
 
 " The means to do that are here already," re 
 plied the lady, pointing to the garments which 
 have been referred to. It is queer that only a 
 few hours since I was looking at them with 
 some such idea vaguely flitting through my 
 brain." 
 
 " This is very good," said the Englishman, 
 carefully examining the garments. " Fortune 
 surely favors us ; here is a cowl, body gown, 
 sandals, staff, everything that is necessary for 
 our purpose." 
 
 " But will not the priest himself appear, to 
 confront and expose us ?" asked the lady. 
 
 " I have taken good care to prevent that," 
 replied the Englishman; "his wine to-night 
 was heavily drugged with laudanum, and he 
 will be sure to sleep until high noon to-mor 
 row. A pistol fired by his very ear would not 
 awake him."
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 103 
 
 " You have been very thoughtful." 
 
 " It rests with us to make our escape by the 
 exercise of the utmost caution and self-posses 
 sion." 
 
 " But do you know the path that leads out 
 of the forest ?" asked the lady Gustine. 
 
 " Not I, lady, and therein lies our safety in 
 a great degree, as we must find a way of our 
 own, in doing which, if your escape is discov 
 ered, and we are pursued, we shall be com 
 pletely hidden from the band, whereas they 
 might easily overtake and recapture us if we 
 were to take the beaten route that leads to the 
 highway ; we must seem to take it though, 
 but as soon as we are out of. sight from the 
 cave, we must dash boldly into the forest, thus 
 leaving them at fault as to the spot where they 
 may find us. The shady depths of the road 
 are our only hope for safety." 
 
 " I see you are very provident and careful. 
 0, I would suffer almost any hardship, if I 
 thought it was only taking me from here and 
 towards my home. I shall trust all to you, 
 Mr. Stanley." 
 
 " I am glad you feel thus, for there will be 
 much fatigue for you to endure, even under 
 the most favorable circumstances, and I fear 
 that gentle form of thine, lady, will be sadly 
 wearied by fatigue." 
 
 " Nay, Mr. Stanley," continued the lady, 
 cheerfully smiling upon him, " my spirits will 
 sustain me against much hardship, you may 
 rely ; besides, I am used to much exercise." 
 
 " On horseback, lady, doubtless," said her 
 companion, " but we must struggle on foot to 
 morrow. Take all the rest that you can to 
 night, so that you may be well refreshed in 
 the morning, for with the earliest light I shall 
 seek your door, when you may join me as the 
 
 priest, and we will walk boldly out as though 
 there were no secret or cause for fear of any 
 kind." 
 
 " Good night, kind sir, I understand your 
 plan fully," said the lady Gustine, offeringher 
 hand to him, which the Englishman pressed 
 respectfully, and then bowing low, he with 
 drew as silently as he had come. 
 
 The Englishman easily reached his own 
 apartment as he had come, unobserved, and 
 once more approaching the bedside of the 
 priest, he listened carefully to his breathing, 
 almost shuddering as he did so, to witness the 
 strong resemblance that there was presented 
 in his present, state, to death itself. The dose 
 that Robert Stanley had administered in the 
 wine was a potent one, perhaps fully as much 
 as could have been given to a healthy person 
 with safety. So completely was the priest un 
 der its influence now, that it had almost still 
 ed the action of the lungs altogether, and the 
 Englishman twice placed the flame of his 
 lamp to the sleeper's very lips, in order to make 
 sure that, he breathed at all. Satisfied of this, 
 and also feeling carefully of the priest's pulse, 
 he prepared himself for a few moments' sleep. 
 
 But it was long before Robert Stanley could 
 close his eyes in forgetfulness. The lady Gus 
 tine was constantly before him like a vision. 
 He thought her extremely lovely, but that was 
 not all. The romantic situation in which 
 he found himself placed relating to her, was 
 enough in itself to rouse a flood of interest in 
 his breast, realizing as he did that she was 
 solely dependent upon him for assistance in re 
 gaining her liberty. Musing upon these 
 things in a half wakeful state he at last fell 
 asleep, to dream them all over with increased 
 vividness again and again until the morning.
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE STRUGGLE IN THE FOREST. 
 
 Dead, for a. ducat, dead ! 
 
 HAMLET. 
 
 WITH the first light of the morning the En 
 glishman was stirring and arranging his 
 dress for a long and tedious flight. He filled 
 his canteen with wine from the bottle that had 
 been broached on the previous evening, thrust 
 ing also the remnants of his last night's sup 
 per within his wallet, and carefully depositing 
 his weapon in the most convenient manner 
 about his person, he once more stole gently to 
 the bedside of the sleeping friar. His breath 
 was still short and faint, but the Englishman 
 after feeling his pulse, was satisfied that his 
 system would, ere the expiration of many 
 hours, throw off the effects of the powerful 
 drug. Confident of this, Robert Stanley left 
 him with a light heart. Again exercising the 
 utmost caution, he reached the cell in which 
 the lady Gustine was confined, and found her, 
 like himself, fully equipped and prepared to 
 make a bold effort to regain her liberty. 
 
 " Are you quite ready, lady Gustine ?" whis 
 pered the Englishman, as he entered. 
 
 " O, yes, this hour past ; pray let us start 
 at once ; this suspense is too trying." 
 
 " The sooner the better for our purpose, la 
 dy," replied her companion. 
 
 " Stay," said the lady, " I had nearly forgot 
 
 ten one thing." As she spoke she returned to 
 her couch of skins, and taking from thence 
 the dagger that she had found in the cell, 
 placed it beneath her inner girdle and said, " I 
 am ready now." 
 
 " Come then, lady, and remember that you 
 are Blemen, the priest, and be cautious." 
 
 They stepped out into the open cave togeth 
 er, the lady Gustine fully equipped as the 
 priest, and the Englishman talking to her as 
 such, while the two walked quietly past the 
 drowsy sentinel. The guard had learned, in 
 common with the rest of the band, that the 
 friar and the Englishman were to leave in the 
 morning together, and therefore he asked no 
 question of them as they passed by, but sunk 
 his head again upon his carbine, and dozed 
 thoughtlessly on ! 
 
 To Gustine, Mr. Stanley seemed to walk 
 needlessly slow, as they moved across the open 
 space or plat of ground, and turned their steps 
 towards the main path to the high road. The 
 time occupied by them in passing from the 
 cave to the path where it turned through 
 the wood, seemed to her to be an age, and in 
 her impatience, she passed some steps in ad- 
 v.ince of her companion. But it was not long
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 105 
 
 before she realized the policy that dictated 
 this, for as soon as a slight curve in the path 
 shut them out of sight from the cave's mouth, 
 the Englishman drew her arm nervously with 
 in his own, and after turning to one side, and 
 gazing about him for a moment as if to fix the 
 direction in his mind, he plunged at once in 
 to the depth of the forest, with a spirit and 
 rigor that soon put his companion's impatience 
 at rest, and satisfied her of his earnestness'. 
 Lady Gustine showed far more physical 
 strength than he had anticipated ; indeed she 
 had been brought up to much out-door exer 
 cise and her bodily strength was proportion- 
 ably improved. On they pressed, Robert Stan 
 ley going before, and the lady following close 
 upon his footsteps along the passage that he 
 was oftentimes obliged to make by the exer 
 cise of main strength, to force open the thick 
 and stout undergrowth that often beset the 
 
 path. 
 
 They might have travelled thus for an hour 
 or so most diligently, scarcely exchanging a 
 word with each other, so earnest were they, 
 when suddenly the Englishman stopped in a 
 listening attitude for a moment, but seemingly 
 convinced that his imagination had deceived 
 him ; he intimated as much to his companion, 
 and was just preparing to move on again, when 
 he paused a second time. 
 
 " Hark !" said he, with his hands to his 
 ears so as to catch the sound from the light 
 breeze, " that was a bugle note, and one to 
 sound an alarm too ! Lady, our escape is al 
 ready discovered, but we have a fair start of 
 them nevertheless, and need hardly fear being 
 overtaken. There is the bugle note again ; 
 how clear and distinct it sounds, and how mer 
 rily it rings out upon this morning air !" 
 
 " Alas ! they will be sure to overtake us 
 don't you think so, Mr. Stanley ?" 
 
 "Not I, lady; it would puzzle a blood 
 hound to follow the track we have made 
 through the woods." 
 
 " But these people know the woods well," 
 replied the lady, anxiously. 
 
 " Its beaten paths, lady, doubtless they do ; 
 but we have left those far behind." 
 
 Their surmise was correct ; the escape of 
 the lady Gustine was indeed discovered, and 
 gradually the sounds of pursuit drew nearer 
 and nearer to them, until in a couple of hours 
 the wood all about them resounded with the 
 
 signals that Robert Stanley had learned partial 
 ly to understand. He recognized those unearth 
 ly sounds and cries that had besieged his lone 
 way on the night that the robber had led him 
 through the forest to his cave. Now and then 
 improving an opportunity afforded by some 
 opening in the trees, the Englishman would 
 pause for a moment to get the bearing of the 
 sun, and thus assured, he pressed in the 
 same course that he had calculated when he 
 first left the main path would at least bring 
 him out upon the river and near to the city of 
 Bronts itself. 
 
 And now Robert Stanley found that his ut 
 most eloquence and judgment had become 
 necessary in order to encourage and sustain 
 his already nearly exhausted companion, for 
 within the last half hour the robbers' signal 
 had grown nearer and nearer to them ; their 
 pursuers seemed to realize the route that 
 the fugitives would naturally take, at least so 
 far as it regarded direction ; but the trouble 
 was, to find them even when this was under 
 stood, so dense were the woods, and so un 
 beaten the path. Suddenly they were start 
 led by an echo so nearly in the very way be 
 fore them, that the Englishman laid his hand 
 upon the lady Gustine's arm and drew her 
 quickly back, while both now crouched as low 
 as possible in a friendly thicket, more dense 
 and impenetrable than those about it. 
 
 " That signal was very near us," whispered 
 the lady, with a blanched cheek. 
 
 " It was, but do not fear; the man is alone, 
 and I am his match if necessary." 
 
 " Hark !" said the lady, still trembling as 
 she heard the approach of some one. 
 
 " They have followed out the path to the 
 highway on their horses, and finding that we 
 are not there, they suspect the game we have 
 really played them, and now they are beating 
 the woods in the direction of Bronts,'' said the 
 Englishman. 
 
 " Heaven protect us," said the lady Gus 
 tine, at this moment, in a whisper, as they ob 
 served the sentinel whom they had passed 
 early that morning at the cave, now passing 
 along among the bushes and the underwood 
 close by their very sides. What a fearful 
 moment was that, and how the heart of either 
 throbbed within their breasts at this critical 
 moment. 
 
 Stanley instinctively drew a pistol from his
 
 106 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 belt, but upon second thought he checked 
 himself, for though he might with the utmost 
 ease have selected his aim and put a ball 
 through the robber's heart, the report of the 
 pistol would serve as a signal for the entire 
 pursuing party, who would thus be led at once 
 upon them. Thus reasoning, the English 
 man returned the weapon to its place, but kept 
 his eye cautiously bent upon the person of 
 their pursuer, who still carried on his search 
 most industriously. 
 
 The lady Gustine made a slight involunta 
 ry movement, when a dry twig broke beneath 
 her feet. Nothing could have been done 
 more unfortunate at that time; they were be 
 trayed, and the robber's eyes were upon them 
 both in an instant ! 
 
 There was no time for parley now ; one 
 single moment of delay might prove fatal ; 
 not a second of time must be lost. Already 
 was the robber's signal to his lips, while he 
 drew a pistol with his other hand. If that sig 
 nal was given all was lost. It was a matter of 
 life and death with the Englishman and his 
 fair companion, and, like a panther leaping 
 upon his prey, with one bound Stanley was at 
 the robber's side, one hand clasping his throat 
 with the grasp of a Hercules, and with the 
 other he planted his dagger deep within his 
 enemy's heart. It was a blow so keen and 
 fatal that the wounded man fell without a 
 struggle, and uttering one deep sigh and groan, 
 he was dead ! even while the fierce grip of the 
 Englishman was still upon his throat ! 
 
 Robert Stanley unloosed his grasp and 
 gazed, with a heaving breast, upon the deed 
 he had done. He had known the man for 
 some weeks past as a boon companion, and 
 had listened to his stories, had drunk wine 
 with him at the cave, and interchanged a jo 
 vial song now and then, little thinking at the 
 time that their rude acquaintance would close 
 thus in a deadly struggle. " It could not be 
 helped," said he to himself," our own safety 
 and perhaps my life depended upon the deed. 
 God forgive me," continued he, as he composed 
 the limbs of the body and drew it one side into 
 the leaves and thick bushes, before he should 
 leave it there alone to feed the wolves that 
 infest the forest. 
 
 " Is he dead ?" asked the lady, uncovering 
 her hands from her face, as the Englishman 
 returned to her side once more. 
 
 " He is," replied her companion, with a 
 compressed lip, for it was no congenial busi 
 ness that he had performed. 
 
 " O, this is very fearful," sighed lady Gus 
 tine " what will be the end of it all ?" 
 
 " We must press on, lady Gustine, and 
 hope for the best. Do you feel able to make 
 the effort ?" said the Englishman, as he gath 
 ered a handful of dry leaves and wiped the 
 tell-tale blood from his dagger. 
 
 " I will try, Mr. Stanley, and do the best 
 that I can, but I am very, very sick." 
 
 After returning once more to the body of 
 the man he had slain, and having fully satis 
 fied himself that all life was extinct in his 
 veins, he raised the trembling and nearly 
 fainting Gustine to her feet, and led her on 
 again towards the east, feeling confident that 
 every step they passed brought them still near 
 er to Bronts. But it was a long journey yet 
 for such weary limbs to perform. 
 
 The signals of the pursuing party had 
 grown gradually fainter and less frequent as 
 the two advanced, until at last it became evi 
 dent to them that they were not sought in the 
 direction which they were pursuing ; this was 
 very satisfactory, but they needed every pos 
 sible encouragement, for lady Gustine had 
 now become so fatigued that she could ad 
 vance but with the utmost difficulty, and by 
 being almost entirely supported by her com 
 panion, who still cheered her on with a prom 
 ise that they would soon reach Bronts. 
 
 The noon was already past, and the night 
 was coming on apace, when the Englishman 
 became convinced that lady Gustine could go 
 no further until she had been revived by sleep. 
 He dreaded fof her sake to pass the night in 
 the forest, where under the most propitious cir 
 cumstances she would suffer great exposure, 
 but he saw that this would doubtless be neces 
 sary, and he therefore prepared her mind for 
 the purpose. Far too much exhausted to ar 
 gue against the plan of bivouacking among 
 the trees, even had she felt any disinclination 
 to do so, the lady quietly acquiesced in his 
 suggestions and efforts for her comfort. 
 
 It required but a short time for him to col 
 lect a bed of dried leaves and mosses, and 
 upon these he gently laid the exhausted per 
 son of his companion, at the same time pre 
 vailing upon her to partake, though sparingly,
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 107 
 
 of the remnants of the provisions that remain 
 ed in his pack, and also to drink a little wine. 
 The latter was of a choice kind and had the 
 effect to revive and strengthen her not a little. 
 Driving four upright stakes into the ground, 
 the Englishman formed a rude cabin, covered 
 over with boughs and twigs, and building the 
 like substances against the sides, leaving only 
 the front open, he formed a close shelter that 
 would shut out the dew and the gusts of the 
 cool night air. Having completed this se 
 cure though temporary shelter, he prevailed 
 upon the lady to take another draught of wine 
 as the night gradually clothed the wood in dark- 
 ness/and seating himself at the entrance of 
 the little rude cabin he had formed for her pro 
 tection, he bade her sleep in peace, for that no 
 harm would now come to her in any shape. 
 
 Not even her fear and anxiety could keep 
 the lady Gustine awake. The lassitude and 
 over fatigue of her frame overcame all else, 
 and she dropped to sleep as soundly, ay, 
 more so perhaps, than she had ever done be 
 fore. 
 
 Fearing the approach of wolves, which 
 might have tracked them to the spot, the En 
 glishman prepared his weapons ready to his 
 hands, and resolved to keep awake to protect 
 his fair charge from any danger that might oc 
 cur, and he did so for hours, listening to her 
 deep, regular breathing, and watching by the 
 dim light of the stars the strange, wild figures 
 that the branches of the trees formed them 
 selves into, as seen against the blue sky above. 
 Thus he mused alone by himself, until at last 
 his eyes blurred with fatigue, and he closed 
 them now and then for a moment, justto ease 
 them, and every time he did so it became hard 
 er and harder for him to open them again, un 
 til finally he forgot to make the effort, and his 
 head rested against the stakes he had raised, 
 and he slept. 
 
 Was he dreaming or what made him start 
 
 so ? 
 
 " Hark ! is that the angry howl 
 
 Of the wolf, the hills among? 
 Or the hooting of the owl, 
 
 On his leafy cradle swung !" 
 
 It was past midnight, some rustling noise and 
 a low growl sounded clear to his ears. Though 
 half asleep he grasped a pistol and cocking it, 
 peered through the darkness. Before him, 
 within ten feet of his person, he discovered a 
 
 pair of fiery eye-balls glaring upon him. 
 Waking so from a sound sleep, he hardly 
 knew at first what to think, and it was almost 
 a minute before he could recall the circum 
 stances of his present situation. But there 
 still glared those eye-balls upon him, and he 
 almost fancied that he felt the hot breath of 
 the creature upon his face a few moments 
 sufficed to convince him that it was a huge 
 wolf. Should he fire at it ? Were there not 
 more of them, and if so, the killing of one 
 might bring the whole pack upon him. He 
 knew not what to do, but soon the stealthy 
 creature crept nearer, the inclination was ir 
 resistible. He aimed between those glaring 
 eye-balls and awaiting until the wolf had les 
 sened the first named distance one half, he 
 fired ; a hoarse growl followed, and the crea 
 ture rolled over lifeless among the dead twigs 
 and dried leaves of the forest. A few mo 
 ments' pause showed the Englishman that the 
 wolf was alone, a stray animal from the pack 
 now most likely feeding upon the robber's 
 body which they had left behind. 
 
 The excitement caused by this encounter, 
 and the reloading of his pistol, served to 
 thoroughly awake him, though the report did 
 not produce a like effect upon the lady, who 
 was too much overcome by fatigue to wake 
 lightly. Once more he took his station before 
 the entrance to the rude cabin, resolved this 
 time to keep awake ; but nature again assert 
 ed her power, and the tired fugitive slept. 
 
 What a sweet blessing is sleep ! How si 
 lently and yet how surely it produces its ef 
 fect, refreshing the body and the mind! How 
 substantially it invigorates the system, renew 
 ing the faculties for fresh exertion and achieve 
 ment ; how necessary and acceptable a dispen 
 sation of Providence is this refreshing insen 
 sibility. The sun was high in the heavens on 
 the following morning, when Robert Stanley 
 awoke. Already had his fair charge been 
 some time stirring, and having arranged her 
 dress and bathed her hands and face in a clear 
 rivulet that threaded the forest hard by, she 
 had come and sat down near to his side to 
 await the moment of his waking. She would 
 not disturb him, for she knew that he must 
 have watched over her safety for the better 
 part of the night how faithfully, the dead 
 carcass of the wolf told most vividly. 
 
 " Why, lady Gustine, are you already up
 
 108 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 and waiting for me ?" he asked, starting up 
 and rubbing his eyes in surprise, to think he 
 had slept so long. " I am but a sorry sentinel, 
 for in spite of all my resolves, I dropped away 
 at last ; but really I am much refreshed by my 
 slumber." 
 
 "Indeed, you must have sorely needed 
 sleep, for your task has been a doubly tedious 
 one, and I rejoice that you have had even a 
 partial opportunity to resuscitate your strength. 
 But I see," she continued, pointing to the 
 body of the wolf, " that you were not unem 
 ployed even while I was sleeping, Mr. Stan 
 ley." 
 
 " It was only a cowardly wolf that had 
 followed our track. A single shot sufficed to 
 lay him there as you see." 
 
 " A most fortunate shot, too, Mr. Stanley, 
 for they are considered very dangerous in 
 these woods at night." 
 
 " But how fare you, lady, after your ex 
 treme fatigue and last night's exposure ?" 
 
 " Much better than I could believe. I feel 
 this morning as though I could walk a 
 league." 
 
 " Heaven be praised, for unless we can get 
 to the river ere long, we may starve in the 
 forest. Half the distance you name, I should 
 think, would bring us to Bronts," replied her 
 companion. 
 
 They shared the last biscuit together, and 
 the small bit of dried meat that was left in 
 the wallet. It had been carefully saved from 
 the little left for the supper on the previous 
 evening, and the lady, spite of her fatigue 
 and the anxiety that still beset her mind, 
 thought she had never tasted a sweeter mor 
 sel in her life. Hunger is a rich sauce. 
 Having thus slightly satiated their appetites, 
 they once more renewed their steps towards 
 the east. The Englishman had judged well, 
 for although they moved very slowly, partly 
 from the uncertainty of the path, and partly 
 from the soreness and lameness that half be 
 numbed their limbs, yet before noon, they 
 began to discover evidences that showed them 
 they were near the river and the habitations of 
 the peasantry. Though lady Gustine's feet 
 were sadly swollen, and her limbs almost too 
 weak to support her, yet the cheering prospect 
 of once more reaching her home in safety, 
 bore her up, and she seemed to lean even less 
 heavily as they advanced, on the arm that 
 
 had aided her so constantly, and to heed her 
 pains not at all. 
 
 " Stop here for a moment," said her com 
 panion, ascending a little rise of ground on 
 the side of their path. 
 
 " What see you ?" she asked, anxiously ; 
 " aught that betokens hope to us ?" 
 
 " I think so, lady ; we must be near the 
 town, or else my eyes deceive me." 
 
 " God grant it/' said lady Gustine, faintly, 
 as her companion helped her to ascend the 
 little hillock. 
 
 "Good cheer, lady," said Robert Stanley, 
 again. " I see yonder the turrets of a castle 
 upon the cliff." 
 
 " Thank heaven, thank heaven," she replied, 
 " it is the castle of Ghertstein." 
 
 " Lady, rouse thee," said her companion, 
 striving to recall her fainting consciousness. 
 
 But her powers of endurance, her resolu 
 tion and spirits had been tried to the utmost 
 tension, and now within sight of her very 
 home they relaxed, and the lady Gustine 
 fainted in the arms of her companion. We 
 have already described the Englishman as be 
 ing very strong, and now incited by their near 
 approach to assistance and safety, he lifted 
 her in his arms and bore her forward for a con 
 siderable distance, until he arrived at a hum 
 ble cottage near the river's bank, where he re 
 signed his charge to the care of a couple of 
 her own sex, and sank for a moment, himself 
 almost exhausted upon a seat. 
 
 " Holy Mother !" exclaimed one of the 
 peasants, in wonder, " it is our lady Gustine, 
 who has been lost, and for whom the lord, her 
 father, has mourned so , bitterly. O, sir, 
 whence comes she in this sad condition ?'' 
 
 " No matter about that now," replied the 
 Englishman, "give heed to her present state. 
 Bring water and loosen her dress." 
 
 " That we will, and at once," replied the 
 willing, but simple people of the cottage. 
 
 The ordinary restoratives soon restored the 
 consciousness of the lady Gustine, and some 
 warm and simple nutriment revived her nearly 
 exhausted physical powers, while a message 
 which was at once despatched to the castle, 
 brought almost immediately her father to her 
 side, to embrace and weep over the child he had 
 feared was lost to him forever. A word suf 
 ficed to explain all that was requisite on the 
 moment, and within the hour the lady was
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 109 
 
 conveyed upon a litter to the repose and com 
 fort of her own chamber in the castle, the 
 father insisting upon the presence of her 
 deliverer. 
 
 Lady Gustine had suffered so severely both 
 in body and in mind, that her powers were 
 completely prostrate, and it was only by the 
 kindest and most judicious nursing that a rag 
 ing fever was averted, as the result of her 
 exposure and suffering. 
 
 Robert Stanley had no difficulty in establish 
 ing himself and his identity, though he had 
 been, as we have seen, so cunningly forestall 
 ed by the robber chief. The lord of Ghert- 
 stein would permit him to make no place but 
 the castle his home, and seemed to exhaust 
 invention that he might do him honor, and 
 render him contented and comfortable, in part 
 payment for the invaluable service he had 
 rendered to his child. The sharing of such 
 strange and wild vicissitudes together had 
 done more to unite the feelings of Gustine 
 and Robert Stanley, than months of ordinary 
 intercourse could possibly have done. Within 
 his own heart the Englishman realized that 
 he loved the lady devotedly, and his stay at 
 the castle was therefore a most agreeable 
 pleasure to him. 
 
 There is no condition in which a beautiful 
 woman looks more interesting than when she 
 is recovering from sickness, and she appears 
 with a pale cheek and languid air for the first 
 time since her indisposition, in the drawing 
 room. The tender solicitude that is naturally 
 indulged in by the heart and tongue, heightens 
 the interest, and the loved one is doubly dear 
 to all. It was at such a time as this that 
 Robert Stanley met the lady Gustine on the 
 day that she first came from the close confine 
 ment of her chamber, and as her pale cheek 
 flushed at the meeting, she gave him her 
 hand, which he pressed respectfully, but ten 
 derly to his lips, reading as he did so, the kind 
 est and gentlest thoughts beaming from those 
 fair blue eyes upon him. Words were but 
 feeble to express their feelings at such a mo 
 ment, and leading her to a broad lounge, the 
 Englishman sat by her side, with one of her 
 hands held in his -own, but saying scarcely a 
 word the while. His heart was dumb with 
 eloquence. 
 
 Leaving the lady Gustine and Robert Stan 
 ley, as they probably would themselves wish 
 
 us to do so, alone, we will go back with the 
 reader for a single moment, to the strong hold 
 of the banditti in the depth of the forest. 
 
 The two fugitives had been absent from the 
 cave but little more than an hour, when the 
 watchful eye of Karl Blasius, whose custom 
 it was to rise early and examine into all mat 
 ters carefully for himself, discovered the con 
 dition of the priest. A suspicion of the truth 
 at once flashed across his mind, and hastening 
 to the cell where the lady Gustine had been 
 confined, his worst fears were realized,. for the 
 bird had flown, and its cage was empty. Rush 
 ing in no pleasant mood to the sentinel, who 
 still kept watch at the entrance of the care, 
 and striving to repress his excitement, the en 
 raged robber asked sternly : 
 
 " Who has passed you out of the cave this 
 morning. Do you know?" 
 
 "Yes, captain." 
 
 "Well, who?" 
 
 " The priest and the Englishman," replied 
 the sentinel, in amazement. 
 
 " Fool," said the robber, in a whirlwind of 
 passion. " It was the lady prisoner who went 
 out in the priest's dress. Have you no eyes, 
 no caution, that prisoners can pass' you un 
 challenged, and at such an hour?" 
 
 " We were told, captain, that the English 
 man and the priest would have been together 
 this morning, and we had orders yesterday to 
 pass him unchallenged, and it was so early 
 that" 
 
 " Enough, enough, the evil has occurred, 
 discussion will now do no good ; but we must 
 see how far we can retrieve the mischief your 
 carelessness has brought upon us. How long 
 since they passed you ?" 
 
 " An hour, perhaps." 
 
 " An hour, it is a good start," said the rob 
 ber, musing for a moment on the chances in 
 his favor. " Throw up your post, and get to 
 saddle at once ; the road to the highway must 
 first be followed." 
 
 The robber put his bugle to his lips, and 
 blew a blast in the cave that made every soul 
 in it start to their feet. They were too well 
 accustomed to be called upon suddenly, not to 
 understand how to complete a hasty toilet, 
 and in five minutes after that bugle note had 
 sounded, forty men armed to the teeth, were 
 scouring the paths and defiles of the forest in 
 pursuit of the fugitives. *
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE LORD OF GHERTSTEIN'S STORY. 
 
 " Is it e'en so? Why then, 
 Live on thou hast the arrow at thy heart ! 
 Fix not on me thy sad reproachful eyes, 
 I mean not to betray thee. Thou mayst live ! 
 
 Didst thou ask 
 
 If Raymond, too, must die? It is as sure 
 As that his blood is on thy head." 
 
 IN the meantime, Robert Stanley became daily 
 more domesticated at Ghertstein's castle, pass 
 ing the fire-side hours with Gustine and her 
 father, while the latter seemed never tired of 
 relating the many legends and stories that he 
 remembered of the Rhine Valley. One soft, 
 moonlight night, when the three were gath 
 ered at the ample portico that overlooked the 
 river and the valley for miles, the lord of 
 Ghertstein replied to their soliciting for one of 
 his Rhine legends, that he would relate one 
 that was told him by his old tutor, the astrolo 
 ger Zimbach, of Hardheim castle, and assum 
 ing an easy position, he related it as nearly 
 as possible in the tutor's own words : 
 
 " The day was warm and murky the at 
 mosphere dense and almost suffocating in its 
 breezeless stillness the sun had hidden his 
 face, and thick, lowering clouds, rolled heavily 
 along the horizon, evidently betokening a 
 coming storm. The birds flew uneasily from 
 tree to tree, and a wild, mysterious air seem 
 ed to pervade all things, for it is of the Hartz 
 forest that I am telling you. 
 
 " Wolfgang Herkmer, a young German 
 student, having left the university, was travel 
 ling towards his home to see his aged parents 
 and his darling little sister, the pretty Mi- 
 grette ; but as he observed these tempestuous 
 signs, he cast his eyes anxiously upwards, and 
 
 hastened his pace, in hopes before nightfall 
 to leave the dark gloomy forest behind him. 
 For he was no stranger to the wild and fright 
 ful tales of these localities, and many ar 
 guments had been made by his friends at his 
 starting, to dissuade him from venturing upon 
 this route alone. But Wolfgang was of a 
 brave and adventurous spirit. This was his 
 nearest route, and he had nothing to tempt 
 the cupidity of the outlaws, but the little pack 
 which he carried, containing his slender ward 
 robe and a few groschen. 
 
 " He had travelled thus far, perhaps nearly 
 two thirds of the way, through the forest un 
 molested, and had nearly dismissed from his 
 mind all thoughts of danger, when he heard 
 the growling of what appeared to him to be 
 wolves, and that, too, very near to him. 
 Wolfgang looked in all directions, but he could 
 discover nothing, while the stillness that fol 
 lowed and pervaded the forest, seemed most 
 ominous. The clouds now grew more and 
 more threatening, and seemed ready instant 
 ly to drop their burthen upon the thirsting 
 earth. The young student was, like most 
 German students of those days, strongly 
 tinctured with superstition, and he now hur 
 ried on, muttering to himself: 
 
 " ' Well, well, it is evident that I have noth 
 ing to fear from brigands and highwaymen.
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 Ill 
 
 The fairies are holding their revels doubtless, 
 and are angry that their precincts should be 
 thus invaded by mortal footsteps. The fairies 
 are very beautiful, very pretty little sprites, 
 and surely I need not fear them.' 
 
 " At this moment, he was startled by the low, 
 hoarse growl of a wolf, and before he could 
 turn round, he felt his arms pinioned close to 
 his body by the huge paws of one, while an 
 other tightly embraced his legs. He was then 
 lifted up, supernaturally it seemed to him, for 
 it was now grown suddenly so dark that he 
 could distinguish nothing, but still he felt the 
 pressure upon his arms and limbs. At this 
 moment too he was conscious of inhaling a 
 sweet, but very powerful perfume, while a de 
 lightful sensation suffused his whole frame ; 
 a mist seemed gradually to cover his eyes ; 
 he tried in vain to speak, for his tongue seem 
 ed utterly paralyzed, and a dizziness and sub 
 sequent insensibility stole over his frame, 
 * * * # 
 
 " ' Softly, softly, Bobbis, do you not see 
 that his delicate skin is all unused to such 
 harsh treatment ? Apply your restoratives 
 and frictions more gently, or in restoring his 
 consciousness, you will make a cripple of him 
 for life. There, he revives a little. P faith, 
 that was too powerful a dose for him, and I 
 feared that we had given him his quietus.' 
 
 " Well, what matter if it were so,' growl 
 ed Bobbis, a hideous dwarf, whose immense 
 head, covered by a shock of stiff, reddish look 
 ing bristles, was thrust into the face of Wolf 
 gang, who lay extended upon a rude bed in 
 a still ruder looking cell or hole. The dwarf 
 once more bent his ear towards the mouth of 
 the prostrate man, and after listening silently 
 thus for a single moment, muttered surlily : 
 
 " ' No danger, he's breathing fast enough, 
 and take my word for it, if you let him live, 
 he will yet be the means of bringing all of us 
 you know where, well enough." 
 
 " ' Peace, fool ; did you ever know me wil 
 lingly and needlessly to take life ? I had a 
 use for the student, or I should not have 
 brought him here. I warn you on your peril, 
 harm him not. Do you hear, dolt ?' 
 
 "'Master, I obey,' replied the dwarf, hum 
 bly, as he cowered before the eye that was 
 bent upon him. 
 
 " Gernhault, the one whom the dwarf ad 
 dressed as his master, was a noble specimen 
 
 of a man, in his physical developments. Tall 
 and athletic in his frame, his form was mould 
 ed to the perfect proportions of symmetry, and 
 his countenance, almost superhuman in its 
 beauty, was illumined by an eye which seem 
 ed to read the very soul of those on whom it 
 was fixed, but which was nevertheless at times 
 almost mournfully tender in its expression. 
 His whole countenance bore the stamp of in 
 tellect and of great energy, but it was a face 
 also that puzzled the careful observer, almost 
 as much as it interested. One could not but 
 fear as he gazed, that the noble impulses were 
 too frequently checked by the passionate. 
 But his character will develope itself. 
 
 " The place to which Wolfgang had been 
 borne, was a cavern in the recesses of a rock 
 in the Hartz forest. It was not, as many of 
 those caverns were said to be, immensely 
 large and extending a great distance under- 
 ' ground, for most of these were well known to 
 the authorities, and had been effectually 
 scoured. But this rock one would never have 
 thought of as affording concealment for any 
 number of persons. It was comparatively so 
 small, and so unlike all those which had here 
 tofore afforded shelter to the prowling brig 
 ands of the forest, who had ever abound 
 ed in this mysterious wood and its vicinity. 
 
 " The surface of the rock was small, and 
 the greater part was taken up by a sort of 
 natural trap door, half concealed by the rank 
 growth of vegetation about it, and which led 
 to a subterranean vault or passage, which had 
 been divided into three compartments, one 
 corresponding with that in which Wolfgang 
 had been placed, and one very much larger, 
 where now reclined, upon the bare earth, 
 about a dozen stalwart men, dressed in the 
 fanciful style of roving soldiers or banditti. 
 Around the cave were suspended cutlasses, 
 sabres, daggers and swords, different kinds of 
 fire arms, pistols and the like besides which 
 the men were completely armed. 
 
 " In one corner of this apartment sat a man 
 of apparently fifty years of age whose strong 
 resemblance in his general features to Gern 
 hault, at once proclaimed him a near relation. 
 He sat with his eyes bent upon the ground, 
 and his whole attitude denoting the deepest 
 dejection. On the table before him, were nu 
 merous diminutive vials, containing powders 
 of various colors, and a large leaden box at
 
 112 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 his side was filled with the implements neces 
 sary to the chemist. A crucible, from which 
 the coals were now dying out, and the faint, 
 sickly odor which filled the cavern, plainly 
 indicated that he had just been engaged in 
 distilling some powerful elixir, perhaps in its 
 effect as potent as the most subtle narcotics 
 and poisons of the famed Catherine de Medi- 
 cis. A hand softly laid upon his shoulder, 
 caused him to look up, when a tender and af 
 fectionate smile at once irradiated his features 
 at sight of the gentle intruder who now stood 
 by his side. 
 
 " 'Ah ! Lulu, my pet, my blossom, it is time 
 that thou wert slumbering. Come, ma petite, 
 let me see thee on thy couch. Surely Gern- 
 hault did not call for thy assistance, to aid the 
 young stranger.' 
 
 " ' Ah ! no, my father, Gernhault has just 
 induced him to take some wine, and on being 
 promised that no harm should come to hmfiP 
 he has fallen into a natural and profound 
 slumber. But thou, my father, seemest so 
 unhappy to-night, and hast remained so Iqng 
 over thy drugs and potions, thut I could not 
 rest until I saw thee leave them.' 
 
 " ' My sweet and gentle Lulu, thou art ever 
 most dear to me,' replied the father, kissing 
 her fair cheek. 
 
 " And surely never was moulded a lovelier 
 creature, than she on whom the doting father 
 now gazed with rapture. The small, classi 
 cally formed head was covered with a profu 
 sion of golden, sunny ringlets, which fell in 
 their rich luxuriance over her shoulders to her 
 very waist ; her forehead, white and polished 
 as ivory, was singularly high, giving an ex 
 pression of dignity to her face, which other 
 wise, so small and delicate were the features, 
 might have seemed to lack expression. But 
 her eyes, large, dark and lustrous, were like 
 those of her brother Gernhault, wonderfully 
 beautiful, forming a singular contrast to her 
 sunny hair. She was very, very pale, pro 
 bably owing to the want of outdoor exercise 
 and of the light of heaven, which nev 
 er penetrated the cave, huge iron lamps af 
 fording the necessary artificial light, and 
 which were never permitted to go out day or 
 night. Lulu was of a medium height, but 
 her form was most fragile in its proportions. 
 
 The apartment to which her father now led 
 her for repose, formed a striking contrast to 
 
 the rest of the cave. It was very small, but 
 was most luxuriously and tastefully furnished, 
 and her little down bed was encircled by thick 
 silk curtains, which most effectually shielded 
 it from the dampness of the cave. The floor 
 or stony bottom of the cave was covered with 
 many thicknesses of wolf skins, over which 
 was spread a light woven carpet of woollen 
 fabric. After obtaining a promise from Lulu, 
 that she would retire at once to repose, the 
 father left her, and carefully arranging the 
 iron door of the entrance to the little room, 
 passed into the outer cave, and bidding the 
 dwarf go and lie down, he beckoned Gernhault 
 to his side : 
 
 " ' Art sure, my boy, that the young stran 
 ger sleeps soundly now ?' 
 
 " ' Yes ; the effect of the drug has not yet 
 passed off, and he is now in a sleep that will 
 not break until the sun has mounted high to 
 morrow.' 
 
 " ' That is well, and all is as it should be,' 
 said the father, earnestly. 
 
 " But what of the other enterprise, father ?' 
 asked Gernhault. 
 
 " ' In four hours we shall set forth on our 
 path to the castle. I would I could shake off 
 this melancholy, which more than usually op 
 presses me this evening. But thoughts of 
 her always affect me thus, and did I not feel 
 certain that young Egbert shall not come to 
 harm among us, I fear even the sweet pros 
 pect of revenge would be insufficient to ' 
 
 " ' Why, father,' interrupted Gernhault, 
 fiercely, ' talk not thus. I have sworn on my 
 sword to be richly revenged on the ravisher of 
 my mother, and by the powers of darkness, no 
 womanly squeamishness shall interfere to pre 
 vent the fulfilment of my vow. And if,' con 
 tinued he, intensely excited, ' you need any 
 incitement to this deed, you have but to gaze 
 on this.' 
 
 " As he spoke, Gernhault pressed his finger 
 on a ledge of wooden frame-work, fitted into 
 the rock, and so closed as to exactly resemble 
 it, when the board flew back, and disclosed 
 the portrait of a beautiful woman in the bloom 
 of youthful beauty. To her side she pressed 
 with exulting fondness, a little girl of perhaps 
 two summers, while a boy, some three years 
 older, leaning on her knee, played with the 
 rich jewels, with which her lovely arms were 
 decorated.
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 113 
 
 " ' Such,' continued Gernhault, ' was my 
 mother, ere the villain Ingald Aldema came 
 with his false protestations and his wily flat 
 tery to beguile her from her duty, and which 
 had ever before constituted her pleasure. 
 Ah ! my father, I see that I need say no more 
 your thirst for revenge is once more reviv 
 ed. Say, my father, if this be not so ?' 
 
 " But Gernhault had no further need to in 
 cite his father by these reminiscences, for 
 Kluften now stood gazing on the picture, his 
 eye-balls distended and bloodshot, his face 
 crimsoned with excitement, while big drops of 
 perspiration rolled down his cheeks. He 
 clutched nervously his sword, and turning 
 round to Gernhault, said in a hoarse whisper : 
 " ' It is enough and I am ready ;' then turn 
 ing from him, he abruptly left the spot. 
 
 ^l* vi* *n? *)? 
 
 " Well, Alfred,' said the lord of Lurnbeg, 
 as he sat with his attendants at a large oaken 
 table, on which were immense trenchers of 
 beef, flanked on either side by large patties of 
 bears' meat and rabbit stews, while the bowl 
 in the centre and the foaming silver flagons 
 at each plate, gave indications that the ban 
 quet would continue till a late hour, ' what 
 luck at the chase to-day? I have but ill 
 brooked the sound of the many huntsmen's 
 horns, and the cheering barking of our faith 
 ful dogs, knowing the while that this accursed 
 lumbago in my foot prevents me from joining 
 thee. I warrant me thou hadst fine sport. 
 Eh, knave ?' 
 
 " ' In truth, yas, my lord ; we wanted but 
 your presence to-day, for the complete perfec 
 tion of the sport. But the learned Gruno 
 says his drugs will soon work healing to thy 
 lameness, if, my lord, thou wilt but diet as he 
 counsels thee.' 
 
 " ' Peace, varlet, the rich wine I will have ; 
 and the old dotard, Gruno, shall still cure me, 
 or by my sword, let him look to himself. 
 But enough of this. Come, hurrah for a 
 song : 
 
 " ' The sparkling, ruby wine, 
 
 The produce of the vine, 
 Will drive from pur hearts all sorrow ; 
 
 Fill each glass to the brim, 
 
 N'er heed old Gruno's whim, 
 Not a care will we have for the morrow. 
 Then fill to the brim, &c.' 
 
 And thus with song and jest, the revelry 
 8 
 
 was kept up until a late hour, and the lord of 
 Lurnbeg was at last borne to his couch by 
 two of his menials, while his retainers and 
 friends lay overpowered by the wine on the 
 bare oaken planks of the banquet room. 
 
 " All was hushed and still in the castle. In 
 a high room in one side of the western turret, 
 young Egbert son of the lord of Lurnbeg 
 and of the beauteous Ildegruda, whom he had 
 so artfully cajoled from her doting husband, 
 even while sharing his hospitality pursued his 
 midnight studies. At last overpowered by 
 fatigue and drowsiness, his head dropped upon 
 the book before him, and he sank into a heavy 
 slumber, from which he was aroused by feeling 
 his arms tightly pinioned. On looking about 
 him as soon as his eyes were fairly open, he 
 distinguished the figures of some eight or ten 
 men, all armed at every point. He was about 
 go shout for assistance, when one, who was 
 apparently the leader, instantly put his hand 
 upon his mouth, saying in his ear : 
 
 " ' Hush ! make no resistance and I swear 
 on my sword thou shalt not be harmed, other 
 wise, look around you and judge if you can 
 escape us. Will you give me your solemn 
 promise, that if I release my hold, you will 
 quietly refrain from uttering a syllable, and 
 will do as I direct ? I warn you that when 
 once the passion of my followers is up and 
 aroused by resistance, I even cannot control 
 their passions, and the object of their dislike 
 must die. I have warned you have I your 
 promise ?' 
 
 " Egbert, seeing no alternative, and trust 
 ing to Providence and his wits to enable him 
 ere long to make his escape from his captors, 
 nodded his head in token of assent to the 
 leader's question. 
 
 " Gernhault, for it was he, instantly remov 
 ed his hand from Egbert's lips, and beckoned 
 to two of his men, who lifted their prisoner at 
 once upon their arms, and in the next moment 
 a potion of the same powder which had so 
 powerfully affected Wolfgang, was placed upon 
 his lips, and he was borne away in a state of 
 complete insensibility, by the two men who 
 had raised him at Gernhault's orders. Nor 
 did they lay him down except upon the horse, 
 and then he was borne away to the cave in 
 the Hartz forest. 
 
 "In the meantime, Gernhault and his fath 
 er proceeded at once to the sleeping apartment
 
 114 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 of Rheitzmar, the lord of Lurnbeg, leaving 
 the rest of the men to watch near the door of 
 the servants' halls, the huge chains to which 
 they had already secured. The old lord was 
 soon aroused by their flaming torches, which 
 cast a brilliant light through the gloomy 
 chamber, for he had, in spite of his boasts, 
 drank much less wine than the others, and had 
 already slept off not a small share of its ef 
 fects. At the sight of the two armed men ? 
 ythen standing before him, he at once started 
 up on his couch, and gave utterance to a yell 
 of rage and fear. At this moment, Kluften, 
 wrought up to fury by the sight of the man 
 who had so basely betrayed his hospitality, by 
 stealing his idolized wife from his heart, 
 clenched the old man's throat in his grasp as 
 though it had been one of iron, and muttered 
 between his teeth : 
 
 "'Villain! Base betrayer ! At last I have ( 
 thee in my power ! Revenge has been long 
 delayed to my panting heart, but it is sweet 
 to the taste at last. Didst think, old man, be 
 cause thou hadst remained unmolested these 
 many long years, Kluften would forego his 
 revenge ? Ha ! thou wilt find thy mistake at 
 last. While Ildegruda lived, my foolish love 
 for her, which even her desertion could not 
 estrange, kept me from harming thee, while 
 the long war has afforded me and my brave 
 Gernhault some little respite from our gloomy 
 thoughts. But now, base worm, I will pun 
 ish thee in a fitting manner. Thou shalt 
 not die ; that were too light a doom for thee. 
 Wouldst thou know thy miserable fate ?' he 
 now almost whispered, having grown perfectly 
 furious in his passion. ' I will tell thee, vil 
 lain : 
 
 " ' Thou rememberest the Donheist stone in 
 the centre of the Black forest, and knowest 
 also that its cavity is just large enough to al 
 low of the entrance of a single person. There 
 thou shalt lie chained. But thou art not to 
 starve death would then relieve thee speedi 
 ly. Bread and water shall be supplied to thee 
 by my Invisibles ; and now, old man, learn thy 
 worst punishment : Egbert, thy idolized son 
 nay, start not at the mention of his name; 
 well do I know thy doting fondness for the 
 boy, Egbert is condemned to an imprison 
 ment hopeless as thine own. I have said. 
 Gernhault, thy bugle.' 
 >( At the first faint blast upon the instru 
 
 ment, his followers, who had been impatiently 
 expecting the summons, filed into the room, 
 and lifting the old man as they had done Eg 
 bert, after rendering him insensible in a like 
 manner, they bore him away to the forest 
 cave, not having even disturbed the slumbers 
 of the sottish menials of the castle. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 " ' Now Wolfgang,' said Kluften, ' I have 
 told thee all my story. Thou mayst think 
 me too severe and revengeful in my adminis 
 tration of justice; but this matter we will not 
 discuss. I will tell thee why thou wert brought 
 hither by two of my men, disguised in wolf 
 skins. I wish the boy, Egbert, to have every 
 care and attention suited to his future rank, 
 for at a fitting time I shall claim for him his 
 father's broad lands and castles. I have fitted 
 up rooms in the old ruin hard by, called by 
 the superstitious, "The Enchanted Tower;" 
 thither I intend to carry Egbert and his 
 mother's daughter, Lulu, and I want thee to 
 attend them, as a faithful tutor. I have mark 
 ed thee well, this long time past, and have sin 
 gled thee out for this purpose, because I know 
 that thou art generous, faithful, and fully com 
 petent to this task. 
 
 " ' I would not wound thy feelings, but I 
 know also that thou hast as yet nothing for 
 thy future support. I will enrich thee, foi de 
 spite the rude appearance of our place of shel 
 ter, I have gold in abundance. Thou wilt 
 always sleep here in this cave. This will 
 perhaps seem hard to thee at first, but thou 
 wilt soon become accustomed to it. Now 
 what sayest thou, Wolfgang 2 I give thee 
 free choice in the matter, only exacting that 
 at all events, you must preserve my secret 
 inviolate. Some of my men shall this night 
 conduct thee safely to thy journey's end, for 
 thou art no doubt anxious to embrace thy 
 mother and sister you see I am well inform 
 ed concerning you and if thou consentest to 
 my proposition, thou wilt sign this paper to 
 that effect. 1 will meet thee this night week 
 at the little inn near Barstadt " The Black 
 Wolf" and return with thee hither.' 
 
 " ' I agree to thy conditions, unhesitating 
 ly,' replied Wolfgang, for the two brief inter 
 views he had already enjoyed with the en 
 chanting Lulu had served to render the im 
 pressive student madly in love with her, and 
 he gladly embraced an offer which held out to
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 115 
 
 him the sweet certainty of being constantly so 
 near to her. And, thought he, it will go hard 
 .in my instructions, but I will find a means of 
 teaching this lovely creature also to love me. 
 " ' Will it content thee to be a pupil of 
 mine ?' he asked of Lulu, after it had been 
 decided that he should take charge of her in 
 struction. 
 
 " ' If it please my father, it must needs 
 please me,' she answered. 
 
 " But Wolfgang saw, or he thought he saw, 
 her eyes express that it would render her 
 most happy to study of him. 
 
 " ' If it please your father, and yet pleaseth 
 not thee, gentle lady, I shall have but a sorry 
 task ; for I would have thy good wishes at 
 the outset, else it will be but up-hill work at 
 best.' 
 
 " ' 0, I doubt not we shall agree very well,' 
 replied Lulu, smiling at his earnestness, for 
 Wolfgang spoke from his heart. 
 
 " ' Where there is a will, there is always a 
 way,' said her companion, ' and I am most 
 resolutely determined both to please thee, and 
 deserve thy father's confidence, which has 
 been so freely bestowed upon me.' 
 
 " ' Hast forgiven the violent means by which 
 thou wert compelled to stay thy homeward 
 journey, and brought a prisoner hither ?' 
 
 " ' Indeed yes, since it has resulted so hap 
 pily, and has brought me to the presence and 
 service of one so pure and beautiful as is thy 
 father's daughter.' 
 
 " The ready blush leaped to the maiden's 
 cheek, but no frown accompanied it there ; it 
 was not the blush of anger, and Wolfgang 
 marked well its import as he gazed lovingly 
 upon her. The truth was, from the very hour 
 of his entrance to the cave, the gentle Lulu 
 had a tender interest in him, partly on account 
 of his fine, manly person and noble face, and 
 partly because such a romantic adventure had 
 brought them together. She knew little of 
 the world, had seen few men, and none so 
 
 handsome, she thought, as her new instructer, 
 and consequently the field was open at once 
 for the student to prosecute his suit, though 
 he was cautious not to do so too abruptly, but 
 sternly checked the expression of his love by 
 adopting the most discreet and cautious habits 
 of intimacy. * 
 
 "All was finally arranged as had been pro 
 posed. - Egbert gradually became accustomed 
 to his situation, and was happy in it, for he 
 knew nothing of his father's punishment. 
 Gladly, in his thirst for knowledge, did he 
 drink at the rich streams which Wolfgang's 
 learning opened to him. Lulu, too, though 
 her fond father had paid much attention to his 
 child's studies, yet had much to learn of her 
 gentle and attentive instructer. Kluften made 
 'The Enchanted Tower' his constant home, 
 and Bobbis and his old mother, a wrinkled 
 jrone, who had long occupied a wretched hut 
 at the borders of the Black forest, sufficed 
 them as attendants. 
 
 " Gernhault, with his men, in obedience to a 
 summons from his military commander, the 
 Duke of Ernfels, again served in the war, 
 from which he had temporarily withdrawn to 
 assist his father in his scheme of revenge. 
 He won many laurels on the field of battle. 
 But he was not altogether content ; the image 
 of the old prisoner in his terrible dungeon, 
 sometimes came over him with startling vivid 
 ness, and he at last released him, and had him 
 taken good care of. But he had lost his rea 
 son, and died ere long, unknown and unwept. 
 " How Wolfgang won the love of the gen 
 tle Lulu, and at last her father's consent to 
 their marriage, and how Egbert was acknowl 
 edged lord of the proud castle of Lurnbeg, 
 gaining all hearts by his nobleness and gener 
 osity, I may at some other time tell you. 
 And thus it was that the round stone in the 
 Black forest came to be named ' The 1 Betray 
 er's Punishment.' "
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 CAPTURE OF 
 
 BANDITTI. 
 
 " The peasant left his vintage, 
 The shepherd grasped the spear. 
 
 IN the relation of such old stories and le 
 gends as that of the Hartz forest, the time 
 passed pleasantly away at Ghertstein castle, 
 and gradually Robert Stanley became the ac 
 cepted and acknowledged lover of the fair lady 
 he had served so well. The bold outrage 
 upon the laws by the robber chief, Karl Blasius, 
 in his attempt to carry out his fearful and re 
 vengeful plan by dishonoring the lady Gustine, 
 seemed to awaken the neighborhood to a fresh 
 'realization of the danger that lurked so near 
 to them. It had been the policy of the brig 
 ands heretofore to commit their boldest depre 
 dations at a goodly distance from their strong 
 hold, thus in some degree puzzling conjecture 
 as to whence those came who committed the 
 outrage, though they operated constantly on 
 a small scale, in their immediate neighbor 
 hood, and from day to day upon the thought 
 less travellers. 
 
 In relation to this, the boldest attempt for 
 years on the part of the robbers, people said, 
 " if such villany goes unpunished, we are no 
 longer safe in any condition of life. We 
 know not where the next blow may be struck." 
 
 The authorities at once got together, and 
 incited by the lord of Ghertstein, not only 
 offered a heavy reward for the head of Karl 
 Blasius, dead or alive, but also resolved to fit 
 
 out an expedition, strong, well found, and con 
 ducted by experienced men, to take him and 
 destroy his nest of outlaws in the forest, and 
 confiscate the proceeds of their robberies. 
 Four of the nearest surrounding districts join 
 ed in this enterprise for the public good, and 
 full five hundred regular troops were gathered, 
 prepared and drilled for this special service of 
 attacking the lion in his den. 
 
 The information imparted to the authorities 
 by Robert Stanley was of no small im 
 portance to them as it regarded guiding them 
 to the cave of the robbers, as well as suggest 
 ing various matters relating to the mode of 
 of attack, etc. The peasantry generally 
 were too much indebted to the kindness of 
 Karl Blasius to turn traitor against him, and 
 even the heavy sum offered by the government 
 had no effect in tempting them to play the 
 traitor to one who had been a true friend to 
 them. We have before shown that this was 
 a matter of principle, as well as policy with 
 the robbers, thus to form a host of friends 
 about them, and many are the expeditions 
 against the marauders of the wood that have 
 failed through the false guiding or false in 
 formation of a simple peasant, who felt that 
 his interests were too much in common with 
 the outlaws, for him to betray them.
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 117 
 
 So secretly was the expedition managed 
 that was intended to operate against the brig 
 ands, that although Karl had information that 
 a body of troops were marching on the high 
 way, he merely took the precaution to draw 
 in his men, but would not for a moment be 
 lieve that they designed to attack him, until 
 it was also reported that the whole number 
 had struck into the winding path which the 
 lady Gustine had followed, and which led 
 directly to the cave. It was a critical moment 
 with the robbers, but after learning their num 
 bers, Karl, finding that there was no chance to 
 carry off any amount of their valuable booty, 
 resolved to stand by and defend it to the last. 
 The entrance to the cave was narrow, and 
 might by stratagem and bravery be held for 
 days against a superior force. Weighing all 
 the chances carefully in his mind, the captain 
 of the outlaws made his disposition of his 
 men in the best possible manner to effect the 
 objects he had in view. 
 
 First a score of good marksmen were sent 
 out to harass and thin out the approaching 
 column of soldiery, and more especially to 
 disable the officers of the expedition. A 
 temporary door was constructed with loop 
 holes at the cavern's mouth, to protect those 
 within from the shot of the attacking party, 
 while it would enable the robbers to keep up 
 a fire on their enemies with their fatal car 
 bines. Of course the approaching party lost 
 a half dozen of their number every few mo 
 ments by the shots of the skirmishing party, 
 and that, too, without the regular soldiers be 
 ing able to return their fire, since it came from 
 men in ambush, and who were scattered in all 
 directions, in a wood with which they were 
 perfectly familiar, while their enemies were 
 little better than lost already. But the sight 
 of their dying and wounded comrades acted 
 as a spur to the soldiers, and they hastened 
 furiously on to gain some spot where they 
 might come hand to hand with the enemy, for 
 as yet not a single gun had been discharged 
 from their ranks, and they were burning with 
 impatience. 
 
 The skirmishers retreated before the ad 
 vancing party until they had nearly reached 
 the mouth of the cave, when they fired their 
 last volley among the soldiers, and rushed in 
 to join their companions. The heavy oaken 
 door was then raised, and the robbers were 
 
 comparatively protected for the time being, 
 from their enemy's fire. Karl Blasius had 
 been well informed by his spies of the strength 
 of the approaching party, and also concerning 
 their armament, but his spies had forgot 
 ten to mention one most important item, viz., 
 that the column had brought with it a small 
 howitzer, upon, or rather between two mules ; 
 a gun capable of carrying a six pound ball. 
 The first intimation the robbers had that such 
 a formidable weapon was brought to annoy 
 them, was the moment when it was first dis 
 charged, double loaded, at the mouth of the 
 cavern. But the robbers, though satisfied 
 that their time had at last come, resolved to 
 fight to the last, asking for no quarter, and 
 selling their lives dearly. 
 
 At last the fight became a hand to hand 
 one, and the robbers, tired of their hiding 
 place which the howitzer had rendered so un 
 comfortable for it had first driven them from 
 the entrance and was then planted at the 
 mouth of the cave rushed forth to attack 
 their enemies on the open lawn. The strug 
 gle was a fearful one, but numbers at last out 
 weighed valor and desperation, and, one by 
 one, the robbers were either laid low or cap 
 tured and bound. Finally, .Karl Blasius him 
 self, wounded in a dozen places, was at last 
 secured and bound, fainting, and bleeding 
 at a dozen ghastly wounds in various parts of 
 his body. He was borne in triumph through 
 the town of Bronts, and conveyed, with the 
 surviving members of his band, to prison, 
 amid the shouts of the excited populace. 
 
 It was to the prison of Amantz, which tow 
 ers at such a height above the river's course 
 below Bronts, that the brigand chief and his 
 followers were conducted, and here they were 
 incarcerated in its most secure dungeons, load 
 ed with chains and carefully watched over by 
 turnkeys and guards, nor were they permitted 
 to communicate to each other, or with persons 
 from without. This was in those days of 
 civil commotions, when revolutions and civil 
 wars were of constant occurrence. Just at this 
 period, or rather not long subsequent to it, a 
 sudden state of open hostility broke out be 
 tween the different sections of the country, and 
 soldiers of course being much in demand, and 
 very scarce withal, the banditti who had been 
 taken with Karl Blasius were pardoned, on 
 condition of their taking the oath of allegi-
 
 118 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 ance and performing faithfully the duty of 
 soldiers in the regular service of the state. 
 Their leader of course was deemed too dan 
 gerous a man to trust at large, and was there 
 fore kept a prisoner until the character of the 
 times should give chance for a formal trial. 
 
 As the robber lay in his solitary prison, 
 alone and unheeded, save by his jailor, he 
 found how deeply he had loved the fair lady 
 Gustine. He realized that such an affection, 
 could it have been earlier experienced, might 
 have made him a very different man, for even 
 now, though entirely hopeless, yet it changed 
 the whole course of his thoughts, and her 
 image was constantly before him. The short 
 time during which he had been honorably re 
 ceived at her father's castle, had served so to 
 imprint her image upon his heart, that, villain 
 as he was, he would never forget the gentle 
 influence of those lovely eyes, the beauty and 
 intellectual expression of those features, and 
 the form that seemed to him the perfection of 
 all female loveliness. These memories had 
 utterly changed the brigand ; his antipathy 
 to the laws was gone, his hatred for the rich 
 seemed to be forgotten ambition, hope, all his 
 finer feelings were changed. He had never 
 loved before. It was his first and his last affec 
 tion. 
 
 The jailor of Amantz was sometimes forced 
 to relieve the guard that stood over the wing 
 where Karl was confined, and after going his 
 rounds and satisfying himself that all was 
 secure, he not unfrequently entered his cell 
 to talk with one who had made himself so 
 famous by his crimes, and to whom so much 
 curiosity and romantic interest attached itself. 
 Sometimes the jailor would relate some story 
 to while away the time, and more than once 
 even the robber himself, grateful for company 
 of any sort, had related some startling anec 
 dote to amuse and attract the jailor. It was 
 on the occasion of one of these meetings that 
 Karl demanded of the jailor to fulfil a promise 
 he had some time before made to him that he 
 would relate the history of a former tenant 
 of this very cell. 
 
 " Come, jailor," said he, " the time lays 
 heavily on me here ; how about that Rhine 
 legend that you promised to relate to me in 
 payment for my last adventure I told you of 
 in the upper valley upon the Crutz castle ?" 
 
 " True, I did promise thee a story in return 
 for that relation ; but mine draws upon the 
 past, and is not a story of personal adventure 
 like yours ; mine was told me by my prede 
 cessor here, and true or not true, he vouched 
 for it." 
 
 "It would be a downright sacrilege to 
 doubt a Rhine legend," said the robber chief, 
 laughing ironically as he said so. " But what 
 was it about ?" 
 
 " It is about Count Rolfe, the former lord of 
 this castle and his daughter, as lovely a lady, 
 it is said, as ever breathed the air of the 
 valley." 
 
 "Did the old rogue kill his daughter be- 
 ' cause she loved below her rank ?" asked the 
 robber, trying to forestall the jailor in his 
 story. 
 
 " No, no ; you must let me tell the story in 
 my own way," said the turnkey "and not 
 begin at the wrong end of it either." 
 
 " True, I was anticipating," answered Karl 
 Blasius, smiling. 
 
 " But hark, there is the north turret bell," 
 said the jailor. " It is time to see the guard 
 relieved, and then I will drop in and tell thee 
 the whole story of the proud Count Rolfe and 
 his lovely daughter." 
 
 " Come quickly, for I am weary, weary, 
 very," said the robber, clanking his chains, 
 and staggering under their weight. 
 
 " I'll be with you anon." 
 
 The robber chief had made the jailor his 
 friend in one sense of the word, because he 
 had managed to interest him by the relation 
 of his own startling adventures, a description 
 of conversation that had completely captivated 
 the jailor's fancy. Consequently, although he 
 did not remit the severity, to any great degree, 
 that the authorities had imposed upon the 
 prisoner, yet, in payment for the stories that 
 he had heard from his lips, he also would re 
 late tales and legends of their native valley.
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 THE JAILOR'S STORY 
 
 "A story of the olden time." 
 
 " MANY years ago," commenced the jailor, 
 " there was here imprisoned a gallant knight 
 who had incurred the vengeance of the 
 haughty Count Rolfe, who was then lord of 
 this castle, and all the region round about 
 it. Count Rolfe was a proud, stern man, of 
 a swarthy countenance and a fierce, gleaming 
 eye ; and it was currently reported that he 
 dealt with things which it did not befit mor 
 tals to know, or, in other words, that he had 
 made himself master of the arts of magic in 
 cantation and power." 
 
 " Hold," said the prisoner ; " these bars 
 weigh me down ; will you not unloose them 
 for a while ?" 
 
 " Yes, while I am here," replied the jailor, 
 removing the heaviest of the bar chains by un 
 loosing them. 
 
 " Good," said the robber, satisfied even at 
 thi? partial release, and stretching his arms 
 with satisfaction. " Now go on again." 
 
 " Well, this count Rolfe had an only child, 
 a daughter, who was so perfect a contrast to 
 the haughty chief himself, that observers look 
 ed and wondered that one so gentle and so fair 
 could come of such a lineage. Indeed, the 
 beautiful Hildegard partook far more of the 
 spirit of that lovely mother who had in the 
 
 daughter's early childhood departed for the si 
 lence of the tomb; though the courageous 
 spirit of the count had not perhaps entirely 
 failed of giving some tinge to the character of 
 his child. 
 
 " It was at the close of a brilliant day of 
 June j when the dark-hued count returned 
 with his followers from a distant expedition. 
 They reached the castle, leading in their ar 
 ray the prisoners whom they had secured in 
 their absence. All the inmates of the castle 
 were on the alert to greet the victorious war 
 riors, lining the battlements and turret tops to 
 overlook them, and even the fair Hildegard 
 herself, not willing as yet to show herself 
 among the din and turmoil of a military es 
 cort and arrival, leaned lightly forward from 
 her little balconied ehamber, to gaze upon the 
 warlike and victorious company. She pitied the 
 unfortunate prisoners, at the same time that her 
 heart exulted with warm animation at the suc 
 cess of her friends. But chief of all those 
 who attracted her attention, was the figure of 
 a youthful knight, led forward with his arms 
 bound ignominiously behind him. His coun 
 tenance was sad, but not dismayed, and he 
 bore his ill fortune manfully, and with an 
 erect and martial port. His helmet was off,
 
 120 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 and his thick auburn locks curled over a noble 
 brow clear as the cloudless heaven, while his 
 dark blue eye and well shaped features be 
 spoke the soul which animated without deceit 
 his fine and well knit form. He was a noble 
 captive to look upon, as he rode thus into the 
 gates. 
 
 " Hildegard felt an agitation to which she 
 had heretofore been a stranger, and turning 
 back within the silence of her room, she 
 thought long of the hapless stranger knight, 
 so noble and so handsome ; she thought of him 
 as despoiled of his domain and torn from his 
 friends, perhaps to perish within her father's 
 dungeon walls strangely did the image of the 
 prisoner, his sad countenance and noble bear 
 ing, pursue her thoughts by day and her 
 dreams by night. 
 
 " 'Might she not dare,' thus came the half 
 framed thought, to intercede with her father 
 for the prisoner's safety ? She dared not yet 
 to speak of his release, but if she could but 
 feel assured of his bodily safety, and that he 
 was spared from present suffering, that would be 
 much to her gentle woman heart. ' Might she 
 speak to her father of this without offence ?' 
 
 " And thus she was affrighted at the temer 
 ity of her thoughts, the temerity which dared 
 to meddle with the hidden counsels of her 
 terrible sire. Thus her thoughts, sympathies, 
 and fears swayed with agitation her innocent 
 breast, fearful imaginations weighed heavily 
 upon her heart ; her soul struggled with 
 vague and undefined dissatisfaction. Hilde 
 gard forsook her lute, its strains struck with 
 painful vibrations against her aching bosom. 
 She came to love the soft moonlight, the 
 fleeting clouds in heaven, the pensive glow of 
 dying day, rather than the courtly pastimes 
 that sought to attract her sympathy; often 
 her footfall fell noiselessly upon the castle 
 turrets and battlements, and once when thus 
 engaged, she heard a faint groan come from 
 the dungeon walls. She leaned forward to 
 listen, when again she heard that sad expres 
 sion of mortal woe. Her heart throbbed vio 
 lently against its bosom shrine, and its pulsa 
 tion whispered to the maiden from whom those 
 accents came to which she listened. 
 
 " ' Sir knight,' said the fair girl, tremulous 
 with mingled fear and pity, ' is it thou the 
 Knight of Alcanta, who art imprisoned within 
 this dismal cell ?' 
 
 " There was an instant's pause, when a 
 hollow voice, in words broken by exhaustion 
 and weakness, replied : 
 
 " ' Yes, gentle one, I am here ; thy voice be- 
 trayeth thy sex and kindness of heart, and 
 for thy sympathy, I bless thee. O, fair 
 maiden, be thou whom whou wilt, remember 
 in thy prayers one who soon must die.' 
 
 " ' Die ?' echoed the maiden. 
 
 " ' Ay, already do my spirits sink within 
 me.' 
 
 " 'Indeed, indeed, this must not be.' 
 
 " ' Ah, gentle one, it is not for hearts like 
 thine to decide ; would that it were so.' 
 
 " ' No, no, sir knight,' she repeated in agi 
 tated tones, ' thou shalt not die thus, immured 
 in a deep and cheerless dungeon. If none 
 else can aid, I myself will rescue thee.' 
 
 " ' God speed thee, gentle one, but I would 
 not have thee endangered for my poor sake.' 
 
 " Hildegard turned to her chamber with a 
 cheek now blushing like the rose, now paling 
 with secret terror, and shutting herself within 
 her apartment alone, she wept long and sor 
 rowfully, until at last she determined to seek 
 her father and strive to bend his iron will, and 
 sue for the liberty of the unfortunate knight. 
 With trembling feet she sought the presence 
 of the count, and humbly knelt before him. 
 The count unbent his haughty brow and raised 
 up his fair child. 
 
 " ' What is it thou wouldst have of me, 
 my fair daughter?' 
 
 " ' O, my father,' entreated Hildegard, ' I 
 have a boon to ask of thee : I pray thee be 
 not offended with me. I would that thou 
 might release the Knight of Alcanta, who I 
 fear is now dying, and ' 
 
 " ' Begone, girl !' exclaimed the surprised 
 parent, interrupting her, while the furious 
 blood rushed to his stormy countenance. ' Al 
 canta dies to-morrow morn ! Go, presumptuous 
 girl, let me ,not hear again from thy foolish 
 lips such strange and unfitting requests as 
 thou hast just named.' 
 
 " Hildegard, terrified at his angry manner, 
 fled from his presence, but in hurrying through 
 a hall that intervened between her father's 
 room and her own, a faintness suddenly came 
 over her limbs, and she sank helpless upon 
 the floor. Immediately a manly arm bore 
 her to a seat, and placing her upon it, offered 
 such restoratives as might revive her. She
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 121 
 
 soon revived, while Ulerie, the youthful mas 
 ter of the broad lands of Ermstahl, most anx 
 iously regarded the fair maiden, for he loved 
 her devotedly, though he sighed that his love 
 was not returned. As the gentle girl revived, 
 she beheld CJlerie standing before her, when 
 she suddenly knelt at his feet imploringly, and 
 said : 
 
 " ' O, Ulerie, Ulerie, thou canst help, thou 
 canst help me. Thou wilt, Uierie, for though 
 1 must own that I love another, yet thou art 
 too generous to seek vengeance upon poor Hil- 
 degard because her foolish heart hath else 
 where been given O, if ever thou didst love 
 me, Ulerie, then cast not away lightly my en 
 treaty.' 
 
 " What wouldst thou, Hildegard?' exclaim 
 ed Ulerie, almost as colorless in feature as 
 the fair suppliant whom he addressed, and 
 whom he gently raised to her feet again. 
 
 "'0, Ulerie,' replied the maiden, with 
 husky earnestness of utterance ; ' men say that 
 that thou also art learned, that thou hast se 
 crets of mighty power which can perform 
 otherwise impossible deeds. I seek not to 
 deal with evil, but I know that thou art too 
 good, too virtuous to tamper with unholy 
 things. 0, if thou canst, Ulerie, wilt, thou 
 help me ?' 
 
 " 'Perchance I maybe able to aid thy wish 
 es, my gentle Hildegard; but alas! what 
 availeth it to me to do so, I who am doomed 
 to perpetual sorrow and heart-ache ?' 
 
 " ' It does avail thee much, very much, Ule 
 rie. Thou canst save him, for if he die, my 
 heart will surely break. Ulerie, wilt thou 
 save me ?' 
 
 " Ulerie sighed heavily, and drawing^a sil 
 ver ring shaped like a serpent, from his little 
 finger, he placed it upon one of her snow- 
 white ringers, and kissing tenderly the hand 
 he held, said : 
 
 " ' Hildegard, I must obey thy wishes, if 
 only to show thee how truly I still love thee. 
 I know not thy purpose, I ask it not, for your 
 own sake, but I know that if it be in my power 
 to help you, it is through this mystic ring. It 
 was given to my father by the queen of the 
 fairies, to whom he had done a great kind 
 ness, and from him I received it with the 
 secret of its strange virtue and power. As 
 long as thou hast it in thy possession, thou 
 canst at any time attain thy lawful wishes, by 
 
 merely pronouncing the words which I now 
 tell thee.' 
 
 " He whispered in her ear, and as she 
 heard the magic words, a soft strain of music 
 seemed to breathe about them, as if to con 
 secrate the secret which had just been impart 
 ed to her keeping,. 
 
 " ' 0, Ulerie,' she exclaimed, ' noble-hearted 
 indeed thou art. Mayest thou be happier than 
 ever the companionship of poor Hildegard 
 could make thee, and thou wilt ; for are there 
 not many maidens whom thy love would re 
 joice, maidens far more beautiful, than is she 
 who will never cease to pray for and bless 
 thee?' 
 
 " Again offering her hand for his lips, the 
 gentle maiden turned and hurried away with 
 the talisman she had obtained. 
 
 " She had gone but a few steps, however, be 
 fore she paused, not knowing how to proceed 
 in the accomplishment of her object. Here 
 tofore she had only acted from uncalculating 
 impulse, the ardent desire to save the captive 
 knight. 
 
 " ' O, my talisman,' she exclaimed, ' would 
 that thou hadst the power to direct my steps. 
 But stay, let me not forget the mystic words,' 
 and she slowly repeated them in a whisper. 
 
 " Scarcely had she completed the words, 
 when the ring which had seemed to fit her fin 
 ger tightly, fell off upon the floor, rolling at 
 once towards a door in one corner of the 
 apartment. Hardly did Hildegard touch it 
 with her snow-white hand, when it turned 
 on its hinges, and gave her free passage 
 within. The ring still rolled on before her, 
 until the fair girl came to another door, low 
 and framed of knotty oak, fortified with thick 
 iron bars. Hildegard knew that she was at 
 the entrance of the flight of steps that led to 
 the corridor on which this cell then occupied 
 by the knight of Alcanta was situated. 
 
 " But now a beam of lambent flame formed 
 itself in the damp air, and darted against the 
 huge rusty lock which secured the door. The 
 heat was intense, the bolt was melted 
 with the bar and the door opened before the 
 astonished maiden's eyes. With reassured 
 heart as the flame went before her in the air, 
 she took the ring in her hand as she ascended 
 the steps : then an invigorating strength went 
 forth from the fairy gift, and braced her timid 
 heart as she threaded the deep passage. At
 
 122 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 last the tiny glittering flame stopped before 
 this door. Hildegard's breath came more 
 quickly, for she felt that this was the abode of 
 the knight whom she sought. Then trembling 
 ly she touched the door, which heavily swung 
 back before her, and she stood in the presence 
 of the prisoner. But the captive heeded not 
 the fair visiter he lay upon a pallet of straw, 
 chained and insensible. 
 
 " Hildegard bent over him, weeping with pity 
 and alarm. 
 
 " ' Alas !' she said, ' can it be that I am too 
 late ? Would that his life and strength were 
 restored, and those rude shackles were cast 
 from off his limbs.' 
 
 " Again was the magic ring most powerful ; 
 the mystic words had been spoken, the knight 
 arose, a sudden strength invigorated him; he 
 sprang upon his feet, and the chains dropped 
 in fragments upon the floor. 
 
 " ' Who art thou, fair one V he exclaimed, 
 gazing with wonder upon her beauty. 
 
 " ' I am Hildegard.' 
 
 " ' The daughter of the proud Count Rolfe ?' 
 asked the knight. 
 
 " ' I am his only child.' 
 
 " ' Alas ! that it should be that thou art the 
 child of such as he.' 
 
 " ' He has indeed been cruel to thee,' 
 said the gentle maiden. 
 
 " ' But by what strange power do you thus 
 release me, fair maiden ?' 
 
 " Hildegard replied quickly,though modestly, 
 for she felt that there was no time for delay. 
 
 " ' Sir knight, by the power of the magic 
 ring which I hold, I am able to release thee. 
 Fly ! fly instantly ! for I will show thee a free 
 passage from the castle walls, and the means 
 of escape from thence 1 have already provid 
 ed. Thou knowest well the character of my 
 father, and woe be to thee and to me if by 
 any chance we are discovered.' 
 
 " ' Let us away, quickly. Sir knight, follow 
 me at once.' 
 
 "'Lead on, dear lady, I will follow thee 
 where thou wilt.' 
 
 " Again the ring became their guide, and led 
 them by ways unknown to Hildegard before, 
 until they found themselves without the cas 
 tle walls at a quiet spot, and where stood a 
 coal-black steed, summoned by the fairy 
 power, pawing the earth and awaiting patient 
 
 ly for its rider to mount. Hildegard turned 
 to the knight with a flushing cheek. 
 
 " ' Sir knight,' she said, ' the way lays be 
 fore thee mayest thou soon be happy with 
 those thou lovest.' 
 
 " The knight of Alcanta turned upon Hilde 
 gard a mingled look of disappointment and 
 inquiry. 
 
 " < Fair maiden, I had thought that thou 
 wast to accompany me. I had fondly suppos 
 ed that thou wouldst be willing to become the 
 bride of him whom thou hast risked so much 
 to save. I cannot go from here alone without 
 thee.' 
 
 " ' Fly, fly, quickly, sir knight, before you 
 are discovered and retaken.' 
 
 " ' Without thee, never,' repeated the knight, 
 as, bending, he raised her to the horse's back 
 with one effort, and in the next moment he 
 was in the saddle, securing the trembling girl 
 with one. arm, while with the other he guided 
 the flying steed, as it dashed over the ground 
 at a speed that caused him to seem not to 
 touch the earth at all. 
 
 " ' Why tremblest thou, Hildegard ? Surely 
 thou dost love me, or thou wouldst not have 
 ventured so much in my behalf. Wilt thou 
 not then be the bride of one who will ever 
 love and cherish thee ?' 
 
 " A sigh only answered the question. 
 
 " ' Speak, and make me happy, gentle maid 
 en,' said the knight. 
 
 " ' What can I say at such a fearful moment 
 as this ?' she asked. 
 
 " ' Say only that you love me, gentle one. 
 It is all I ask.' 
 
 " A gentle sigh escaped the bosom of Hilde 
 gard, as she timidly looked up in the face of 
 the knight, and meeting there naught but 
 truthful and tender love, she bowed her head, 
 and a low murmur parted her lips. 
 
 " ' I am thine !' 
 
 "The knight gently kissed the blushing fore 
 head which pressed against his manly shoul 
 der, while onward flew the coal-black steed, 
 like the whirlwind rushing down the moun 
 tain's side. 
 
 " ' Hark !' said the maiden, in tones of af 
 fright, as a sound reached her ears. 
 
 " ' I hear nothing, gentle one.' 
 
 " ' Yes, there it is again, the braying of 
 hounds ; didst thou not hear it ?"
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 123 
 
 " ' Now, I do hear it, Hildegard, but our 
 steed is fleet.' 
 
 " ' Alas ! if my fears be true, not fleet 
 enough,' she sighed. 
 
 Then came on the startled ear the cry of 
 pursuers and the deep braying of hounds, as a 
 sudden gust of wind poured through the 
 forest depths almost with the force of a hurri 
 cane. 
 
 " ' O, Alcanta,' cried the maiden, shivering 
 with fear, ' those are the blood hounds of my 
 father. 0, sir knight, they pursue thee, and 
 will tear thee to pieces. It is I who impede 
 thy progress, leave me, dear knight ! It is 
 thy blood they seek.' 
 
 " ' Never, Hildegard !' exclaimed the knight. 
 ' Sooner now would I give up life itself than 
 thee.' 
 
 " ' If you love me, Alcanta, leave me here, 
 and make good your escape.' 
 
 " ' Because I love thee so well, I shall not 
 do so, gentle one.' 
 
 " Still nearer came the tumult and'the bray 
 ing of the hounds, and for a moment even 
 the forms of the pursuers opened upon 
 their sight, but were soon lost again by the 
 windings of the forest road. And now in 
 front of the fugitives there appeared a broad 
 river, rushing swiftly on its way to join the 
 waters of the Rhine. The knight paused 
 the witch hazel grew thickly about him, and 
 breaking off the lesser boughs and stems, he 
 strewed it across the path, and doubling on his 
 course, turned back for miles, until he came 
 to a narrow part of the river where he cross 
 ed. 
 
 " ' I know,' said he, ' the brood of those 
 yelping hounds. The witch hazel will damp 
 their zeal. They lose all power of scent af 
 ter crossing it, at least for a while, and they 
 will thus be puzzled to follow us.' 
 
 " ' Fair Hildegard,' said he, ' this eve shalt 
 thou be mine before the holy priest !' 
 
 " But now the worn-out steed began to flag 
 in his onward course, and at last stopped, 
 reeling with fatigue. Afar off was heard 
 the howling of Count Rolfe's blood hounds, 
 whose powers of scent had been foiled by 
 the power of the witch hazel. 
 
 " Again the knight urged on his tottering 
 steed, and again the animal leaped madly 
 forward, and trees and rocks and mountains 
 of strange aspect flew past them like a vision. 
 
 Then the astonished and wonder-stricken pair 
 found themselves borne through a living rock 
 which towered far up towards the heavens. 
 Now through cavernous depths, dark as the 
 mantle of night, on, on they were borne now 
 by some strange, invisible power, until at last 
 they emerged into a fertile country, more glo 
 riously beautiful than aught which they had 
 ever beheld. A purple cloud surrounded them 
 for an instant, and when it was again quickly 
 dispersed, they found themselves reclining in 
 the sweet prisonment of each other's arms upon 
 a soft grassy bank, where sprang wild flowers 
 all about them of gloriously varied hues, and 
 whose odor, more rich than that of Araby 
 the blest, brought soft incense of delight to 
 their impressible souls. 
 
 " How strange to them seemed all that they 
 now beheld. 
 
 " The coal-black steed had vanished from 
 their sight, and Hildegard and her lover knight 
 knew that they were in the realms of fairy 
 land, for they truly felt that splendor such as 
 now met their eyes, was not to be found on 
 mortal earth. 
 
 " Noble palms arose on every hand, bowing 
 their graceful, tufted heads, from out of which 
 came forth soft murmurs of winged love, while 
 rarest birds warbled in the air, and plumed 
 their gaudy feathers on the brink of tiny lakes, 
 and in the measureless distance which bound 
 ed the gazer's eye, were peaks of sapphire 
 tinged with gold or ruby light reflected from 
 skies more warm and glowing than poet's 
 tongue could tell. What a paradise for love ! 
 What a realm for Cupid ! 
 
 " ' O, is this not glorious ?' whispered the 
 timid maiden. 
 
 " ' So it be shared with you, it is a foretaste 
 of paradise.' 
 
 " And thus together they reclined in sweet 
 and innocent happiness of heart, entranced 
 with delight, gazing into the matchless fields 
 of light, or better s^ill. into the dearer and 
 more lovely depths of each other's eyes. 
 
 " Suddenly Hildegard started and pressed still 
 nearer to the side of the knight. 
 
 " ' What ails thee, dearest ?' he asked, softly 
 parting the hair from her forehead. 
 
 " 'Dost thou not hear?' replied the maiden, 
 with a fearful tremor. 
 
 " ' I hear nothing, sweet one ; thy fears have 
 made thee weak.'
 
 124 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 " ' Nay, dear Alcanta would that my fears 
 were groundless. Behold !' 
 
 " As she spoke, a dark vapor flashed across 
 the skies, and a burst of distant thunder rolled 
 upon the ear, while in its swelling volume 
 came again the foul chorus of blood hounds 
 opening on their prey. Hildegard now shriek 
 ed with frantic terror, and threw her white 
 arms round her lover as though she might thus 
 protect him from harm. Thus he held her ten 
 derly to his heart, while her gentle bosom 
 throbbed against his own. 
 
 " ' They come, they come, Alcanta they 
 will destroy thee.' 
 
 " ' Dear Hildegard,' he exclaimed, ' fear not 
 for me.' 
 
 " ' Alas ! there is a heavy weight upon my 
 soul, Alcanta. I feel that we must part.' 
 
 " ' Say not so, dear one. I will not part from 
 thee while life remains.' 
 
 " But, lo ! harsh voices came on their ears, 
 they looked up and found themselves at the 
 mercy of their foes, who, with the wrathful 
 Count Rolfe and his fiery eyed hounds, encir 
 cled them round. As he stood there before 
 them, the countenance of the ruthless chief 
 tain flashed like a burning brand. 
 
 " ' Ha ! thou thrice foolish Knight of Alcan 
 ta,' said the Count Rolfe, scornfully, ' didst 
 thou think that thou alone possessedst the key 
 to fairy land ?' 
 
 " Then signing to a grim attendant who stood 
 by his side, the man let fly an arrow from a 
 steel cross-bow. The weapon sped like light 
 ning and entered not the breast of Alcanta, 
 at which it was aimed but the fair bosom of 
 
 the gentle Hildegard, who, observing the foul 
 intent, had sprung impulsively forward to 
 shield the knight from harm ; and thus fatally 
 wounded, the maiden sank into the arms of 
 the horror stricken knight. 
 
 " ' 0, Alcanta, forgive me ! I had forgotten 
 the ring. Do thou ' 
 
 "Thus saying she swooned in the arms of the 
 knight, who was so overwhelmed with sorrow 
 that he heeded not the stern Count Rolfe, who 
 passionately called upon the dying girl, and 
 madly sought to stay the crimson life tide. 
 
 "' Hildegard, Hildegard, my daughter, I have 
 slain thee !' 
 
 " The sweet girl unclosed her eyes and turn 
 ed them on the half distracted count. 
 
 " ' Father, weep not, I freely forgive thee 
 only promise that thou wilt ever be kind to 
 him ! And now, dear Alcanta, how happy 
 am I that I die to save thee. One kiss before 
 1 leave thee in death.' 
 
 " ' Hildegard, my poor, lost Hildegard,' 
 groaned the father, in despair. 
 
 " ' What are the charmed words, dearest one,' 
 whispered Alcanta, ' tell me,' and stooping 
 down he bade her whisper them. 
 
 " In the next moment he had repeated them, 
 and taking the ring desired that he might die 
 with Hildegard, and pressing his lips fervently 
 to hers, they breathed their last together, clasp 
 ed in each other's arms. The haughty Count 
 Rolfe came home an altered man, and after 
 wards joined the crusades, and threw away his 
 life in desperate battle on the sacred fields of 
 Palestine, among the knights of the cross."
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 THE ESCAPE FROM PRISON. 
 
 " I was in this terrible situation when the basket stopt." ORIENTAL TALES. 
 
 " Fore heaven, a true Rhine legend, and 
 well told," said Karl Blasius, as his jailor end 
 ed his story. 
 
 But day after day brought no change to the 
 prisoner, and he saw no hopes either of escape 
 or of being released from the miserable life that 
 he now endured by the penalty of the law. 
 His only thoughts seemed now to be of her, 
 the fair Lady Gustine, who was the star that 
 might have guided him, under different cir 
 cumstances, from the crowd of evil influences 
 that had bound him from his youth. 
 
 Brooding over his hopeless love, and per 
 haps not insensible to the promptings of con 
 science, he grew so gloomy and melancholy 
 that he no longer heeded the visits of the jail 
 or, and, indeed, when he was addressed, often 
 seemed to forget to answer the interrogatory. 
 
 Observing this moody and harmless state, 
 which seemed of late to be ever upon him, his 
 keeper at last removed a portion of the heavy 
 chains that weighed him down to the floor of 
 the cell, and thus permitted him to walk back 
 and forth its entire length, and he could even 
 by managing to climb a little, reach the only 
 aperture through which light and air was ad 
 mitted to his prison room, a small window 
 strongly secured with iron bars. On the sup 
 
 port afforded by the indenture that served for 
 the window, he would sit for hours together, 
 and watch, through the gratings, the passing 
 of the crafts that navigated the river, far, far 
 below the cliff on which the castle was built. 
 
 Thus occupied, he seemed at last to be 
 once more brought back to a realizing sense of 
 his situation, and a desire once more to enjny 
 the liberty which he had so long been deprived 
 of. He finally resolved, if only for his amuse 
 ment, to saw away the bars that confined his 
 window, so that he could remove them and re 
 place them at will, though in proposing to do 
 this, he could hardly be said even to entertain 
 the probability of its aiding in his escape ; the 
 thing did not seem possible even with the best 
 of aids and instruments for the purpose, none 
 of which he possessed. The river was a hun 
 dred feet below him, at the base of the rock 
 on which the castle was built, and there was 
 not an inch of room or ground that he could 
 see, which might serve as a foothold between his 
 cell and the river's bed. But still it would 
 amuse him to try the experiment upon the 
 bars, and so he worked with a broken link of 
 chain that he found in his cell, and by con 
 ducting his operations at the right time, he was 
 unsuspected by his keeper. A large portion
 
 126 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 of the clear moonlight nights was thus occu 
 pied, because at that time he was less liable to 
 interruption, and finally by dint of an immense 
 amount of labor, he sawed away two of the 
 cross bars. A third cost him more labor than 
 the other two, being new and well tempered, 
 but with indomitable perseverance lie still work 
 ed on until even that at last yielded to his ef 
 forts, and he was then enabled to take them all 
 out and replace them again at will in a mo 
 ment of time. 
 
 Since the bars could now be removed, he was 
 enabled to thrust his head out of the window, 
 which he was careful to do only at such times 
 as he was most sure of not being observed, and 
 thus he could scan the entire outside of his 
 prison, or that portion fronting the river. He 
 found that this side had been deemed suffi 
 ciently guarded by its natural situation, and 
 therefore no sentinel was posted in a position 
 to overlook it. Having noted this important 
 fact, he carefully scanned the face of the rock, 
 and his keen eye detected, at some thirty-five 
 or forty feet below his window, a small, 
 narrow crevice in the rock large enough for a 
 foothold, and in a direct line below his cell. 
 He considered this discovery all-important, and 
 thought upon it for many days, until at last he 
 conceived the idea of making a rope by which 
 he might descend thus far. and then again by 
 means of the same rope and one of the iron 
 bars placed in the crevice of the rock, to lower 
 himself down to the bed of the river below. 
 He had of late, through the jailor's kindness, 
 been allowed a rough, coarse bed stuffed with 
 tow to lie upon, and upon this tow he set him 
 self to work most industriously, to form him 
 self a strong cord or rops. 
 
 Days, weeks, and even months passed on in 
 the unvarying course of time, and still the 
 robber chief remained in his cell, apparently 
 forgotten by the world without his prison walls. 
 But not a moment of this time was lost by 
 him ; he was constantly and secretly engaged 
 upon the construction of his rope, with which 
 he confidently hoped to cheat the law, and 
 make good his escape. It grew in his hands 
 but slowly, yet it did increase in length each 
 day, though ever so little, for it was braided 
 and twisted with no little skill and strength. 
 The robber knew very well that his life 
 might depend upon its power to safely sustain 
 his weight, and that the least flaw or weak 
 
 spot in its entire construction, might cost him 
 his life, and thus prompted, he could hardly be 
 too particular. At last his rope was complet 
 ed, eked out and strengthed by strips taken 
 from the under binding of his bedtick. He 
 had just carefully surveyed his work and fair 
 ly concluded that it was completed, so far as 
 the construction of the rope was concerned, 
 one day, when he heard the jailor approaching 
 his cell at an unusual hour, and he had hardly 
 time to secrete his rope before the turnkey en 
 tered, evidently with some news to communi 
 cate. 
 
 "Well, prisoner," said he, " you and I will 
 probably part ere long." 
 
 " Indeed ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " And how soon ?" 
 
 " Within a very few days, I should judge," 
 replied the jailor. 
 
 " How so ?" asked Karl, while he secretly 
 hoped it might be true, though perhaps not in 
 the way the jailor expected. 
 
 " Why, you see, the grand tribunal have at 
 last called for your trial, and they tell me to 
 see you prepared to appear before them." 
 
 " They have taken their own time for the 
 trial," replied the robber. 
 
 " It is true they have been more than usual 
 ly forgetful in your case." 
 
 " Still I am obliged to them," said the rob 
 ber, half smiling, "since it has given me a 
 longer period to live." 
 
 " Why, yes, that's true, for every one knows 
 you are sure to be condemned, and when that's 
 the case, why every hour of such delay is 
 just so much clear gain to the prisoner, ac 
 cording to my reckoning. But you are to ap 
 pear before the judges now, and therefore if 
 you have any little matters that you wish to 
 arrange before you die, there is no time for 
 further delay." 
 
 " When did you say the trial is to take 
 place ?" asked the robber, with a coolness that 
 surprised the jailor. 
 
 " It will be commenced to-morrow, I sup 
 pose, as you are ordered to be then brought 
 before them." 
 
 " So soon ?" said the robber, thoughtfully ; 
 " well, well, perhaps it is as well." 
 
 " 1 think that every man, let his crime be 
 what it may, should be told when he is about 
 to be cast out of this world, and therefore I
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 127 
 
 didn't hesitate to tell you that you are sure to 
 be condemned, and must be prepared for it." 
 
 " I expect to be condemned," replied Karl 
 Blasius, almost indifferently. 
 
 " And to lose your head within a week," 
 added the turnkey. 
 
 " That I supposed would naturally follow 
 the condemnation." 
 
 " If the court do not object, I will procure 
 you a priest before the last day." 
 
 " Thank you, my good man," said the rob 
 ber, a little ironically. 
 
 " By-the-way," continued the turnkey, " you 
 must have much to confess that lays heavily 
 on yeur soul ; you whose life has been spent 
 
 arms aga inst the laws and your fellow-men, 
 and whose profession has been that of a rob 
 ber." 
 
 " Do you think so ?" said Karl Blasius, 
 coolly, half musing to himself. "I could, it 
 is true, confess many sins of my own, and 
 many too of other people's, of those high in 
 life, high in office, and honored by the peo 
 ple." 
 
 " You don't mean to say," continued the 
 jailor, somewhat eagerly, " that you can im 
 plicate such people as you name with your 
 own crimes ? If so, such a disclosure might 
 possibly lead to your pardon, as an evidence 
 for the state." 
 
 "Not in the light that you mean," said the 
 robber. " 1 could prove them guilty of worse 
 things than a wayside robbery, where a rich 
 man's purse alone is lightened. They deal in 
 different traffic, and steal away the rights of 
 the poor." 
 
 " It is not for me to discuss this matter," 
 replied the jailor, whose sympathies, as he be 
 longed to the latter class, were half with the 
 robber. " But remember to-morrow, at the 
 mid-day hour, when I shall come for thee." 
 
 The robber smiled contemptuously as the 
 turnkey closed and locked the door behind 
 him, and being satisfied that he should not 
 again be disturbed before the morrow, he com 
 menced openly to prosecute his design rela 
 tive to his escape. He saw that there was no 
 longer time for delay, and that if he would 
 succeed at all, the attempt must be made that 
 very night, as to-morrow's sun might light 
 him to the block. His time had come for ac 
 tion, and he was prepared. 
 
 The rope which he had constructed was 
 
 seventy feet in length, for he had reasoned 
 well that it was better it should be too long 
 than too short, as in the latter event he would 
 be placed in a terrible situation. The rope 
 or cord was now uncoiled from the inside of 
 his bed, and arranged beneath his cell window 
 for immediate use, and a few other brief pre 
 liminary arrangements were also made. As 
 night came on, he was enabled to make a cal 
 culation relative to the moon, which showed 
 him that it would leave that side of the prison 
 walls in shadow before midnight, and still af 
 ford him sufficient light to consummate his 
 purpose. 
 
 To one end of the rope he now attached one 
 of the loose bars, and lowered it from bis win 
 dow, to try the precise distance to the crevice 
 in the ledge, and though he could not apparent 
 ly quite reach the spot, yet he calculated that 
 his length of body would make up the slight 
 difference when added to the rope, and thus 
 enable him to reach it in safety. This dis 
 tance, of course, was measured hurriedly, and 
 with only one half length of the rope, it being 
 all that he could be able to use in his ascent, 
 as it must be doubled about one of the remain 
 ing bars of the window, that he might be en 
 abled to draw it after him when he had once 
 reached the crevice, inasmuch as from that 
 point he would take a fresh start to reach the 
 river's bed far below, and this must be done 
 with the same rope. 
 
 He had just unloosed more of his rope, the 
 better to sound the exact distance from his 
 window to the ledge, when he was suddenly 
 interrupted by the approach of footsteps. 
 This was most unfortunate and unexpected to 
 him ; his rope and one of the bars of the win 
 dow were on the outside, and he had only 
 time to replace the other two bars and put 
 matters to rights on the cell floor, when the 
 door opened and a couple of judges and a 
 clerk, with other attendants, entered. J't re 
 quired all his self-possession to prevent him 
 from exposing himself, and many were the 
 fears that crossed his mind, lest the missing 
 bar should be noticed. After certain cere 
 monies, Karl was informed that the necessary 
 formula of a trial would be performed in his 
 cell, and as there could be no possible doubt 
 with regard to his guilt, it would be of the 
 briefest character; that this plan had been 
 adopted partly to avoid unnecessary publicity,
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 and partly to prevent the excitement that 
 would necessarily attend the trial of so noted 
 a criminal. This having been duly signified 
 to him, Karl Blasius was then formally ar 
 raigned before the court, and asked what he 
 had to say for himself. 
 
 " As to what point ?" aslced the prisoner, 
 standing with a calm, unconcerned air before 
 them. 
 
 " Your guilt, or innocence." 
 
 " I am guilty of what you charge me with." 
 
 " You acknowledge it then ?" 
 
 Freely." 
 
 " Are you aware, prisoner, that this conces 
 sion leads to the loss of your life ?" asked one 
 of the judges, in surprise. 
 
 " Perfectly." 
 
 " This will save much time and trouble, at 
 any rate," said another. 
 
 " 1 frankly acknowledge that I am guilty, 
 gentlemen," said Karl Blasius, " and as expe 
 dition seems to be quite an object with you, 
 this plea on my part, I conceive, settles the 
 whole business, and I presume there is no fur 
 ther occasion for ceremony." 
 
 After a moment's consultation among them 
 selves, they seemed to have settled the affair 
 to their entire satisfaction, and in a few mo 
 ments, the chief judge, turning to the prison 
 er, said : 
 
 " It is enough ; you are found guilty, and 
 are sentenced to be beheaded this day week, 
 at sun rise." 
 
 " This day week, at sun rise," repeated the 
 clerk, entering the sentence upon the records. 
 
 " Prisoner, we commend you to God," said 
 the judges, as they withdrew from the cell. 
 
 Again was the robber left alone to consum 
 mate his plans of escape. Congratulating 
 himself on the fact that he had not been de 
 tected, notwithstanding the missing bar from 
 the window, he once more turned his atten 
 tion to the object which had so long engaged 
 him. Having at last completed his arrange 
 ments, at about midnight he prepared to put 
 his plan into operation. He passed his rope 
 of tow, ticking and other materials, around 
 one of the permanent bars within the window, 
 and with one of the loose bars attached to the 
 two ends, lowered them down to the extent of 
 the rope, and then, after examining himself, 
 the rope, and taking all the precautions that 
 suggested themselves to his mind, he cau 
 
 tiously hung himself out upon the rope by his 
 hand, and commenced slowly to descend ! 
 
 His peculiar manner of life had often ac 
 customed him to situations of imminent peril, 
 and he had looked death in the face unblanch- 
 ed an hundred times, but he had been poorly 
 fed in prison ; he had been shut out from the 
 air of heaven, to breathe the dampness of a 
 dungeon ; his limbs had been weighed down 
 a large portion of the time by heavy irons, 
 and his physical powers had thus been weak 
 ened. He was not so strong as of yore, and 
 therefore it is not to be wondered at that his 
 heart should beat so quickly, and that his breath 
 should come and go so rapidly, while he was 
 suspended in this truly perilous situation. He 
 scarcely dared to look below him, lest he should 
 become dizzy and fall. 
 
 There was, of course, no chance for footing 
 of any kind ; indeed soon after leaving the 
 window, he passed the foundation of the castle 
 walls, and after that the rock receded slightly, 
 so that he hung clear from it altogether, and 
 descended by the strength of his arms alone, 
 without even his feet to guide him, in his 
 downward course. It is a most fearful sensa 
 tion that of a descent in the dark, and more 
 especially with but uncertain aim, and the 
 chance of instant destruction ever before you. 
 But the robber had summoned all his courage, 
 and still he descended steadily, watching for 
 the foothold that he had so carefully noted 
 from above. Though he feels much weaker 
 than when he left the window, yet hope still 
 nerves his arm, and he holds fast to the rope. 
 
 Now he pauses, and holds his way for a 
 single moment. Was that an alarm that he 
 heard above him, or merely the challenge of 
 the sentinels, as they relieved the midnight 
 guard ? Yes, that must be it, and still down 
 ward he goes slowly and carefully. 
 
 Now he finds, by the motion of the rope, 
 that he must be fast approaching its end, and 
 again he looks eagerly for the crevice, but he 
 cannot discover it, until at length he has 
 reached the very extent of the rope, and the 
 spot that to his eye had seemed so near from 
 above, now proves to be still far below him ! 
 What was to be done ? To go back over the 
 rope, was a feat that none but the most expert 
 performer of legerdemain could have done, 
 and yet with the awful prospect of destruc 
 tion before him, the robber attempted it. 
 
 The next number of this work will be issued on Saturday, May ISth.
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIIL [CONTINUED.] 
 
 He could not however raise himself eren one 
 hand above the other. His natural strength 
 would not here suffice for the performance of 
 the feat, as we have said, he was very 
 much weakened by hardship. 
 
 What an age he lived, in every moment he 
 hung there, upon the side of the naked rock ! 
 
 His mind, with that strange vividness that 
 it assumes in moments of danger, seemed to 
 comprehend with the utmost minuteness every 
 detail of th'e entire course of his eventful 
 life. He thought of the terrible fate that 
 must instantly be his, if he should let go his 
 hold, yet he knew full well that he could not 
 long remain thus. Then his active mind even 
 went through with a series of speculations as 
 to what the jailor and the judges would think 
 had become of him, the surprise that would 
 suffuse their countenances, when they found 
 the rope and the iron bars ; and then he won 
 dered whether he would die before he reached 
 the water, by dashing his brains out against 
 the rocks, or whether he should become in 
 sensible from suffocation in descending so 
 quickly. 
 
 " O, God ! " groaned he, with the agony of 
 pain that thrilled through his arms as he hung 
 thus reflecting. 
 
 Then he speculated, during this lightning- 
 like operation of his thoughts, as to whether 
 
 a minute account of his attempt to escape 
 would ever reach the ears of the lady Gus- 
 tine, and what she would say and think of 
 him when she heard of his tragical death ; 
 and soon a shade of envy found place, as he 
 compared his own situation with regard to the 
 lady, with that of Robert Stanley. 
 
 All this flood of thoughts, and their elabo 
 rate threads and divergings, were the impres 
 sions of little more than an instant ! 
 
 His wrists seemed to become numb and 
 senseless, or rather he could experience only 
 a prickling sensation in them. One by one it 
 seemed to him that the cords and sinews 
 snapped and gave way, until his left hand un 
 loosed its hold, and he hung by the fingers of 
 his right hand only, which seemed to retain 
 their grasp more by a spasmodic effort than 
 from any power of the will. He had now no 
 control over them, he even thought that he 
 could not let go if he wished to do so ! 
 
 Once more he groaned audibly and called 
 upon his Maker ! 
 
 Karl Blasius felt that his hour had at last 
 come indeed ; that the end of his earthly ca 
 reer, with all his sins unshrired, was upon 
 him. He tried to utter a brief prayer, but his 
 tongue clove to the roof of his mouth ; he tried 
 to utter a cry of pain, for anything would
 
 132 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 have been a relief to him, but he had no long 
 er the power of utterance left him. 
 
 At last his brain began to reel, and he lost 
 the command of his reasoning faculties. It 
 was a happy moment for him, for all con 
 sciousness was instantly gone, and he burst 
 forth into an involuntary, idiotic laugh ! 
 
 As that hoarse, deep laugh rang out upon 
 the night air, the sinews of hjs right hand 
 unloosed their tension, and the robber fell 
 headlong through the air. Down, down he 
 went, all unconscious, but with the speed al 
 most of lightning itself, until without striking 
 the rock at all, he fell into the swift running 
 water, and disappeared at once beneath its 
 surface. For a moment they closed over him, 
 but with the rising bubbles of air, his body 
 came once more to the surface. But as he 
 remained inactive and unconscious, again he 
 disappeared, swept by the current down 
 stream to some distance below the base of the 
 rock, upon whose crowning height stood the 
 castle that had so long been his prison. 
 
 The sharp chill of the water, and the se 
 cond immersion beneath its surface, seemed to 
 revive the robber to a degree of partial con 
 sciousness, and fortunate was it for him that 
 he had fainted when he fet go his hold upon 
 the rope, for had he commenced that rapid 
 descent with full consciousness, the immedi 
 ate effect must have been strangulation. As 
 it was, he now seemed most miraculously to 
 breathe again ; and after looking in half con-' 
 sciousness about him for a moment, made the 
 natural efforts of a person who had once been 
 taught to swim, to sustain himself upon the 
 surface, and even struck out with his limbs, 
 though very feebly, yet with sufficient strength 
 to keep him afloat. 
 
 So weak was the body, that even these ef 
 forts were every other moment retarded, nor 
 
 renewed until he found himself sinking again, 
 when it would seem to rouse him to a mo 
 ment's fresh exertion. But though the rob 
 ber's bodily strength was so nearly exhausted, 
 yet, strange to say, his mental faculties seemed 
 to have recovered again from the shock they 
 had received, and his brain, with a strange 
 pertinacity, was again busy in its almost mi 
 raculous comprehensiveness, once more rush 
 ing with the speed of light, over the broad 
 world of imagination and thought. At one 
 mental flash, as it were, he canvassed the 
 fearful scene and trial that he had but just 
 passed through, and even then, as he lay half 
 immersed in the river, with present danger 
 staring him in the face, he shuddered as he 
 recalled his last moments of consciousness 
 while he hung suspended upon the rope by a 
 single hand. 
 
 He fully realized the complete weakness 
 of his body, and reasoned as to whether it was 
 best to guide himself to the shore, or whether 
 to float on still further. In the first instance 
 he would gain rest and strength at once, but 
 run a fearful risk of being discovered and re 
 taken before he would be able to make any 
 very strenuous effort to escape from the neigh 
 borhood ; whereas every moment that passed 
 over him now, served to place him further and 
 further from the hated vacuity of his late 
 place of confinement. Had it not been for 
 the swiftness of the current which gives any 
 body floating upon its surface additional buoy 
 ancy, he could hardly have been able to sus 
 tain himself by so slight an exertion of 
 strength ; but this was greatly in his favor, 
 and as he thus gasped and feebly struck out 
 with his hands, he was sweeping swiftly and 
 steadily on towards the bosom of the German 
 Ocean. 

 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 BILL THE BOLD. 
 
 The contrast of the hardened and mature, 
 
 The calm brow brooding o'er the project dark, 
 
 With the clean, loving heart, and spirit pure 
 Of youth I love yet, hating, love to mark ! H. FLETCHER. 
 
 THE reader must come with us now to the 
 tap-room of St. Giles, where we first introduc 
 ed him to the prominent characters of our 
 story. It is about a month prior to the night 
 in which the melee occurred, when Sir Rob 
 ert Brompton and Walter Manning rescued 
 their young protegee from the vile den of 
 thieves and assassins. The appearance of 
 the room and its usual belongings, are the 
 same as we have before described. A motley 
 oroup are gathered about one of the side ta 
 bles, whereon are placed glasses and decan 
 ters, either filled or partially so, with the mis 
 erable liquor which such a place might be sup 
 posed to afford, while the apartment is filled 
 with clouds of srrfoke and the dense fumes of 
 tobacco. 
 
 Mother Giles, as the frequenters of this 
 vile rendezvous had nick-named the woman 
 who acted the hostess here, was in her usual 
 place behind the bar. On some convivial oc 
 casion, it was declared that she was the pre 
 siding goddess of the district, and ever after 
 she was known by the euphonious title of 
 Mother Giles. There she was behind the 
 rough counter, with her blackened pipe in her 
 mouth, and her cunning, watchful eye, so gray 
 and small, taking in at a glance the entire 
 company, though ostensibly she was most 
 
 quietly awaiting her customers' wishes. The 
 scene, if minutely described, would not vary 
 much from that of a subsequent night, with 
 which the reader is already familiar, save that 
 one of the present company seemed to be a 
 new comer, and over his arrival the rest were 
 drinking and making merry with song and 
 jest. 
 
 Some ten or a dozen individuals sat at the 
 largest table that the room afforded, embracing 
 in their number as hard and villanous a look 
 ing set of characters as could well be found in 
 the same number of persons ; such a hideous 
 array of countenances, any one of which 
 would have graced a frontispiece for the New 
 gate Calender! But he who seemed to be 
 the guest of the occasion, deserves more than 
 a passing notice from us in this place. He 
 was a man of the ordinary height, rather 
 thick set, and of some thirty-five or forty 
 years of age. He must have been handsome 
 once, for there was still a high commanding 
 forehead, a fine expressive eye, spite of the 
 ravages of intemperance and of physical neg 
 lect, and there was a curling of the lip anoa 
 half-contemptuous expression often upon his 
 face, that seemed to show that he scorned the 
 grovelling spirits about him, and yet he was 
 convivial and most sociable with every one.
 
 134 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 His companions were supplying him freely 
 with the contents of the bottle, and its effects 
 were already somewhat apparent in the glib- 
 ness of his tongue, and an animation and life 
 that were very evidently forced and unnat 
 ural. 
 
 " Here's a health to Mother Giles," said 
 one of the company, challenging the rest. 
 
 " Mother Giles," echoed a dozen voices, 
 while they tossed off their drink. 
 
 " Mother Giles," said the guest, emptying 
 his glass of the contents. 
 
 " Come, on with your story, comrade," said 
 one who sat near him. 
 
 " Yes, on with the story," chimed in a half- 
 dozen voices, eagerly. 
 
 " Ay, ay, let me see, where was I last ?" he 
 asked, musing. 
 
 " In the Caribbean Sea with Montbars and 
 Red Rupert," said one. 
 
 " Ah ! true. Well, they were brave men, 
 both of them, comrades, though Rupert, who 
 was Montbars' lieutenant, soon outstripped 
 his leader, and sailed the finest craft that ever 
 floated in the Spanish Indies. 
 
 "Well, I shipped with him and a bloody 
 time we had of it, for Red Rupert was half an 
 Indian by blood, and the fellow thought no 
 more of taking the lives of half a dozen Span 
 iards, than I should of drinking as many 
 glasses of wine. His father was a Spanish 
 governor somewhere on the Isthmus, and had 
 made love to his mother, a Darien princess, 
 whom he afterwards deserted, but the woman 
 brought up her son after the real Indian fash 
 ion, to hate and revenge, and a bitter enemy 
 he proved to the Spaniards, when he did grow 
 tip ; he killed for revenge, but the rest of us 
 fought for gold and booty. It wasn't very 
 often that he would attack any other ves 
 sel but the Spaniards, but their galleons once 
 in sight, he never let them escape him. It's 
 rather queer, messmates, for after all, he was 
 in love with a Spanish girl all the while, and 
 I believe he give up to go and marry her, and 
 live quietly on shore together." 
 
 " Sich is love," gulped out one of the half- 
 drunken company, with a silly leer. 
 
 "Red Rupert was a generous and noble 
 chap, and we all loved him, and when we 
 parted, we left the clipper craft, the Darien, 
 with our pockets lined with gold, and our 
 hearts full of regret at giving up such profit 
 
 able service, under such a brave captain. A 
 party of us, tired of this exposed and danger 
 ous life, shipped from St. Domingo for Havre, 
 and from thence I went up to Paris at once, 
 where I soon lost myself, as you may be assur 
 ed, in the vortex of fun, rascality and busi 
 ness, of the French capital. 
 
 " Well, comrade, how came you to leave 
 there ?" asked one of the party, knocking the 
 ashes from his pipe, while the whole party 
 prepared to fill their glasses for another dram. 
 
 " You can easily guess, if you have a mind 
 to," replied the new comer, with a sarcastic 
 smile upon his features, as he took up a farth 
 ing candle, and drew the blaze into his pipe to 
 light the tobacco. 
 
 "Probably induced by a desire to travel," 
 suggested one, humorously. 
 
 " Or you came over to look after a large for 
 tune that had been left you by a deceased 
 aunt," suggested another. 
 
 " A dead aunt ! Gammon !" said another, 
 too much intoxicated to take the idea as it was 
 intended. 
 
 " You are right," replied the new comer, 
 without noticing the last speaker, " I came 
 over to look for a fortune, that's it." 
 
 " Give us some hot water here, Mother 
 Giles, to make the liquor taste a little stronger, 
 it's had enough cold put into it already, eh, 
 old skinflint ?" This came from one who had 
 not before spoken. 
 
 " Ay, some hot water," said two or three, 
 " give us some hot water." 
 
 " In a moment, gentlemen, in a moment," 
 replied the woman, " but as to the strength of 
 the liquor, let me tell you that it's very strange 
 you have not found out that it is weak, before. 
 I say that it is the best." 
 
 " Shut up, old crone,' we can't have any 
 preaching here," said one, who seemed to com 
 mand some respect among his fellows; "give 
 us the water, that's all we want of you." 
 
 Thus appealed to, the matron of the estab 
 lishment gave the necessary orders for the ar 
 ticle, through a side door, without leaving her 
 position, and soon after, while the party were 
 indulging in a low, bacchanalian song, the wa 
 ter was brought in by Edith, and placed be 
 fore them in a steaming pitcher. He who had 
 been telling his story as the guest of the party, 
 turned round at the same moment to help 
 himself to a portion of the water to add to his
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 135 
 
 glass of gin, when his eyes fell upon the girl. 
 The glass he held fell instantly to the earth, 
 and the liquor was spilled upon the persons of 
 his companions, while amazement seemed 
 wholly to possess him. Half rising in his 
 seat, he seemed struck as though he had be 
 held a spirit ; he gazed earnestly and trembled 
 with excitement, yet he did not utter one sylla 
 ble in explanation of his strange conduct. 
 Edith, wondering at the manner in which he 
 regarded her, after a moment's pause, return 
 ed to the back room, presuming the man to 
 have become mad with liquor. 
 
 His companions hardly knew what to make 
 of his strange conduct. 
 
 " Bill, what in the name of reason has 
 started you x so ?" asked the person sitting near 
 est to him. " Eh, my boy, does the sight of 
 a petticoat always affect you in that queer 
 fashion ?" 
 
 " Who is that girl ?" he asked with a long 
 drawn breath, as though he had not dared to 
 breathe before, and still keeping his eyes bent 
 upon the doorat which Edith had disappeared. 
 
 " Who is she ?" replied one of the revellers 
 close by his side, while he turned an intelli 
 gent look at the others. " Why that is Edith 
 Giles, Mother Giles' youngest /" 
 
 " She was so very, very like, that it brought 
 the old feeling over me again, most strangely," 
 said the new comer, sadly, and half musing to 
 himself, as he sat down once more to the table 
 with a heavy sigh. 
 
 " O, you've been in love, old chap, you 
 didn't tell us of that," said one of the party 
 opposite to him. 
 
 " Come, come," said half a dozen at once, 
 " give us the love story." 
 
 " Excuse me," said the new companion, 
 " on this point you must excuse me." 
 
 " No excuse, no excuse, let us have the love 
 story," said the merry party, all of whom 
 were more or less overcome by the spirit which 
 they had drunk, and which the hot water was 
 fast sending into their heads. 
 
 There was a few moments' pause after this 
 boisterous call, during which time the new 
 comer seemed to be gathering his thoughts, and 
 recalling the records of memory from dates 
 long since passed away. 
 
 " There are moments, comrades," he said, 
 with a stern and manly expression on his face, 
 " in the lives of us all, abandoned and wretch 
 
 ed as we are, which should be held sacred, re 
 lating to circumstances which are recurred to 
 only in our lonely moments, when we find 
 time to commune with our own hearts. You 
 understand me. I cannot speak upon the sub 
 ject to which you refer." 
 
 As he said this, his head sank upon his 
 breast, and he seemed for some moments com 
 pletely lost in the memories of the past, until 
 the jeer of a neighboring companion aroused 
 him, and raising his eyes and finding himself 
 the object of universal observation and remark, 
 he arouse'd himself, and called loudly and with 
 forced spirits upon Mother Giles for a fresh 
 bottle of gin. 
 
 Leaving his companions for a moment, the 
 new comer addressed a few words to the wo 
 man in an undertone, the matter of which evi 
 dently related to the girl. But it was very 
 evident from his manner, that the information 
 elicited from her was of no satisfactory char 
 acter, for he came back to his seat at the table 
 still more dejected than before, and thus moody 
 and unsociable, he threw himself down again 
 among his companions. But the party had no 
 idea of permitting their guest thus to be ab 
 sorbed in melancholy on his own private affairs. 
 They were convened for his sake, and deter 
 mined to enjoy him. 
 
 " Why, look ye, Bill," said one of the party, 
 " what sort of a cud are you chewing?" 
 
 " Has the girl bewitched ye ?" asked ano 
 ther, close by his side, 
 
 " We shall have to walk him out and show 
 him some of our London girls," said another. 
 
 " Gentlemen, spare me," said their guest, 
 arousing from his reverie. 
 
 " Drink then," said his nearest neighbor, 
 challeiging him in a glass. 
 
 " Certainly, let us all drink, gentlemen," he 
 added, suiting the action to the word. 
 
 Thus thoroughly aroused once more by the 
 jeers of his companions, he resorted again and 
 again to the bottle, until after frequent liba- 
 tiqns, and deep draughts of the vile compound, 
 the vacant eye and inarticulate utterance b> 
 trayed the state of intoxication to be quite 
 complete with most of the party. And finally, 
 arnid half formed jokes and unfinished stories, 
 one by one, they dropped off their seats in a 
 state of insensibility, until the last one was 
 lost in oblivion, and lay with the rest. 
 
 It was now long past midnight, and save the
 
 136 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 heavy breathing of the revellers, all was si 
 lent. 
 
 Then it was that the character of the wo 
 man who had remained thus patiently at her 
 post, behind the bar, fully displayed itself. 
 Coming out from her professional box, she cau 
 tiously surveyed the drunken group to make 
 sure that all were soundly asleep, and then 
 gathered the glasses arid decanters carefully 
 together, and put each in its appropriate place, 
 then extinguishing all but a single lamp, she 
 proceeded with a quietness and dexterity that 
 betrayed her long practice, to examine the 
 pockets of her customers, who were now 
 neither in a state to realize this liberty, nor re 
 sist the perpetrator of it. They were not of 
 a class likely to have much money about their 
 persons. In most of their pockets she found 
 nothing, some afforded her a few shillings and 
 others only a few pennies, but all were eagerly 
 appropriated by the old woman. When she 
 came to the stranger, he who had been the 
 guest of the party that night, she evinced 
 more than ordinary curiosity, and on empty 
 ing his pocket, she found a sovereign. How 
 her little trembling gray eyes glistened at the 
 sight of the gold, how her hands trembled as 
 she thrust it into her pocket, starting as she 
 did so at some slight sound and at a slight 
 movement of the sleeper himself, who seemed 
 to be aware of some disturbance to his sottish 
 slumber. But he did not awake, and the wo- 
 man moved on, not permitting even the mean 
 est of her guests to escape her pilfering search. 
 This 'villany being at last consummated, 
 the woman deliberately counted over her spoils 
 upon the counter, and then tied the mcney up 
 in a calico bag and replaced it in her pocket, 
 after which she retired into the back part of 
 the dilapidated building, and after soundly up 
 braiding Edith, whom she found asleep in a 
 chair, she bade her go to bed, in a harsn, un 
 feeling tone. 
 
 " Yes, ma'am," replied the child, submis 
 sively, as she prepared to obey this direction. 
 " And look here, girl," said the woman. 
 " Yes, ma'am." 
 
 " When people look at you in the bar-room, 
 don't you stand gazin' at 'em back agin, but 
 you just come in here where you belong. Do 
 you understand that ?" 
 " Yes, ma'am." 
 
 " Now make haste and go to bed, or you 
 wont be good for anything in the morning." 
 
 Go to bed indeed ! You should have seen 
 the process this woman denominated " going 
 to bed." Edith opened a sort of closet or ash 
 hole on one side of the cheerless fire-place, 
 and scraping out a few handsful of straw, 
 gathered them in a small heap in one corner 
 of the room, and placing an old, tattered gar 
 ment that must once have been a man's 
 overcoat upon the straw, wound herself up 
 in it, and getting as nearly as possible to the 
 wall, fell at once into a" sleep so quiet and mo 
 tionless that you could have envied her in 
 your heart, her forgetfulness, and the sweet 
 innocence that could sleep so soundly on such 
 abed. 
 
 The woman returned, after she had passed 
 through this back room twice to satisfy herself 
 that she had secured everything under lock 
 and key in her bar room, and the last time 
 came and held the lamp close to Edith's face, 
 seeming half vexed that the child had so 
 quickly gone to sleep. There was a large cat 
 that came over from the opposite side of the 
 fire-place, after the woman had gone out for 
 the last time, and her steps told that she had 
 really gone to her chamber, and nestling close 
 to Edith's side, she rubbed her cold nose 
 against the sleeper's hand to attract her atten 
 tion. There was no lamp burning, and the 
 dying embers upon the hearth gave but a sick 
 ly light through the room. The animal half 
 awoke the lone child, who aroused sufficiently 
 to throw her arms about the dumb creature, 
 which expressed its delight by purring soberly, 
 and thus both were soon asleep together. 
 
 Such were some of the scenes of Edith's 
 life, and such the lot she shared previous to 
 the eventful night which is described in the 
 opening chapter of this story, when Sir Rob 
 ert Brompton rescued and adopted her. 
 
 As days passed on, the new comer, who 
 was known among his comrades as Bill the 
 Bold, though the appellation was not always 
 added by his comrades, became a constant vis- 
 iter and patron of Mother Giles and the tap 
 room, and though he patronized the bar libe 
 rally, and always paid for what he called for, 
 yet he was never again found in the beastly 
 ondition which completed his first night's: 
 carousal there. The fact was, on the night 
 referred to, he had become much excited, some
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 137 
 
 inward devil spurred him forward, and drove 
 him x to seek forgetfulness in the fiery stimu 
 lus, and he had departed from his usual cus 
 tom in relation to drink. 
 
 He seemed to be much engrossed in Edith, 
 not that he said much to her or of her, to any 
 one else, but yet he watched her constantly 
 whenever she was present, and on such occa 
 sions, his CLM.panions found it was not to their 
 advantage to disturb the train of thoughts that 
 seemed to possess his brain. Once or twice 
 he gave Edith some article of comfortable clo 
 thing that she obviously needed, but he made 
 her no other gifts, and the child, though she 
 came to know him as the boldest of all the 
 villains who made the tap room their head 
 quarters, yet rather counted him as her friend, 
 for he had shown her some tokens of real 
 kindness, a rarity to her in the lone and for 
 lorn situation that she filled at this den of 
 
 wickedness. 
 
 It was very evident that he whom they call 
 ed Bill, had discovered in the features of 
 Edith a most striking resemblance to some 
 loved object, or some individual that had been 
 connected with some strange vicissitude of his 
 former life, or at least this was the conclusion 
 that the frequenters of the place had long since 
 arrived at. He did not affect to love the child, 
 but there seemed to be something that drew 
 him to wards her, much like the operation which 
 naturalists describe as occurring between a ser 
 pent and a dove, when the latter is drawn to 
 wards the former by the operation of a charm. 
 Yet Edith affected him not, any further than 
 in thankfulness for the favors she had received 
 at his hands. 
 
 There w#s one unfortunate result of this 
 kindness on the part of Bill the Bold to Edith, 
 for it seemed in some way to excite the ire of 
 Mother Giles who could not bear to see the 
 child treated kindly, or the object of the least 
 consideration. But Bill himself had discov- ' 
 
 ered this, and one day told the woman if he 
 ever knew of her ill treating Edith, he would 
 just as soon blow her brains out as he would 
 drink a glass of her liquor, and the woman 
 knowing his character, obeyed him in good 
 earnest. 
 
 One evening a frequenter of the tap-room, 
 excited perhaps by bad liquor, offered her some 
 slight insult on her entering the room to serve 
 some of the party, and although this person 
 was a large, stout desperado, and a bully 
 withal, he lay flat upon his back in the next 
 instant, by a blow from him known as Bill the 
 Bold, who scornfully said : 
 
 " You must be a brave man to insult a child 
 like that. You are slightly punished this time 
 for your conduct, but attempt it again, even 
 by a look, and as true as there is a God in 
 heaven, I will take your life on the instant. 
 Ay, you need not frown, I never was more in 
 earnest I assure you." 
 
 " Who are you that come here to champion 
 Mother Giles' chickens ?" said the other, rising 
 from his humble posture, and looking as though 
 he would like to fight if he dared to do so with 
 such a spirit. 
 
 " A man !" replied the outcast, as he bent 
 his stern, resolute eye upon the other. 
 
 " Sit down," whispered one of his friends, 
 " he's dangerous if you cross him." 
 
 Thus warned, the pitiless villain stalked 
 away, and said no more, but the example was 
 not without its good effect upon the low bred 
 frequenters of the tap room, at least so far as 
 Edith's comfort and interest was concerned, 
 inasmuch as no one dared to offer her insult 
 again, even in jest, for it was whispered about 
 that Bill the Bold, who always kept his word, 
 had threatened to take the life of the first man 
 that attempted to insult her. Edith's growing 
 beauty and interesting manner really needed 
 some protector, though it should come from 
 such a questionable source.
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 THE BURGLAR'S STORY. 
 
 Oh ! there never was a life like the robber's so 
 
 Jolly, and bold, and free ; 
 And it's end 1 why a cheer from the crowd below, 
 
 And a leap from a leafless tree ! PAUL CLIFFORD. 
 
 NOT unfrequently when a party of the des 
 peradoes who frequented the tap-room, were 
 gathered there and in a convivial mood, some 
 one was called upon for a story, and the events 
 thus related were often of the most curious 
 and novel character. To be sure they were 
 characteristic, and told in the rough, vulgar 
 language of the class from which they ema 
 nated, but yet the eventful scenes through 
 which they were constantly passing, supplied 
 them with a boundless field for stories and 
 plots. 
 
 On one of these sociable occasions when a 
 knot, including Bill the Bold, were gathered 
 about a table in the tap-room, one of the com 
 rades called Hardhead, from some applicability 
 of the title, was called upon for a story. 
 
 " Vel, comrades, I doesn't object to tell vun 
 of 'em as is short." 
 
 " Give us something professional," said 
 Bill, placing his feet upon the table, and puf 
 fing a cigar. 
 
 " Stick to the truth now, Hardhead," said 
 another, settling himself to listen. 
 
 " I allers does," said the individual address 
 ed, appealing to the rest. 
 
 " To be sure you does, Hardhead, now fire 
 away, my hearty." 
 
 " Ah," said Hardhead, " times isn't what 
 they used to was. These moral reform and 
 march of himprovement covies has done up 
 
 many a branch of the perfeshun, as used to be 
 honorable and exciting, and guv rise to a race 
 of men as reflected credit on themselves and 
 the country. Vhare, I vould respectfully en 
 quire, is the High Tobyman (Highwayman) 
 of other times ? Vere is the Dick Turpins and 
 the Claud du Wals and sich like real gem- 
 men, brave as lions, and liberal as lords, as 
 used to sport their bits of blood on the turf 
 and in the Park, and flash their flimsies and 
 poney their dust in the hells of London, and 
 go to masquerades at Wauxhall, and go in and 
 vin the 'arts of duchesses ? I asks, and heco 
 hanswers, vhere ? They is registered among 
 the bein's as vere; creeters of the past. 
 They is gone some on 'em sleeps in name 
 less graves, others transformed into 'natomies, 
 is hanging up in Surgeon's 'All. Them vas 
 the coves. My 'art bleeds, and a sea green 
 and yaller melancholy, as the poet sings, 
 comes over me venever I thinks on 'em, it 
 does." 
 
 " Mother Giles, another pint of this 'ere 
 purl, if you please." 
 
 Having refreshed his inner man by a deep 
 draught of the fiery liquid, which was brought 
 to him by Edith, Hardhead cleared his throat 
 by several vigorous coughs and hems, and then 
 went on with his story. . 
 
 " Them covies as I was speakin' of, led 
 short lives, but merry ones. In the long run
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 139 
 
 society, vich is ever the henemy of the brave 
 and noble, hoperating through the mis-called 
 ministers of justice, the tipstaves, queer cuffins 
 (Magistrates), cut 'em short in the career of 
 their glory. But vot of it, comrades ? A 
 man can't die but vonce, and it matters but lit 
 tle to the philosopher vhether his life be cut 
 short by an 'alter or a bullet, it doesn't. 'Sides 
 the high toby man vas alvays sure of the sym 
 pathy of the masses, not of the big vigs, the 
 bishops, lords and gemmen, but the people, 
 and 'specially the ladies God bless 'em 
 'ere's their good health. The close of sich a 
 man's life vas a moral triumph, it vos. 
 
 " Ven the queer cuffin, vith his big vig, and 
 hempty 'ead put on his black cap to pass sen 
 tence, the high tobyman stood up and faced 
 the music like -a true mettled 'oss. Ven he 
 hentered the cart to go to Tyburn vith Jack 
 Ketch, he vas dressed in his best, and vore a 
 nosegay in his bosom and carried a bokay in 
 his hand The vimmen.God bless 'em, and 
 'ere's th'eir 'ealth ag'in shed pearly tear drops, 
 dearer to him than drops of purl (gin). He 
 mounted the three legged 'oss, foaled of a ha- 
 corn, vith a step as never trembled. He drop 
 ped the fatal 'andkerchief, and then vas drop 
 ped 'imself.dying game like a true blue son of 
 a gun." 
 
 '* Them is reminiscences as we all knows 
 about, Hardhead," said a little stubbed piece 
 of humanity beside of the burglar. " But 
 where's your story ? that's what we want to 
 hear, my covey." 
 
 " And you needn't talk about the three leg 
 ged 'oss, if you please," suggested another, 
 " for I knew a fellow once " 
 
 " Hold up," said a third party, " we don't 
 want to hear you now, let Hardhead tell his 
 
 story." 
 
 " Ay, let Hardhead tell his story," chimed 
 
 in half a dozen all at the same time. 
 
 " Vel, gemmen, all that 'ere is now past and 
 gone, there aint many real spirited chaps 
 among us, cause vy, the breed's runnin' out. 
 The business of the road is done up altogeth 
 er, and ve find ourselves reduced to faking 
 dies and readers (stealing handkerchiefs and 
 pocket-books) and cracking kens (housebreak- 
 ing), a business as is beneath such as us, but 
 vich ve must follow, or else ve shall starve- 
 But speaking of cracking kens, brings me to 
 the pint of my discourse, as I intend to tell 
 
 you, and that is the story of French Bill, as 
 all the covies used to call my 'ero." 
 
 " O, it's comin' at last, is it ? Veil, drive 
 ahead and give us the story, comrades," said 
 the short man. 
 
 " Some years ago," resumed Hardhead, " a 
 young man as vas properly introduced and 
 vouched for, bringin' certificates of the very 
 vust moral character, and the most desperate 
 designs, joined the select circle of gemmen to 
 vich I 'ad the 'onor to belong. There was 
 summut wery strikin' in 'is personal happear- 
 ance, vich is heverything in the perfeshun. 
 He vas helegantly formed and summut above 
 the middle 'ith. He vas apparently slight and 
 weak as a kinchin mart (young girl) but hap- 
 pearances is halmost halways deceitful, for 
 that slight and feminine frame vas made up of 
 bone like steel, and muscles like a mixture of 
 India rubber, whalebone and catgut. My hies, 
 now I remember, vot a cove French Bill vas 
 ven he vas up. 
 
 " Von blow of his light harm and bunch of 
 fives vould lay a fellar hout as cold as Caesar. 
 I've seen a good many 'ansom cracks men in 
 my day, but French Bill beat 'em hall, hout 
 and hout, he did. 
 
 " His features were reg'lar, his eyes blue 
 as London milk, his complexion remarkable 
 for it's dilixy, and his 'air black as Ingy ink, 
 or Day & Martin. His 'ands vas delicate as 
 a duchesses, and his feet wery small halso. 
 He simply guv his name as Villiam, and no 
 questions vas asked, for he vas varranted a 
 good 'un by 'sponsible men, and vot he vas, or 
 vare he came from vas neither here nor there, 
 so long as he behaved 'imself like a gemman, 
 and vas true to his pals. But then he vas so 
 wery polite so like a Monseer in his man 
 ners, 'sides his bein' able to patter the lingo 
 like a reg'lar built frog-eater, that afteravhile 
 he got the name as I have referred to, and the 
 covies all called him French Bill, they did. 
 
 "In the good hold times I vas speakin' 
 about, ven I begun this 'ere story, French Bill 
 vould have been a high tobyman, but he seed 
 how things vas, and know'd there vas no kind 
 of huse in trying that on, and so like a true 
 philosopher, he did the best as could be done 
 under the circumstances, and took to crakin' 
 kens like a real Trojan. He vas werry ex 
 pert in the huse of gimmies and false keys, he 
 took to such things sort of nat'ral like. 'Sides
 
 140 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 that, he could snuff a candle, or centre the 
 bull's eye at ten paces, and could play a sword 
 like a life guardsman, right and left, cut and 
 thrust, he could. 
 
 " Venever henny desperate lay ( job) vas 
 purposed, French Bill vas alvays the first vun 
 to wolunteer. The whole town vas struck 
 aghast vith the daring of the hexploits he 
 achieved, and the police tried in vain, vith all 
 thqir cunnin' and hexperience, to discover the 
 hauthor of these remarkable houtrages. Mo 
 ney flowed into the common stock like a river, 
 and though he vas the cause of nearly hall 
 the success, he vas wery modest, and vas con 
 tented vith a moderate share. 
 
 " Sometimes he used to disappear for veeks 
 together, and then ve had rumors that he vas 
 figurin' avay as a foreign Count at Bath, or 
 Brighton, or Arrowgate, or some other fash 
 ionable vatering-place, and ve felt proud of 
 'avin' von of hus a takin' his proper stash un 
 in society, and representing the perfeshun in 
 so distinguished a manner. Ven he came back 
 from vun of these excursions he generally 
 brought a heap of swag (booty) with him, 
 showing that he united business and pleasure 
 in a manner perfectly agreeable and profitable. 
 Sometimes it vas a gold mounted cane or hop- 
 era-glass, sometimes a diamond ring, and 
 sometimes a bracelet or other harticle of jew 
 elry. Many of them were love-gifts from the 
 fair and fashionable, and them Bill never turn 
 ed into the common stock, he hal ways claimed 
 these as his own, and employed them on pur 
 poses of his own, vich I vill explain to you 
 gemman presently," said Hardhead, turning to 
 Mother Giles. 
 
 " Another pot of purl, if you please, Mother, 
 from the best bottle." 
 
 " I 'allers sends you the best, Hardhead, and 
 you knows it," was the answer. 
 
 "Well, push it along, thank ye, Edith," 
 said Hardhead, as the girl passed the pot of 
 gin. "You are a growin' hearty, and will 
 be a lady one of these 'ere days. Thank ye, 
 
 girl." 
 
 "Drink your purl, and go on with the sto 
 ry," said the little short burglar. 
 
 " Shorts, don't be impatient, my cove, I'll 
 accommodate you in a twinklin'," said Hard 
 head, drawing a long breath after the draught 
 of liquor that he had just swallowed, and pre 
 paring to go on with his story. 
 
 " There vas an old covey as lived in Wap- 
 ping, at the time I'm telling you of, who vas 
 connected vith us by ties of common interest. 
 He kept a small ship-chandler shop,hostensibly 
 for sellin' old junk, and bits of iron and rope, 
 but in reality, he vas a receiver of stolen 
 goods as the laws calls it an agent of ours, 
 and a necessary one too, for he disposed of all 
 such articles as ve didn't know vhat to do 
 vith, and vich ve picked up in the line of our 
 perfeshun. He vas industrious and persewer- 
 ing, and had got a pretty snug lot of blunt to 
 gether by his business, and he know'd a thing 
 or two, I tell you. 
 
 " Now this old covey had an only child a 
 daughter. My hies ! vhat a beauty she vas ! 
 Her hies vas like stars in brightness only they 
 vas dark as night but scarce darker than her 
 raving hair. She had a form like a queen's. 
 Her valk my hies she valked like a hopera 
 dancer, and stepped as light as a hinfant bur 
 glar on a egg-stealing hexpedition. The roses 
 and lilies in Covent Gardin' Market vas noth- 
 in' at all compared to her complexion. She 
 vas a reg'lar hout and houter, and no mistake. 
 French Bill seed her, and the first time he sot 
 his peepers on her, vy, he vas struck up all of 
 a 'cap, as von may say. I recollects veil his 
 first impressions ven he saw the gal, for you 
 see, I vas vith him. 
 
 " ' Bill,' says I, for I was lookin' at him all 
 the time, ' Bill, you're a gone sucker. Her 
 hies has gone right through you like a key 
 hole saw through a panel, they have.' 
 
 " ' Hardhead,' said he, ' you are mistaken. 
 It's no such thing.' 
 
 " ' Bill,' says I, ' have I been takin' too much 
 purl? tell me that.' 
 
 " ' Not's I knows of, Hardhead,' said he 
 larfin' at me all the time. 
 
 " ' Then,' said I, ' there's no mistake about 
 it, and you are reg'larly smit.' 
 
 " ' Oh ! nonsense,' said Bill. 
 
 " ' Veil,' said I, ' ve shall see. But look 
 sharp that the gal doesn't get you into trouble. 
 Beware of the blowens, many a man has had 
 his neck stretched for 'em. Remember vot 
 the song says : 
 
 " My nuttiest blowen vun fine day, 
 
 To the beaks did her fancy man betray." ' 
 
 " 'Never fear,' said he, ' I'm not in love yet, 
 and if I was, Jenny is as true as steel." ' 
 " But he vas in love though he didn't
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 141 
 
 ! 
 
 know it then and Miss Jenny got all the 
 pretty rings, and bracelets and necklaces and 
 purses, as vas given to Bill, or stolen by him 
 ven he vent among the big-bugs at the vater- 
 ing places and sich like. He used to go a 
 sarahnading her, and cumed all sorts of ro 
 mantics vith the girl. There vasn't nothing 
 in the vay, for the old man vas agreeable, 'cos 
 he knew French Bill vith all his hexpertness 
 vas vurth his veight in gold. Vel, at last it 
 vos agreed that he should marry her, for she 
 vos von of that genteel sort as goes in for the 
 parson and the ring. Her prospex and his'n 
 vos all bright and glowin', and many a pint of 
 purl ve used to drink to the 'ealth and speedy 
 union of French Bill and the Wapping 
 Belle." 
 
 " Was they married at last?" asked the lit 
 tle fellow they called Shorts. 
 
 " Keep still a bit," said another, " can't ye 
 let a cove tell his story ?" 
 
 " Vel, boys," resumed Hardhead, "vun day 
 a great lay vas proposed to us. This vas no 
 less than cracking the ken of a rich old hunks 
 as had just moved from Yorkshire to the 
 neighborhood of London, vhere he had pur 
 chased a waluable willa on the Thames. The 
 chap as vas on the lookout and reported the 
 game to us, said the lockers vas full of plate, 
 and that the old man vas known to have a vast 
 amount of gold vich he vas keeping by him to 
 make a certain purchase. Ve chose von dark 
 night for the hexpedition, andrhafter gettin' 
 everything ready, ve took a boat on the 
 Thames and rowed silently to the willa. It 
 vas a dark, ugly sort of a night, no moon, no 
 stars wisible, and now and then a big drop of 
 rain cumed down about us, damp and dreary. 
 
 " Me and French Bill and Stammering Jake 
 made up the party ; 'twasn't best to have too 
 many, and three could vurk as veil as a dozen 
 and better too. We landed and hid our boat 
 in a quiet place, and it had got to be about 
 midnight then. Passing through a dark lane, 
 ve come to a garden gate in a brick vail, and 
 here ve heard the deep growl of a bull dog, 
 but ve never vent unprepared for all emergen 
 cies, and Bill tossed a piece of poisoned beef 
 steak over the wall. Ve didn't hear no more 
 growlin' out of that animal. Dumb dogs, like 
 dead men, tell no tales, and Bill said as much 
 ven after listening, he vas convinced he vas 
 dead. It didn't take us long to pick the gar 
 
 den gate, and ve soon found ourselves on the 
 other side, snug and undiscovered, and there 
 vas the dog as dead as a herrin'. 
 
 " Ve approached the house quietly nobody 
 vas stirrin', all vas as dark and silent as if it 
 had been an old church standing in a grave 
 yard. Ve soon vorked our vay into the house, 
 and up to the china closet, vare ve opened our 
 dark lanterns, .and vhile French Bill and Stam 
 mering Jake vas fillin' their bags vith silver 
 spoons and cups, I vent up stairs to see vat 
 swag there vas aloft. I vanted to get hold of 
 some of the shiners the old feller had hid 
 avay somevhere, and so I left them to look af 
 ter the other stuff. I opened a door into a 
 chamber, and there vas the old gemman and 
 his wife asleep in bed. On the other side of 
 the room stood a secretary invitingly open. I 
 crossed the floor on tip-toe and broke hopen 
 vun of the draws. My hies ! it vas full of 
 gold, himages of our gracious sovereign in 
 precious metal. I valked into the yellow boys, 
 I tell you. But some unlucky noise woke up 
 the old Trojan, and the fust thing I knowd,he 
 lighted a lamp. I turned round just as he \os 
 jumping hout of bed. He vas a vhite-haired 
 old codger, and looked as brave as a lion. 
 
 " ' Von vord,' said I, springin' to him, with 
 my knife in my hand, ' von vord, and I stops 
 your squeaking forever, with my whittler.' 
 
 " ' Dog !' said he upon my word he made 
 use of that identical ungentlemanly phrase 
 ' die like a hound as you are.' 
 
 " And he snatched a pistol from the table 
 and pulled the trigger. The cap only ex 
 ploded, and I had him by the throat. 
 
 " But the noise, slight as it was and it 
 was very slight, for it didn't wake up his wife 
 though she must 'ave been an uncommon 
 good sleeper struck the quick ear of French 
 Bill. Almost any one else would 'ave cut, 
 but he coined up vile the old covey was strug 
 gling with me, a tryin' to get at another pis 
 tol on the table." 
 
 Here the burglar stopped and called for an 
 other drink of purl, showing by his manner 
 that he had reached a part of his narrative 
 that caused anything but pleasing memories 
 to arise in his thoughts. However he drank 
 again, and went on : 
 
 " Of course you'll suppose when French 
 Bill came into the room he rapped the old cove 
 over the head. He did no such thing. He
 
 142 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 gave me me a blow behind the ear, as sent 
 me reelin' across the room, and wrenched the 
 knife out of my hand. The old man started 
 forward to see who was his deliverer, but in 
 stead of pourin' out his thanks, he bust out 
 with: 
 
 " ' O, God ! is it you Frederick, and do I 
 find you the associate of villains ?' 
 
 " French Bill, or Frederick, or. whoever he 
 was, stood there just as white and ghostly as 
 a corpse, and he trembled just like a leaf; he 
 had to hold on to a chair to keep up. 
 
 " ' Ah,' said the old man, in a hagony of 
 tears, ' vy did you spare my life, to give me 
 up to shame and sorrow ? The knife of that 
 ruffian (you see covies he meant me) would 
 have been more merciful.' 
 
 " Then French Bill, mean Frederick, 
 trembled more and more, till at last he fell 
 down on his knees and clasped his 'ands and 
 cried like a babby, as he said in a broken 
 voice : 
 
 " ' Father, father, O, forgive me for my 
 poor mother's sake.' 
 
 " I didn't stop to see what followed, for 
 somehow or other the servants had got the 
 alarm, and were movin', so I and Stammering 
 Jake cut with as much of the swag as we 
 could grab. Ve got back to St. Giles's some 
 ow or other, but without French Bill. He 
 didn't come back with us that night and he 
 never did." 
 
 " You never see French Bill after that ?" 
 asked the impatient Shorts. 
 
 " I didn't say I never see him ; I said he 
 never came back again." 
 
 " Don't be botherin', Shorts," said one or 
 two of the party, to the little burglar. 
 
 " Veil, vot do you think, my boys ?" resum 
 ed Hardhead. " That old feller was Sir Fred 
 erick Armington, a baronet, and French Bill 
 was his only son. He vas a vild youth, and 
 the old man had cast him off and disowned 
 him. But blood is stronger than vater, and 
 after all as had passed, the father took him 
 back again, and that 'ere young man vas so 
 foolish and degraded that he accepted the old 
 man's hoffers, and so lost to shame, that from 
 bein' a cracksman, he sunk to a gemman's son. 
 However, natur is unaccountable. To see a 
 young man of his natural abilities run to 
 vaste in that fashun vos too bad, it vos. 
 
 " But Sir Frederick Armington had ene 
 
 mies, and one of 'em, havin' obtained infor 
 mation from a crackman who peached, de 
 nounced his son to the authorities, and he 
 was at vunce arrested. The most powerful 
 hinfluences was used with the government for 
 his pardon, and at last he obtained it, but only 
 on vun condition that he would turn snitch 
 on his pals king's evidence, and denounce to 
 the authorities all his old associates. Ve got 
 vind of this and dodged, von or two himigrat- 
 ed to the United States, others vent to the 
 continent. Bill spared me, and the beaks 
 never laid a finger on me. 
 
 " But that vas nuffin, and I vas bound to 
 do justice on the traitor, and I swore to take 
 his life." 
 
 " Veil, did you do it ?" asked Shorts, again 
 interrupting Hardhead. 
 
 " No." 
 
 "You didn't?" 
 
 " No I didn't." 
 
 " Vot pervented you ?" 
 
 " Vot pervented me ? Just this 'ere. But 
 I'm mighty dry," and Hardhead took another 
 draught of the " purl," and after a moment's 
 pause, resumed his story as follows : 
 
 " Jenny, Frederick's blowen, the gal at 
 Wapping as he'd swore to marry, she who 
 had given herself entirely up to him, got vind 
 of my design, and by her powers of perswa- 
 shun, prevailed upon me to hold my hand for 
 a while. She said as how she'd a good rea 
 son for it, and palavered me till I consented. 
 Then the poor hinnocent gal tried her arts to 
 while him back to her harms again, never 
 doubting for a moment that he loved her still, 
 as before, and they did meet after that more 
 than vonce, and he allers swore eternal love 
 to the ship chandler's daughter. 
 
 " But she soon found hout that he was just 
 as false to her as he had been to hus, and that 
 he was at that very time ven he corned and 
 promised her everything, engaged to marry a 
 French nobleman's daughter. This put an 
 end to all her love ; she didn't palaver any 
 more about that, but looked as though her 
 principal vituals vas vormvood and gaul. If 
 you have seen a Bengal tigress, you'll have 
 some idea how that blowen looked ven she 
 vas satisfied that his love was false to her. 
 
 " ' Veil, Jenny,' said I, von day, for I often 
 vent over there in a friendly vay, and some 
 times on business too, ' do you vant me to
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 143 
 
 hold my hand any longer ? aint you convinced 
 of his treachery now.' 
 
 " ' Yes, Hardhead,' said she, ' but don't 
 harm him yet, for my sake.' 
 
 " ' If you say so,' said I, ' vhy I'll hold off 
 for a year, but I shall keep my oath at last.' 
 
 " ' Only a little while longer, Hardhead,' 
 said the poor girl, for my sake.' 
 
 " ' But you are growin' pale, Jenny,' said 
 I, ' you musn't be unhappy for such as he.' 
 
 " ' O, no, Hardhead, not I ; don't think I'm 
 unhappy for his sake.' 
 
 " But I know'd all the while that she was 
 miserable about his desertin' her, and this 
 made me want to kill him all the more, for I 
 half loved Jenny myself, though she didn't 
 care a pin for me. 
 
 " Shortly arter this, there was a masquer 
 ade ball on the Christmas holidays at one of 
 the theatres, and I vent there myself for the 
 purpose of pickin' up a job in a perfeshunal 
 ray. Veil, Jenny, the belle of Wapping, vas 
 there too, dressed as a gipsey, and she fasten 
 ed onto a young man in a pink domino, vich 
 vas nobody else but our old French Bill, as 
 was now called Frederick Armington. He 
 didn't know her, but she recognized him by 
 his voice, his manner, and his walk. 
 
 '' She vas a werry facinating creature, wer- 
 ry genteel and haccomplished, and she per 
 fectly bewildered him. At the close of the 
 evening, he asked permission to accompany 
 her home. She consented, replying in the 
 same feigned voice as she had assumed for 
 the whole evenin', and he was delighted, for 
 he seemed to have become infatuated with 
 the unknown beauty. Veil, they got into a 
 car'age and vare driven fast through a part of 
 the town, until they arrived at last before a 
 house in St. Giles', in a dark street, vare no 
 police troubles themselves to penetrate, and 
 vare the houses vare very old. 
 
 " Frederick, "or French Bill, just vich you 
 please, vas too much hoccupied witb his new 
 conquest to observe particularly vare they 
 had come to, and she took good care to keep 
 his mind engaged upon other matters, and as 
 the car'age stopped and he handed her hout, 
 she took him by the hand, as hif to show him 
 the way, and led him up a narrow and dark 
 staircase, and then into a room that was as 
 dark as Hegypt you couldn't see your hand 
 before you. 
 
 " ' Can't we have a light, my dear ?' said 
 Frederick Armington. 
 
 " ' Yes, vait a moment," said she, ' while I 
 get a lamp.' 
 
 " ' I'm all impatient to see that pretty face 
 of yours,' said he. 
 
 " Veil, let go of my hand for a moment, vill 
 you ?' said she. 
 
 " ' If you will be very quick I will. Do you 
 promise me ?' 
 
 " But slipping away she made him no ans 
 wer, and in a moment afterwards, he felt a 
 cold ring of steel pressed against his forehead, 
 and was startled by a voice that he recognized 
 only too late, and vich thrilled through every 
 fibre of his guilty frame, as it solemnly pro 
 nounced these words in his very ear : 
 
 " ' Die, double traitor, false to your friends, 
 and to your love !' 
 
 " The explosion of a pistol instantly followed 
 these vords, and Frederick Armington alias 
 French Bill, fell dead at the very feet of his 
 forsaken bio wen, who would have been to him 
 a faithful mistress. 
 
 " Thus fell a scoundrel as turned snitch on 
 his pals, and may hevery traitor meet with 
 the fate of French Bill." 
 
 As he ended his story thus, the sentiment 
 was echoed by the whole company, who drank 
 Hardhead's health in a glass of purl.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 EDITH AND CLARA. 
 
 Virtue is like precious odors, most fragrant when they are incensed or crushed ; for prosperity doth 
 best discover vice, but adversity doth best discover virtue. BACON. 
 
 THE reader will remember the night when 
 the two burglars and the little boy effected 
 their entrance into Sir Robert Brompton's 
 house, and of their escaping after a fruitless 
 search for booty, with the person of Edith, 
 Sir Robert's adopted child, We left them 
 just as they were passing out of the basement 
 window in front of the house, while the watch 
 or night police were entering by the back 
 door. We will not pause to describe the con 
 sternation that spread itself through Sir Rob 
 ert's household, but will follow the burglars 
 and their burthen. 
 
 Edith, as we have already said, was quite 
 insensible, offering no resistance to the purposes 
 of the villains, who were thus tearing her 
 from the bosom of a happy and contented 
 home. In this state the burglars bore her 
 along in their arms by the shaded side of the 
 streets, until at last reaching a dark alley they 
 entered it, and having threaded its entire 
 length, they seemed to pass the rest of the 
 distance, which carried them to their rendez 
 vous, by following the course of the darkest 
 lanes and alleys and by streets that the me 
 tropolis would boast of, and though they did 
 not seek that portion of the town universally 
 known as St. Giles, yet after a half hour or 
 more, they had stopped at last in a small sub 
 urban district that was certainly of no better 
 character than that notorious locality. 
 
 Entering a large old wooden building that 
 must once have been occupied for some exten 
 sive manufacturing purpose, but which was 
 now quite tottering and dilapidated, presenting 
 a half ruinous appearance, they deposited their 
 living burthen upon the floor of the room 
 which they entered, where a lamp was burn 
 ing evidently in anticipation of their arrival, 
 and for their use. Edith had so far revived 
 during the latter part of the route as to sob 
 faintly now and then, but not sufficiently to 
 realize the situation in which she was placed. 
 But now as she was laid down gently upon 
 the floor, she gradually came more fully to 
 herself, and her physical strength to revive, 
 and in this condition rising upon her arms, she 
 looked wildly about her for a moment, and 
 then said : 
 
 " Is this a dream, a horrible dream, or am I 
 awake ? Where am I ?" 
 
 The two burglars whispered to each other 
 
 " What does this mean, where am I?" ask 
 ed Edith, half amazed. 
 
 Neither of the burglars seemed disposed to 
 answer the question, but the elder of the two, 
 whom the reader ere this has recognized as 
 Bill the Bold, went to a side door, bidding 
 his companion, who was Hardhead, to keep a 
 bright look out on the girl for a moment, and 
 rapped, and half opening it, asked of the in 
 mate : 

 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 145 
 
 " Are you awake, Clara ?" 
 
 " Yes," replied a gentle and very soft voice 
 from within the room. 
 
 " Come out here, I want you," said the bur 
 glar, who then closed the door, and waited for 
 the person he had summoned, to make her 
 appearance. But he was very impatient, and 
 in a moment more, he opened the door again, 
 and said softly : 
 
 "How long are you going to keep me wait 
 ing, girl ? come, make haste." 
 
 " I am coming in one moment," replied the 
 same pleasant voice. 
 
 In about a minute after this second call, a 
 young girl entered the room, and upon behold 
 ing Edith she seemed struck with surprise. 
 She must have been of very nearly the same 
 age as Edith, and she was of much the same 
 figure and appearance, and indeed there did 
 seem to be not a slight degree of resemblance 
 between them, in complexion, features and 
 expression. Clara, as the burglar had called 
 her, came at once to Edith's side, looking anx 
 iously towards the robbers as if to know what 
 she was to do. Then pausing for a moment, 
 she seemed to gaze with ardent admiration 
 upon the lovely face and form before her, and 
 taking Edith's hand within her own, she 
 pressed it kindly, while she bent over her, and 
 addressed some kind words to her in a whis 
 per. 
 
 " Take her with you and take care of her," 
 said the burglar, coldly. 
 
 " Is she to stay long here ?" asked Clara 
 innocently enough. 
 
 "That concerns you not; do as you are 
 bid, and be content." 
 
 " Come, Hardhead," continued the other, 
 " you and I will go now, and leave these girls 
 together." 
 
 "Good night, Clara," said Hardhead, nod 
 ding familiarly to Clara. 
 
 " Good night," replied the girl, absently, as 
 she retired to the room for a lamp, while the 
 two men withdrew from the apartment and 
 locked the door after them. 
 
 Clara soon returned with a lamp, and ta 
 king Edith by the hand, she led her, with a 
 kind assurance that no one would harm her, 
 into the other room, which was evidently the 
 one appropriated for her own occupancy. 
 Having got in here and closed the door, the 
 lamp was placed upon a table, and the young 
 10 
 
 girls sat down opposite to each other to gaze 
 for some time in wonder ; Clara at the ex 
 quisite loveliness and rich dress of her com 
 panion, and Edith to look from the poorly 
 clad but handsome girl opposite, to ihe strange 
 apartment and the prominent signs and tokens 
 of the place, which recalled most vividly to her 
 mind the position of circumstances with re 
 gard to herself a little more than a year pre 
 vious, in the tap room of Mother Giles ! 
 
 What a throng of contending emotior s 
 rushed across her brain as she sat there thus 
 contemplating the scene before her. 
 
 The place was a sort of store room used for 
 the keeping of lumber, or any refuse article 
 that it was desirable to put aside for the time 
 being, and the dingy, dirty look that the ar 
 ticles presented, showed that it was long since 
 they had been disturbed. In the corner of the 
 room there was a miserable apology for a bed 
 which was spread upon the bare floor, and 
 which was evidently the sleeping place of the 
 young girl already referred to. Edith sur 
 veyed the apartment calmly, and seemed to 
 understand the situation of matters at once, 
 and being far too weak and exhausted from 
 her late adventures either to ask questions or 
 to answer them, at last lay down with Clara 
 at her kind suggestion, and in spite of her 
 fears and grief, after awhile fell into a troubled 
 sleep which lasted until late in the morning. 
 
 'Of course Edith found immediately on ri 
 sing from her hard couch that she was a pris 
 oner; indeed the burglar who had brought her 
 thither told her so at the outset, and that she 
 must not as she valued her life, attempt to 
 escape from the place, and he so inspired her 
 also with dread and fear, that had no other 
 means been taken to prevent her escape from 
 the house, it is doubtful if Edith, scarcely more 
 than a child in years and experience, would 
 have dared to make the attempt, notwithstan 
 ding she felt most acutely every bearing of 
 her singular position, and realized how anxious 
 and unhappy Sir Robert, Walter, and the 
 good Mrs. Marlow would be. And then the 
 last twelvemonth of improvement had been so 
 thorough, and she had been so susceptible to the 
 best influences, that were so liberally exerted 
 in her behalf, that she realized in the keenest 
 manner the contrast between the comfort and 
 refinement that she had just left at Sir Robert's 
 house, and the vulgar associations that sur-
 
 146 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 rounded her on all sides in this filthy place. 
 In her speculations upon these matters, once 
 the fear crossed her mind that possibly when 
 the family at Sir Robert's should awake In 
 the morning and find the house robbed and 
 herself gone, they might be led to suspect her 
 of being voluntarily absent, and that she was 
 one of those who had robbed them. The 
 bare probability of such a thing seemed to 
 render her most miserable ; all other casual 
 ties growing out of her present situation for 
 the moment dwindled into insignificance when 
 compared with the chance that these dearly 
 loved ones might suspect her of being unwor 
 thy the generous solicitude she had received 
 at their hands, and of thus repaying the 
 warm affection that each and all in that 
 dear house had accorded to her. But this 
 thought did not trouble her long.it was dismissed 
 as being unworthy of a single pang of fear. 
 "They must have known my heart too well," 
 she said to herself. 
 
 A few days served to accustom Edith to 
 her unhappy situation, or at least compara 
 tively so, and also to cause her to feel some 
 interest in her young companion in misery. 
 Clara, as they called her, was, like Edith, not 
 more than fifteen years of age, yet the mode 
 of life that she had evidently followed, had 
 perhaps more fully developed her person and 
 mind, as it regarded her bearing and manner. 
 For many years, as Edith afterwards learned, 
 she had been thrown entirely on her own re 
 sources, for the care of herself, and without so 
 much as a single adviser of her own sex to 
 whom she might go or consult upon even the 
 most trifling subjects. Her casual associates 
 had been rude' and boisterous men, with now 
 and then an exception in favor of some one 
 who possessed more heart and kindness than 
 the rest. Her home had ever been in some 
 den like this, where burglars and thieves 
 made their headquarters. She was very hand 
 some, yet not so much so as her new com 
 panion, her beauty being of rather a different 
 character. She was playful, quick at repar 
 tee, and apparently happy injspite of her situ 
 ation, for she had never known any other life 
 than that she now led, nor did she possess 
 that nice sense of delicacy that would render 
 her, as it did Edith, unhappy because a rude 
 word was spoken in her hearing or herself 
 made the butt of a coarse or a low jest. 
 
 Of course this was occasioned by the want 
 of education and association with the refined 
 of her own sex, in no small degree, and yet in 
 Edith's case, which in many respects seemed 
 to bear a strong resemblance to that of Clara 
 there was a certain delicacy, and an inward 
 prompting, that had kept her pure from the 
 contaminating influences that had surrounded 
 her in the tap shop of St. Giles. She had 
 come from that den as pure and unstained at 
 heart, as though she had never seen the dingy 
 houses of London, or breathed its murky at 
 mosphere, but had gambolled away her youth 
 on sloping hill-sides, and by the margin of 
 babbling brooks. It was nature, not art, in 
 Edith. But let Clara's situation have been 
 what it may, her character and natural dispo 
 sition was so free, generous, truthful and 
 warm-hearted, that Edith had not been in the 
 house with her a single week, before she loved 
 her like a sister, and frankly told her so. 
 Only too much delighted to have a companion 
 of any sort, Clara returned this affection with 
 interest. She seemed to be under considerable 
 fear of Lancewood, as Bill was known in this 
 place, at the head of which he seemed to be. 
 Clara said that he had been known to kill so 
 many people who had opposed him, that she 
 was afraid he would one day take her life, 
 and throw her body into the Thames. 
 
 "Does he ever threaten you, Clara, that 
 you fear him so much ?" 
 
 " No, but before you came, he used to sit 
 and look at me strangely, and now he does 
 just the same to you, though I don't think 
 that he means to harm you, I am sure I don't. 
 But don't you think his eyes are very bad 
 ones ?" 
 
 " They don't look very pleasant or agreea 
 ble to me, you may depend." 
 
 " I never saw worse ones." 
 
 " How long have you been here, Clara ?" 
 asked Edith. 
 
 " About a year, I should think, though I 
 keep no count of time." 
 
 " Where did you come from then ?" 
 
 " A place farther in the city." 
 
 " Like this ? I mean, frequented by this sort 
 of people ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Have you any father living ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " No mother ?"
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 147 
 
 " No, 1 never had one to know her. A 
 woman whom I used to call aunt, was very 
 good to me, I can remember, until I was six 
 or seven years old, but I was taken away from 
 her by somebody after a while, though how, 
 or why, I canot exactly remember. I believe 
 she died or was murdered, but I have seen so 
 many strange persons since, I have had so 
 many changes, that I cannot remember very 
 well about those times. I do remember that 
 for a while I had no home at all, but used to 
 sleep under a boat at Wapping, and beg in 
 the day time. After that I was in a cellar in 
 St. Giles, and helped to take care of a bar, 
 but they said I was too small, and one day 
 the woman who lives in the rooms with Mrs. 
 Lancewood saw me there, and she said if I 
 would come with her and help her take care 
 of her house here, she would give me a com 
 fortable home. But the first time that Lance- 
 wood saw me, he started and gazed at me so 
 queerly that the woman drove me out of the 
 room, and I have had to sleep and stay in 
 these rooms ever since, except helping her a 
 little now and then when he is out." 
 
 Edith remembered that he had been similar 
 ly moved when he first saw her at Mother 
 Giles's, but said nothing. 
 
 " So this is the comfortable home that the 
 woman promised you," said Edith, glancing 
 about the room they were in, and then com 
 paring it in her mind with the sumptuous 
 apartments that she occupied at Sir Robert 
 Brompton's. 
 
 " I don't suppose you think it a very good 
 home," said Clara, " but then it is a nice one 
 for me after all. I had to sleep in an open 
 shed most of winter before last, and then O, 
 I was so cold in the frosty nights, that I used 
 to cry ; but this room you see is quite close, 
 and then I've got a pretty good bed. Don't 
 you think so, Edith ?" 
 
 " Perhaps so, Clara." 
 
 " No, but don't you really think so?" asked 
 her companion, earnestly. 
 
 Edith could only smile at her earnestness 
 and simplicity. No word of complaint had 
 escaped her lips since the night on which she 
 had been brought to the miserable abode. 
 Even when the rough and profane woman 
 who seemed to be the wife of Lancewood 
 came to her and took away the nice clothes 
 that she had worn on that fearful night when 
 
 she was stolen away from her friends, she 
 said not a word, submitting without resist 
 ance, but with an aching heart, that was far 
 too sad and broken to utter its complaint. 
 Now she was clothed like Clara, very coarsely, 
 but still their clothes were whole, and it rested 
 with them to keep them clean. Some light 
 duties were required of them by the woman 
 referred to, who seemed to wish to get rid of 
 them ; but this she dared not attempt, though 
 she ruled Lancewood apparently in nearly all 
 things else, yet relating to this matter, she did 
 not seem to dare to cross his will or thwart 
 him. . 
 
 To Clara the story which her new friend 
 told her of her life at the tap-room in St. 
 Giles, her singular rescue from thence, and 
 the manner in which it was done, and the 
 subsequent years which she had passed so hap 
 pily at Sir Robert Brompton's house, seemed 
 like a fairy tale, and she was never tired of 
 listening to it from Edith's lips. Indeed her 
 new companion was obliged to tell these 
 things to her again and again, and repeat to 
 her over and over again, how the good Mrs. 
 Marlow looked, and what she said, for it seem 
 ed to the inexperienced and beautiful girl that 
 such things could hardly be true, they were 
 so wonderfully beyond all experience of her 
 own. But she believed every word, because 
 she' knew that Edith would not deceive her, 
 and she kindly sympathized with her young 
 companion at the loss of such friends, and 
 would have cheerfully risked much to have 
 placed her once more safely in the hands of 
 those she had left. But she feared for her 
 very life, should she take any step to further 
 such design as that of Edith's escape. 
 
 The reputed wife of Lancewood watched 
 the girls narrowly, and strove, it seemed to 
 them, to render their position as uncomforta 
 ble as possible. None but the coarsest food 
 was permitted for their use, and this was of 
 ten scantily served. Lancewood himself fre 
 quently came and smoked his pipe in the 
 room adjoining the store room, and drank his 
 portion of spirit and water, and when he did 
 so, he often summoned them from their sleep 
 ing room and engaged them in conversation. 
 To Edith these were terrible moments, for the 
 man at times would stare at her so wildly, 
 and seeming to forget himself, would often 
 mutter such strange, incoherent sentences,
 
 148 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 that she would involuntarily draw near to 
 Clara, and almost seek to hide herself behind 
 her companion. Then at times, the woman 
 who kept the house would come in upon 
 them, when a scene was sure to ensue. She 
 would rave in the most violent and unaccount 
 able rage at him for preferring the company, 
 as she said, of the two young girls to her, 
 and Bill the Bold was most untrue to the 
 title his comrades had given him as character 
 istic of his spirit, for as Lancewood in his 
 own house, he was perfectly submissive to 
 this woman's tongue. 
 
 Though bold beyond all his comrades when 
 there was actual danger to meet and overcome, 
 yet he could not contend against such fear 
 ful odds as an incensed and jealous woman 
 presented. 
 
 Sometimes, one or two young men, evi 
 dently under the patronage of the woman of 
 the house, came to see Clara and Edith, but 
 although the latter always retired as quickly 
 as possible from their coarse and unmannerly 
 society, yet she was not unfrequently surpris 
 ed and even grieved to find that Clara did not 
 wholly dislike their company. The truth was, 
 Edith could make no allowance for the want 
 of native delicacy in another that she herself 
 was so fully endowed with, nor did she re 
 member poor Clara's lack of cultivation, and 
 ignorance even of the first principles of reli 
 gion and Christianity. The society of the 
 vile even, if characterized, as it was on such 
 occasions, to her by kindness, was a novelty 
 in which her untutored mind could find no 
 cause for self-crimination. These casual 
 friends were kind and generous to the forlorn 
 girl, and she was but too happy to experience 
 such treatment from any one. 
 
 Heaven weighs the deeds of such in a wise 
 balance; if Clara sinned, she did so innocent 
 ly. If she was imprudent and even guilty in 
 deed, still her heart was true and innocent, 
 for she knew no better ! 
 
 True, she sometimes listened thoughtfully 
 io the simple reflections of Edith, upon her 
 entertaining the society we have referred to, 
 but neither were much more than children 
 and how could it be expected that such should 
 successfully repel temptation ? or rather how 
 could Edith inspire her handsome and win 
 ning companion with the feelings that filled 
 her own gentle breast where the foundation 
 
 for receiving such goodly advice was entirely 
 wanting ? As for Edith herself, she might 
 have lived for many a long year in such a 
 place without contamination. Nay, she would 
 have come out of the fiery ordeal as pure as 
 the asbestos, which is only cleansed by con 
 tact with the fiery element. 
 
 " Clara, I know you will no longer see those 
 persons, for my sake." 
 
 The eyes of the handsome girl would seek 
 the floor, but she spoke not. 
 
 " Say, Clara, will you not refuse to meet 
 any of them again ?" 
 
 " Alas, Edith," she would answer, sadly, 
 " are we not very often without food and ar 
 ticles of actual necessity to keep us warm 
 and comfortable, and are not those persons 
 who bring them to us our friends ?" 
 
 "O, my dear Clara, we should not prejudice 
 our souls to comfort our bodies," Edith would 
 say, repeating the good, though homely ad 
 vice that Mrs. Marlow had often given her. 
 
 " Do you think so, Edith ?'' she would ask, 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 " Indeed, indeed, I do, Clara, or I would 
 not say so." 
 
 " I believe you, Edith'." 
 
 " And will think of what I say ?" 
 
 " I will." 
 
 Shrewd hints and repeated warnings of 
 this and the like character, were not lost upon 
 a disposition naturally so sweet and gentle as 
 that of the orphan Clara. She did think 
 much upon what Edith said to her, and before 
 a twelvemonth had expired for time is quickly 
 passing on as our story proceeds Clara had 
 gradually learned to listen with more and 
 more absorbing interest to the reflections of 
 Edith, and to understand her meaning and 
 object better, and indeed voluntarily to refer 
 to the great and vital principles of virtue 
 which she had so earnestly and frequently 
 repeated to her, and then poor Clara would 
 weep at her own condition and declare that 
 she must have been blind not to have known 
 and realized all these things of her own heart. 
 A change seemed to take place in her whole 
 manner and character, and she was never tired 
 of talking with her companion upon the sub 
 ject of good principles, and the strength of 
 purpose and resolve that would enable a re 
 pentant one to sustain a truly innocent course 
 of behaviour.
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 149 
 
 What a lovely, but unhappy champion of 
 virtue was Edith there ! How successful she 
 was with her fair young companion, and how 
 tenderly they loved each other, sharing all 
 their hardships and deprivations together. 
 
 " It seems, dear Edith," Clara would say, 
 " that having been providentially rescued from 
 a position not unlike my own, save that I 
 have been more sadly unfortunate than you 
 were, heaven has chosen this strange means 
 to bring us together, that I may profit by your 
 knowledge and virtue." 
 
 " Ah ! may the work so feebly begun, Clara, 
 be yet perfectly consummated by your eventu 
 ally finding that position and care, which 
 your dear kind nature so richly deserves." 
 
 " You are too kind and thoughtful of me," 
 the ingenuous girl would say, throwing her 
 arms tenderly about Edith's neck, and im 
 printing an honest token of affection upon her 
 fair cheek. 
 
 Having studied well their situation, and the 
 manner in which they were detained, the two 
 young girls resolved, on the first fitting oppor 
 tunity, to attempt an escape from the thral 
 dom that bound them. They were so cun 
 ningly watched, however, so hedged in by a 
 series of combined circumstances, that it seem 
 ed almost impossible for them to make a suc 
 cessful attempt for their liberty. Had not 
 this been the case, Edith would long since 
 have risked everything in the effort to regain 
 her freedom, and in fact she had more than 
 once attempted to do so, but was frustrated by 
 her captor and his emissaries. 
 
 Of late, too, Lancewood had been more fre 
 quent in his visits to their rooms, and his 
 eyes, which glared upon her always with 
 some secret and undefinable passion, incited 
 by circumstances that she knew not of, seemed 
 to her more terrible than ever, and more and 
 more did she fear him, for she knew not to 
 what fearful end he might thus be detaining 
 her. It was after one of his singular visits in 
 which he was more than usually moved, seem 
 ingly by recollections of the past and the 
 promptings of the present, that Edith whisper 
 ed to Clara when he was gone : 
 
 " I can remain here no longer, Clara, and 
 though I may lose 'my life in the attempt, I 
 am resolved to leave this house at once and 
 forever. Will you not try and go with me ?" 
 
 " Yes, but where to, Edith ?" she asked. 
 
 " To good Sir Robert Brompton's, provided 
 we can only get once clear of this fearful 
 neighborhood," shuddering as she recalled the 
 maddened gaze of Lancewood on his last visit. 
 
 "But you forget," said Clara, "that al 
 though Sir Robert Brompton has been very 
 kind to you, yet he might not thank you for 
 bringing another to feed upon his bounty. 
 Besides, Edith, I am not so handsome and 
 pleasing as you are and could not win friends as 
 I know you could do anywhere." 
 
 " Nay, dear Clara, you need not fear on the 
 subject of welcome. Sir Robert or Mrs. Mar- 
 low would befriend any one at my solicitation 
 1 know, if, alas ! we could only see them." 
 
 " Do you think so ?" asked the poor girl, 
 with joy beaming from her expressive face. 
 
 " Think so, Clara, I know it," replied Edith. 
 
 " You have told me so often of the kindness 
 and generosity of Sir Robert Brompton, that 
 it seems to me as though I knew him already, 
 and the good Mrs. Marlow too. She must be 
 almost an angel, and Walter Manning I want 
 to see above all things. Ah ! how fine it 
 would be if I could see them, and live there with 
 you, if only as a servant, Edith, to wait on 
 you and Mrs Marlow." 
 
 " Let us but get once fairly away from 
 here, Clara, and you shall share all the influ 
 ence I have with dear, good Sir Robert." 
 
 And thus the two girls talked themselves 
 to sleep one night, firmly resolved to make 
 once more a careful and well arranged at 
 tempt to escape. We say once more, for 
 though it was the first attempt that Clara had 
 resolved to make, yet Edith had twice failed 
 in a like endeavor, made singly, while Clara, 
 knowing better than her companion the fruit- 
 lessness of the attempt, had thought it best not 
 to join her, and the result showed her wise 
 precaution.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 THE FRENCHMAN'S STORY. 
 
 " Ma chere patrie, adieu pour jamais." 
 
 THE reader will once more come with us 
 to that famed district of the great metropolis, 
 where all sorts of vice and villany congregate, 
 and where misery and crime walk hand in 
 hand. 
 
 It is into one of the low drinking rooms 
 that are to be found at nearly every other door 
 in the district known as St. Giles, that we 
 wish again to introduce you. In its general 
 character it does not materially differ from that 
 wherein our story opened, and over which 
 Mother Giles presided, save that it is rather 
 better found in its furniture, and a man pre 
 sides at the bar, instead of a woman, the latter 
 sex generally performing this service among 
 the lower classes of London. Transient cus 
 tomers were passing in and out of the room 
 constantly; little half-clad children with a 
 few pennies to purchase gin for their diseased 
 and bed-ridden parents ; or now and then a 
 wretched looking man or woman came in, and 
 depositing their mite, tossed off the portion 
 that was dealt out to them, and then perhaps 
 shrugged their shoulders with satisfaction at 
 the momentary glow and warmth that the fiery 
 liquid afforded, and once more sinking into 
 wretched listlessness, hobbled away with no 
 other nourishment for their bodies, to dream 
 away another restless night. 
 
 In a farther corner of the apartment, there 
 
 sat some ten men around a table, (orming a 
 very peculiar group. Nearly every one evinc 
 ed some outward token of his habits and call-, 
 ing about him. Some showed ragged looking 
 scars upon their faces ; others had cut-throat 
 written there as plainly as though it were 
 spelled in letters of print. They seemed to 
 be engaged in a convivial chat over a bottle of 
 " purl," and were listening to stories and 
 anecdotes from each other. It was getting 
 rather quiet in the room, it being already past 
 eleven o'clock, and at the time we enter with 
 the reader, the party had just drunk the health 
 of an elderly looking rogue at the side of the 
 table, who had just treated the party to a 
 fresh bottle. 
 
 " And you say, Mounseer, that France is a 
 great country for a lay ?" asked a villanous 
 looking chap, addressing a dapper look ing lit 
 tle Frenchman, who sat opposite to him. 
 
 " Ah ! ma foi .'" replied the chevalier, as 
 those about him had more than once address 
 ed him. "it ees ze ver greate countrey for vat 
 you call ze lay ze plundair in ze vorld. 
 Ze gens d'armes vat you call ze beaks, ze 
 polich men ave ze eye open aha! c'est 
 vraie eet ees troo but 'ere nom de dieu ! 
 vere is the professeur who ees not proud to 
 risk his life for glory or argent vat you call 
 money swag."
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 151 
 
 " Then what, I should like to know, Moun- 
 seer," asked our old friend, Hardhead, who sat 
 at the table, " if France is such a bung-up place 
 as you brag on, what made you cut your stick 
 and leave it ?" 
 
 " Cut my steek ! Aha ! Je vous comprends 
 I understand you. Ah ! je suis lien malh- 
 eureuz I am very miserable. France, ma 
 chere patrie, adieu pour jamais ! Fare zee 
 veil ! Vy 1 leave him, I vill tell you in two, 
 tree, several vords. For several years, An- 
 toine Perrault and my own self, we lived to- 
 gedder a Paris, like ze nobleman. Ve laugh 
 ed into de sleeve of our coat at ze gens 
 d'armes, ze judge, ze Prefect of Police. Ze 
 peps began to zink ze very diable, ze debbil 
 himself, vas in Paris. No lock would keep 
 us out. Every night some new vot you call 
 robbairee, and nobody at all no find no odder 
 bodie, vat vas the robbaire. Sometimes de 
 concierge vat you call portair of an hotel 
 vas seized by ze police. Aha ! dat was very 
 droll, to see anudder man vat had no finger in 
 ze pie, taken to prison all ze same as if he vas 
 von voleur robbair. Aha ! Antoine and my 
 self vve live en prince patees a foie gras and 
 coted'or tons les jours every day some leetle 
 nise zing to eat and drink every night ze 
 opera, ze bal masque, or ze maison Rouge ! 
 But, alas ! von day ze luck change. Ze gens 
 d'armes vot you call ze beak came on me, 
 and I vas a prisoner. Ah ! quel hnrrtur. I 
 vas sent to the Bagne ze gallery at Brest 
 and condemned by ze solemn Big Vig to hard 
 labor for life. Shentlemeris, if you saw my 
 shouldair, you vould see on it T. F. zat 
 means Travauz Forces forced labor. Aha! 
 zat miserable Bagne at Brest! 
 
 " A leetle more vat you callze eau de vie 
 ze gen s'iLvous plait. 
 
 " Ah ! diable ! diable ! But I vos luckie," 
 continued the chevalier, " I foun a frien' I 
 escape. I vas once more free ! I take ze 
 road to Paris. On ze vay, I overtake a young 
 man who vas a nias vat you call green. 
 Aha! I say, some fun viz him perhaps 
 some profit. I find out all about him. He 
 vas a young country gentleman, going lo Paris 
 to marry a young girl he had never seen. 
 He had his passport, a hundred Napoleons, 
 and his wedding clothes. By-and-by ve come 
 to a very dark place in ze road. I strukehim 
 von coup de poing vat you call fisticuff on 
 
 his head, and drop him down for a dead man. 
 Zen I take his clothes, his passport, his money 
 and his horse, and I go on to Paris. Ver 
 veil, I get my passport nisi all right. I am 
 M. Hippolite St. Muar. I find out ze old 
 gentleman and ze young girl. Mademoi 
 selle Lizi had ze beautiful black eye and ze 
 beautiful black air, and ze rose on ze cheek 
 and ze ruby ah ! c'etait une jeune demoiselle 
 charmante ! She fall right down in love viz 
 me, and she ver impatient for ze wedding day. 
 I no wish to marry ze young ladie, but I vas 
 forced to marry ze young lady for ze fifteen 
 thousand francs that was her dowery aha ! 
 So ze day come, and all the friena of Made 
 moiselle Lizi vent vith us to Veglise church. 
 And zere vas butiful music, an flowers, an 
 every zing fine. Ze priest he stand up to join 
 our ands, ven ha ! diable ! in rush ze gens 
 d'armes, ze maudits beaks, an ze dead mans, 
 dat vas not dead at all, but only knocked right 
 into ze middle of ze next veek, and come to 
 life two, tree day after. 
 
 " Lizi shriek and rush forward. Voila ! 
 c'est au for cat I he is von escape convict,Jcries 
 ze beak. Zere vas un brouhaha informale 
 Lizi tombe evanouie she faint old gentleman 
 tare hees hair I run avay ? jump thro' de 
 vindow fly troo de street. Everybody seem 
 to cry diable ! le voila. Ze leetle small pup 
 py dogs zey bark an trie to bite me, but I 
 vas too fast for ze canaille and ze chiens. I 
 reach ze Faubourg St. Antoine. Zere I find 
 my caveau, my cellar my tapis franc vare 
 I am safe for leetle vile. But my old frien, 
 Antoine Perrault, he tell me ze diable to pay 
 in Paris. Everybody 'ave ze story. Ze gov 
 ernment offer ze reward for my head. Zen I 
 was forced to fly. Adieu, ma patrie. I dis 
 guize myself voi ze false visker. I vare ze 
 moustache. I am von Polish count, and so I 
 get out of ze way of de beak and ze guillotine. 
 As I cross over de vatair, I vas very sea seek 
 and home seek, and ven 1 see de vite cleef of 
 Dovair, I felt all ze same as if I vas lost. But 
 here I find myself at home. Here de voleur, 
 and de ravageur, and ze coupe-gorge, all ze 
 same as in La Belle France, and I exclaim 
 from ze bottom of ze top of my heart, in ze 
 language of my soul : vere ze cracksman, ze 
 hightobyman, and ze bustle is, zere is my 
 country ! And that, Mr. Hardhead, is ze rea 
 son vy I cut my steek !"
 
 152 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 " You should have stole the pretty girl and 
 brought her away to live with you, Mounseer." 
 
 " No, no, I will love, but not marry ze 
 ladies always." 
 
 " You needn't marry 'em. Now there's 
 Bill the Bold, he's got two cooped up at his 
 place." 
 
 " Two ?" asked the elderly man, who had 
 paid for the last bottle. 
 
 " Yes, and they look like two sisters, 
 though they never seed each other till about 
 a year since." 
 
 " Where did he git 'em ?" asked the other, 
 rubbing a large patch which he wore over his 
 eye, as though the spot it covered caused him 
 no little pain. 
 
 " O, that's a secret, though I don't know in 
 such select company as this, vhy it can't be 
 told, since I bore a hand in the affair myself. 
 It's all mum, you understand, covies." 
 
 " O, yes," said they all. 
 
 " V r ell, you must know, a pretty girl, by the 
 name of Edith Giles " 
 
 "What of her?" said the old rogue with 
 the big patch over his eye, springing to his 
 "feet, and approaching the speaker. 
 
 " Halloo, vhot's the matter vith this 'ere 
 cove ?" cried one of the party. 
 
 " You're right, comrades, 1 didn't mean to 
 interrupt. Well, go on." 
 
 "Well, ye see, this girl used to tend on 
 Mother Giles down at the tap-room, where 
 we used to rendezvous, and one night a dozen 
 of fellows came there in force and took her 
 away." 
 
 " A dozen ?" asked the man with the patch. 
 
 " More or less, it matters little how many ; 
 at any rate, there were half a dozen heads 
 broken that night, and the girl was carried 
 off. Well, about a year after that, there was 
 a lay proposed, and I and Bill was to carry it 
 out with one of the boys, for an opener. 
 Well, we got into the house, one of the best 
 in town, and after lookin' in vain for the plate, 
 we found in one of the chambers, this girl 
 Edith, all comfortable like a lady. But how 
 she corned there, we never knowed. Well, 
 Bill was sort of smitten with the gal, and to 
 tell the truth, she was mighty handsom', and 
 he determined to bring her away, and so we 
 did, and a heavy job and little profit it was to 
 me, as Bill he took her, and keeps her shut 
 up at his place." 
 
 " Where's that ?" asked he with the patch. 
 
 " Way over at the river side of Moorhead." 
 
 " As far out as that ?" 
 
 " Ay, Bill got tired of St. Giles ; he said it 
 was dangerous." 
 
 " Look here, Hardhead," said he with the 
 patch. " I want to speak to you." 
 
 " With all my 'art. I'm allers open to con- 
 wiction." 
 
 Saying this the two withdrew to one side 
 alone, where a low conversation was held be 
 tween them, in which it was very evident that 
 he with the patch was planning a visit to Bill 
 the Bold's house. Hardhead said he had just 
 had a falling out with Bill, and so he wouldn't 
 go no how. " Well, you might show me 
 where it is. I don't care to have you go there 
 if you don't choose," said the other, and as both 
 were going in that direction by-and-by, Hard 
 head concluded there would be no harm in 
 showing a comrade where Bill lived, though 
 he wouldn't call himself, since Bill had blam 
 ed him for something, though he took oc 
 casion to say that Bill was away, he believed, 
 for a day or so just now. 
 
 A careful observer would have noticed that 
 the man who wore the patch was acting the 
 part of a masquerader, and that there was one 
 other of the company, between whom and 
 himself there were frequent interchanges of 
 intelligence. 
 
 The bottle circulated pretty freely, until an 
 hour more had passed, making it twelve 
 o'clock, when Hardhead, being pretty well 
 softened with the gin he had drunk, declared 
 that he must bid them good night, and that 
 as there was no lay on hand, he was going 
 home to roost like a quiet and respectable fowl. 
 He with the big patch over his eye, and his 
 companion, of whom we have just spoken, also 
 bade the company good night, after pledging 
 them all in a bumper, and withdrew with 
 Hardhead. The" three walked rapidly, but 
 gently forward for some time, scarcely inter 
 changing a word, for Hardhead was half 
 stupified in his brain with liquor, and the oth 
 er two had seemed all the evening to be play 
 ing the part of listeners, rather than talking 
 themselves. At last they came to the nor 
 thern outskirts of the city, and soon after, 
 Hardhead told them that he took another 
 road, but that if they wanted to see Bill, they 
 would find his house, the big one on the right
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 153 
 
 hand, just after turning into the next street, 
 and thus they parted in a dark and dreary 
 spot. 
 
 Scarcely had the separation fairly taken 
 place, when the appearance and manner of 
 the two who had left the drinking room with 
 Hardhead, were essentially changed. Though 
 the elder of the two still walked lame, yet he no 
 longer stooped. His cap was thrown off his 
 face, and the dirty patch was removed from 
 the eye ! His companion underwent a simi 
 lar metamorphosis, though not quite so decid 
 ed a one, and had there been any one there 
 who knew them, they might now have easily 
 recognized Sir Robert Brompton and Walter 
 Manning. 
 
 " This must be the house, Walter ; now 
 mark it well ; for to-night is no time for our 
 purpose j and yet I can hardly restrain my im 
 patience, now I find myself once more so near 
 to that dear girl !" 
 
 " I could tell the spot a hundred years 
 hence," said Walter, who, though he said 
 nothing of his impatience, yet evinced it most 
 unmistakably even in the tone of his voice as 
 he spoke. 
 
 They walked silently about the old build 
 ing, marking well its position and the locality 
 about it, and did not seem disposed to leave 
 the spot for more than an hour. At last Sir 
 Robert said : 
 
 " We may as well make our way back, and 
 sleep upon this. Our plan must be' well ma 
 tured, and put in force if possible either dur 
 ing daylight, or at least in early evening." 
 
 " Very well," said Walter, looking back 
 many times as they walked away from the 
 spot. 
 
 " Walter, we must not lisp a word of this 
 matter, for you know as yet our information 
 is precarious, though it is impossible that 
 Hardhead could mean any other person than 
 Edith." 
 
 " I shall be as silent as the grave, Sir Rob 
 ert ; depend upon it." 
 
 " If Mrs. Marlow asks what success we 
 have met with, let the same answer as we 
 have given her heretofore suffice." 
 
 " I understand, Sir Robert." 
 
 And thus interchanging a few words now 
 and then in this manner, they hurried forward 
 until at last they 'entered Sir Robert's house. 
 Not to sleep neither of them could do that 
 
 for the search of a year, in quest of a beloved 
 object, was about to come to a successful close, 
 at least so they presumed in the excitement, 
 and the daylight surprised them both calculat 
 ing in what way they should attempt Edith's 
 release. Sir Robert was exceedingly averse 
 to employing the police, because that at once 
 rendered Edith's whole story public, which he 
 seemed particularly anxious to avoid. But he 
 had a thorough knowledge of the character of 
 Bill the Bold, or Lancewood, from his com 
 panions, and once or twice he had met him in 
 disguise. He knew that no ordinary means 
 would suffice, if this man should suspect and 
 oppose him before he could effect an en 
 trance into the house. All these matters were 
 duly considered and talked over by Sir Rob 
 ert and Walter. The latter urged the pro 
 priety, under the circumstances, of employing 
 a small number of police, as the surest mode. 
 
 Sir Robert seemed to have urgent reasons 
 for desiring to co'hduct the affair secretly, and 
 without calling in the aid of the authorities, 
 though Walter insisted that otherwise there 
 were ten chances to one that they might fail, 
 and then if Edith was really there, those who 
 had her in charge would take care to place 
 her beyond the danger of a second attack, and 
 thus they might lose sight of her forever. 
 " Still, Sir Robert," said Walter, " do as you 
 think best, and you may count upon being 
 backed by one who will stand by you, let 
 what may come of the adventure." 
 
 " But, I tell you, Walter, I do not wish to 
 make the affair public. I am particularly de 
 sirous to have it otherwise." 
 
 " A half dozen police might be well feed, 
 and detailed with a seret warrant, not even 
 knowing what they went there for them 
 selves." 
 
 " That's true ; egad, it might be managed 
 in some such way as that." 
 
 " We should be with them, and rould man 
 age our part of the business as we please, and 
 if Edith is there, take her quietly away while 
 the police are preventing any interference on 
 the part of those who belong to the house." 
 
 " I think this can be managed, and per 
 haps better done in this way than in any oth 
 er. I know the Lieutenant of Police at Hoi- 
 burn, for the eastern division, and I will see 
 this morning what I can do in the matter, and 
 before night we will make the attempt."
 
 154 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 " I am all impatience Sir Robert, and shall 
 think of nothing else until Edith is once more 
 safe within these walls," said Walter. 
 
 Sir Robert adopted this plan and before 
 evening, had organized a small party of po 
 lice, who had particular instructions to follow 
 his directions in all things, and being supplied 
 with a secret warrant in due form, signed and 
 sealed, the party rendezvoused at a certain 
 house at a spot near the premises, where they 
 met in accordance with the appointment, and 
 proceeded to demand an entrance upon the 
 premises. 
 
 It was just about dark when the police de 
 manded admittance, which after some delay 
 was granted by the woman referred to as 
 Lancewood's companion. Seeing that resist 
 ance was of no use, the woman submitted 
 with the best grace she might, and observed 
 the search of the officers in a surly and moody 
 silence, not deigning to answer one of their 
 questions, though she said " if her man was 
 at home, there would be some broken heads 
 amongst them !" 
 
 In their eagerness, Sir Robert and Walter 
 searched" every nook and corner from garret 
 to kitchen, but they found no sign of Edith. 
 As to the woman, neither threats nor money 
 could elicit aught from her; she was experi 
 enced in villany, and knew too much to com 
 mit herself in any way, realizing that the sur 
 est way not to do this was to remain perfectly 
 silent, as though she were deaf and dumb. 
 
 Both Sir Robert and Walter several times 
 passed through the two rooms that we have 
 already referred to, and where Edith and 
 Clara had been so long shut up together, but 
 they found no sign of them, or rather of 
 Edith, for it was she alone that they sought. 
 It seemed as though Sir Robert's heart would 
 sink within his breast at this disappointment. 
 He had felt sure of finding his lost protegee 
 until now, and Walter, who was also greatly 
 disappointed, could not but pause to pity the 
 look of woe upon Sir Robert's face. 
 
 " We seem to have come on a fruitless 
 search this time, sir," said the sergeant of the 
 police to Sir Robert. 
 
 " Yes, I fear so," he replied, " and yet I 
 had good reason to believe my suspicions cor 
 rect." 
 
 " Ah, sir, these people are very cunning ; 
 
 they probably expected you, and took care of 
 matters." 
 
 " Possibly, that may be the case," replied 
 Sir Robert, seeming to gain satisfaction from 
 the idea. 
 
 " Well, sir, I suppose you have no further 
 occasion for our services ?" said the sergeant. 
 
 " No. It will be of no use to remain here 
 any longer," replied Sir Robert. 
 
 The man turned to go away with his com 
 panions, when Sir Robert recalled him, and 
 placing a handful of sovereigns in his hand, 
 told him to share the sum with his fellows, 
 and name his thanks for their vigilance and 
 promptness. 
 
 Sir Robert and Walter turned their steps 
 with heavy hearts towards their home. 
 
 Since the fearful night when Edith had 
 been stolen away, it is doubtful if a single day 
 or night had passed in which Sir Robert 
 Brompton and Walter Manning had not been 
 engaged in vain endeavors to unravel the 
 mystery of her loss, and to discover her pres 
 ent place of confinement. They did not for 
 a moment suspect Edith of voluntarily absent 
 ing herself. They fully realized that she 
 must be forcibly detained wherever she might 
 be, or else her own inclinations would lead her 
 back once more to the protection of her new 
 home and friends. All manner of ingenious 
 devices were set on foot to solve the mystery, 
 and to obtain the desired information. Per 
 sons who might be relied upon were employ 
 ed from one week's end to another, at a most 
 lavish cost, while Walter and Sir Robert were 
 making personal exertions night and day. 
 Disguised as we have seen, they frequented 
 the tap-rooms and low resorts of the worst 
 part of the town, to see if chance would not at 
 last throw some light upon the matter in this 
 quarter from whence the scheme must have 
 emanated. 
 
 But until the evening which we have just 
 described, they had never been able to obtain 
 the least clue to unravel the mystery, and now, 
 alas! that had failed them, though Sir Robert 
 hoped yet to be able to improve this hint as 
 to Edith's fate to some good end, though at 
 the first step he had been so signally thwart 
 ed. But Walter thought he had never seen 
 him so much depressed and borne down, and 
 he made bold to attempt to cheer him.
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 THE SUBTERRANEAN PASSAGE. 
 
 You reach a chilling chamber, where you dread 
 Damps. CRABB'S BROUGH. 
 
 IN order to show the reader why Sir Robert 
 was not able to find Edith and her companion, 
 we must return to the house where they had 
 so long been confined, and once more observe 
 them in the fulfilment of the purpose they 
 had formed to escape. 
 
 At the rear of the building that the burglar 
 had made his headquarters, there was a narrow 
 yard surrounded by a fence which was not by 
 any means an insurmountable barrier, provided 
 that Clara and Edith had dared to attempt it. 
 But the fact was, Lance wood kept a fierce bull 
 dog on his premises, and the animal roamed this 
 yard at all hours of the day and night, train 
 ed to seize upon any person who entered the 
 yard, no matter for what purpose, and being 
 kept half starved by his owner, he was a most 
 formidable enemy to encounter. The fierce 
 creature would make friends with no one but 
 his master, and though he sometimes received 
 bits of food and remnants from her own scan 
 ty meal, from Clara with avidity, yet it was 
 oftener with a surly growl, than a grateful 
 wag of his tail, and he seemed to delight in 
 showing every one the immense teeth that 
 filled his mouth. This being unfortunately 
 the case, aside from any other fear as it re 
 
 garded detection, the poor girls knew very 
 well that an encounter with the dog might 
 cost them their lives on the spot, should they 
 attempt to escape by the back of the house 
 through the yard. 
 
 On the other side of the house were neither 
 windows nor door, and to reach the front 
 yard opening upon the street, they would have 
 to pass through the room occupied by the 
 woman who kept the house, and where Lance- 
 wood himself % slept. There were two win 
 dows in the side room which they had s access 
 to, but these were always fastened even in the 
 day-time, so securely that they were unyield 
 ing to any ingenuity of effort that they could 
 bring to bear upon them. These /windows 
 had at times been looked most wistfully upon, 
 but up to this period had entirely baffled their 
 attempts upon them. Thus situated, the 
 young girls seemed to be as securely imprison 
 ed as though they had been confined in New 
 gate itself, and the barriers opposed to their 
 escape were as difficult for them to overcome 
 as they would be in that famed place of con 
 finement. The windows to which we have 
 referred, seemed to them to afford the most 
 tangible mode of escape, though to effect this
 
 156 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 and overcome the difficulty presented in the 
 strongly barred shutters and heavy bolt fas 
 tenings ingeniously contrived, they must pos 
 sess themselves of better instruments for 
 operating than they could then command. 
 
 With this conviction, they sought aa quietly 
 as possible among the lumber and old rubbish 
 of the store room where they slept, for some 
 strong piece of hard wood or bit of iron that 
 might serve them as a sort of pry or lever to 
 wrench off the hinges and other fastenings 
 that so effectually secured the windows. This 
 search involved the removal of many a heavy 
 piece of lumber, besides various other articles 
 and rubbish of all sorts, but they worked 
 patiently, confidently expecting to find some 
 such article beneath the heap as would an 
 swer their purpose. On the afternoon subse 
 quent to the day upon which they had made 
 up their minds as to an attempt to escape, 
 while they were both engaged in the search 
 among the lumber and rubbish, Clara stooped 
 to pick up a small iron ring that she discovered 
 upon the floor, and found to her surprise that 
 it was apparently fastened to the floor, so that 
 she could not raise it. But at last their united 
 efforts accomplished this, and to their astonish 
 ment they raised also a square board of some 
 two feet in width and three in length, that 
 was fastened by hinges, and which seemed to 
 open into the very bowels of the earth. It 
 grated harshly upon its rust-eaten hinges, and 
 seemed to give forth ominous and foreboding 
 sounds to the ears of the startled girls. 
 
 The two looked at each other in astonish 
 ment for a moment, without speaking. 
 
 "Shut it up, Clara," said her .companion, 
 at length ; " how very damp and chilling the 
 air pours up from below. It may be some 
 horrid pestilential vault, where dead bodies 
 have been secreted !" 
 
 "Perhaps not, Edith," said her more cour 
 ageous friend. " Who knows but that by 
 means of this trap door we may find some 
 passage away from the house that is unguard 
 ed, and by which we may yet escape ?" 
 
 " It is fearful even to look into it," said 
 Edith, surveying the dark cavity with an in 
 voluntary shudder, " and how very terrible it 
 would be to go down there, not knowing 
 where it leads, or what it might bring us to 
 at last !" 
 
 " I do not fear to go down," said the fair 
 
 young girl, while her beautiful eyes sparkled 
 with spirit and animation. " What have we 
 to fear, Edith ? I will go first, and you shall 
 follow me." 
 
 " But we must have a light, or we shall be 
 lost at once in the darkness, and not be able 
 ever to find our way back again, if that should 
 be desirable," said Edith. 
 
 " That is true." 
 
 " We can easily get a lamp." 
 
 " But what time should you think it was 
 now, Edith ?" 
 
 " It is nearly night about the time that 
 Lancewood frequently comes in, and looks 
 about the rooms and stares at us so oddly." 
 
 " Then we will close this trap door, shall 
 we not, for the present ?" 
 
 " What for ?" 
 
 " Why, until he has gone." 
 
 " 0, no, if we are to go down, let us do so 
 at once. I shall then escape the sight of his 
 fearful eyes which look so strangely and wild 
 ly upon me," said Edith, covering her face 
 with her hands, as if to shut out the vision 
 that her own words aroused. 
 
 " Well, if you think best, we will go now. 
 You throw this shawl about your head and 
 shoulders," said Clara, offering her a misera 
 ble apology for the article named. " I will 
 light the lamp, and be ready in a moment." 
 
 " But what will you wear, Clara ?" 
 
 " 1 shall not want anything." 
 
 " But I will not take this away from you." 
 
 " 0, never mind me," said the generous girl, 
 " I am hardier than you are." 
 
 Edith would not take the proffered garment 
 until another piece of torn cloth that was used 
 upon the bed, was brought to answer the same 
 purpose for Clara. The lamp was found at 
 last, after Clara had succeeded in striking a 
 light by means of a tinder box, and it discov 
 ered to them a flight of half dilapidated wood 
 en steps, that were decayed and covered with 
 mould by the operation of the dampness, and 
 slimy vapors that seemed to pour up in al 
 most suffocating density in their very faces. 
 With a particular caution to her companion to 
 tread carefully, lest she should slip and fall 
 upon the damp steps, Clara slowly led the way, 
 descending she knew not whither. But scarce 
 ly had they descended a single step before the 
 light was extinguished, the cold current of air 
 setting up from below proving too strong for
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 157 
 
 its weak flame to withstand. Both returned 
 at once to the room, hardly knowing what to 
 do. A second attempt must of course prove 
 as fatal as before ; if they took the lamp into 
 that cold current of air, it must go out. 
 
 " What shall we do, Clara ?" 
 
 "Go without it," suggested Clara. 
 
 " That would be impossible." 
 
 " Stay, there is that broken lantern in the 
 side room, I'll get that." 
 
 '- That will be just what we want to shelter 
 the candle from the wind." 
 
 Thus reinforced, they commenced once more 
 to descend the damp and slippery steps through 
 the trap door. The darkness was so dense 
 that they could only see a few steps before 
 them ; but down, down they went, slowly but 
 without stopping for nearly twenty feet, when 
 Clara paused, remembering that they had left 
 the trap door above them open. She saw in 
 a moment the importance of closing that be 
 hind them at all hazards. If Lancewood should 
 happen to come in and find it open, he would 
 instantly comprehend by what means they had 
 escaped, and follow them at once, and perhaps 
 overtake and bring them back again. She 
 told Edith of this, and said that she would 
 go back and close it, while she should remain 
 with the light where she was ; and crowding 
 by the trembling form of her less courageous 
 companion upon the narrow steps, she once 
 more ascended to the top of the stairs, and 
 closed the door over her head, even taking 
 the precaution to lay the ring into the groove 
 that was cut out for it, and which would par 
 tially hide it ; then she returned again to lead 
 the way in that dismal place. Even the courage 
 of the brave little Clara began to yield at the 
 hoarse gusts of damp air that played about 
 their ears, and whistled wild and mournfully 
 through the steps and about them in all direc 
 tions. 
 
 The last step brought them both nearly to 
 their ankles in water, but after pausing for a 
 moment they seemed to gain fresh courage and 
 resolution, determining to explore the place, 
 at all hazards, and satisfy themselves as to 
 whether it could afford them any means of 
 escape, now they had gone so far. As they 
 went on slowly groping their way, they found 
 that the water decreased in depth, and they 
 were soon again on the dry earth, showing 
 that a sinking of the ground about the base 
 
 of the steps had caused the water to gather 
 there, and it was into this that they had first 
 stepped. After becoming somewhat accustomed 
 to the singular darkness and the effect of the 
 lantern upon it, they discovered that the place 
 which they were in was a sort of narrow 
 vault, having the appearance of being a pas 
 sage leading to some distant opening evident 
 ly undermining the neighboring houses, and 
 perhaps opening presently by another trap 
 door ? up into some room of a house equally 
 to be dreaded by them, with that which had 
 so long been their prison, and which they 
 had ROW left for the first time in a year's 
 space. 
 
 " Clara, where is your hand ? It is very 
 dark and dreary here." 
 
 " It is indeed," replied Clara, drawing close 
 to her friend. 
 
 " Perhaps we are going to a worse place 
 than we have left, Clara." 
 
 "And perhaps, Edith, we are already half 
 free ; think of that." 
 
 " Heaven grant that it may prove so," re 
 plied Edith. 
 
 It grew gloomier and narrower as they 
 went on, until both at last paused, and seri 
 ously considered as to whether they should 
 not turn back again rather than go on any 
 further with such an uncertain purpose, but 
 they both were so strongly impressed with the 
 desire for escape, that they resolved to keep 
 on at least for a little longer. The passage 
 was stoned all about them, and even over 
 head, the upper work being supported by fre 
 quent blocks of stone placed at intervals along 
 the way, showing that much labor and cost 
 had been expended to form the passage, which, 
 however important it might once have been, 
 was now evidently forgotten and unimproved. 
 Chilled through by the searching dampness, 
 and a current of keen air that seemed to set 
 directly into their faces with almost malicious 
 force, they increased their steps that they 
 might the quicker settle their fears and 
 doubts, either for good or evil. But Clara, 
 who carried the lamp, unfortunately in her 
 eagerness tripped her foot against some obsta 
 cle, and falling herself, also dropped the lan 
 tern, which was instantly broken into a 
 thousand pieces, and the candle itself was 
 extinguished. What a fearful situation for the 
 poor fugitives ! To return was impossible,
 
 158 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 and to go on seemed to them to be equally 
 so. They knew not what to do. 
 4 "How unfortunate this is," said Edith; 
 " the light was our only safeguard." 
 
 ' And I have broken the lantern by my 
 carelessness," said Clara, sadly. 
 
 " You could not help it, and are not to 
 blame," said her companion, kindly. 
 
 Taking each other by the hand once more, 
 they slowly groped their way forward through 
 the intense darkness, still hoping they might 
 come at last to some place that would afford 
 them light. Until now Clara had seemed to 
 be the most courageous of the two, and had 
 taken the lead, but soon her heart failed her, 
 and she trembled, while with Edith, in propor 
 tion as the hopelessness of their situation in 
 creased, so her spirits and mental power seem 
 ed to rise to meet the contingency. It was 
 now her turn to offer encouraging and consol 
 ing words to Clara, and to cheer her still to 
 hope for the best, and so they still moved 
 cautiously forward. At last, however, both 
 became almost completely exhausted by ex 
 citement and exertion, and having drawn as 
 near together as possible, Edith proposed that 
 they should kneel down and pray. All was 
 black and dark about them. 0, how fearfully 
 dark it seemed to the hearts of the poor 
 young girls. Edith had taught Clara to 
 pray, and now upon the damp cold ground 
 they knelt down side by side, in that strange 
 subterranean passage, and lifted up their 
 voices to the God of the oppressed and father 
 less, who hears his children, no matter how 
 deeply hidden they may be in stone walls, 
 and whose eye beholdeth them, no matter 
 how-far they be beneath the earth's surface. 
 They had remained thus for some time, when 
 Edith lifted her sweet but trembling voice, 
 and prayed for light, how fervently ! They 
 rose from their kneeling posture, for the damp 
 ness was chilling them more and more every 
 moment, and again they turned their faces, to 
 struggle on for a little space farther, when, as 
 though their prayer had been heard and mirac 
 ulously answered at once, as they both looked 
 forward, they uttered an exclamation of joy 
 and surprise to see the faint glimmering of a 
 light in the distance, small, but yet most dis 
 tinctly visible. 
 
 " 0, God be praised," ejaculated Edith, as 
 she beheld this ray of hope. 
 
 " Our prayer was heard, and answered ; I 
 feel now that all will be well." 
 
 " I already feel strange, do not you, Clara ?" 
 asked her companion. 
 
 " Indeed, yes, since there is that light in 
 view, we may hope for the best." 
 
 How their hearts leaped for joy ! They 
 wept and embraced each other for joy, prompt 
 ed by the excess of delight that now possessed 
 them. With their eyes fixed upon the little 
 faint ray of hope, they struggled on patiently, 
 though already so nearly overcome with fear 
 and exertion. Step by step they gained on 
 the light that shone in the distance, until the 
 passage was narrowed so much at a certain 
 point, that they were compelled to stop as 
 they went on, and finally to almost creep in 
 their forward movement, until they finally 
 emerged from the passage at a secluded and 
 sheltered spot upon the waters of the river 
 Thames. The singular excavation which 
 they had traversed was doubtless one of those 
 celebrated smuggling caves' that abounded 
 upon the river's bank in the sixteenth century. 
 Though delighted beyond measure at the par 
 tial success that now dawned upon them, still 
 the two girls fully realized that they were very 
 far from being out of immediate danger, for 
 they were in one of the very worst districts 
 of all London, among the river robbers, and 
 low-lived boatmen. 
 
 Besides this, neither knew which route to 
 take in order to reach that section of the city 
 which Edith was so desirous to find, and where 
 Sir Robert Brompton's hospitable house was 
 located, and in their fear they were afraid to 
 ask any one they saw, lest it should but open 
 the way to injury and insult. It was so long 
 since they had been at liberty in the streets, 
 that they felt lost there, and seemed quite un 
 decided as to what they should do in this 
 emergency. They, however, turned their 
 steps towards what appeared to them to be the 
 most populous part of the city, and hurried on, 
 as best they might. 
 
 Dressed as they were in the coarsest man 
 ner, Edith felt that if she were to inquire the 
 way to the residence and street where Sir 
 Robert lived, she would most likely only be 
 jeered and laughed at, as no one would be 
 lieve, with the appearance she presented, that 
 she could have any business that would call 
 her into such a neighborhood. Reasoning
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 159 
 
 very correctly in this way, Edith inquired the 
 way to Charing Cross, where she was compar 
 atively acquainted with the localities, and 
 from whence she felt confident that she could 
 find the way with ease to the house of her kind 
 benefactor. But it was already quite late to 
 be abroad and unprotected, more especially in 
 the district where they still were ; indeed it 
 was in the densest portion of St. Giles that 
 Edith and Clara inquired the way to Charing 
 Cross, and both the girls realized the critical 
 situation in which they were placed, half fear 
 ing that some friend of Lancewood's who had 
 seen them, might now recognize and detain 
 them once more. It was such thoughts and 
 fears as these that caused the poor girls, tired 
 and exhausted as they were, to hurry forward 
 with no measured step. Indeed more than 
 once, when they believed themselves unob 
 served, they ran half the length of a street or 
 square, then walked on again nearly out of 
 breath. 
 
 At last it seemed as though their limbs 
 would give way beneath them, and Edith 
 leaned for a moment against the side of a 
 house for support, while she held her aching 
 sides with both her hands, and panted like an 
 affrighted bird. 
 
 " You have no money, I suppose, Clara ?" 
 she asked of her companion. 
 
 " Not a penny." 
 
 " O, how unfortunate that I have not a tri 
 fle, now," she sighed. 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 " If we could only get into this hackney- 
 coach," she answered, " we might be carried 
 in a few moments directly to Sir Robert 
 Brompton's house. It does not seem as if I 
 could walk any further. Besides, Clara, how 
 we both look to be in the streets in this dress. 
 There too are those young men who have fol 
 lowed us from the last corner ; how boisterous 
 they are." 
 
 " I have nothing of any value to give the 
 coachman," said Clara. 
 
 " Stay," said Edith, " I remember. Here's 
 a plain gold ring that I have kept upon my 
 ringer ever since that horrid night, when f left 
 my dear friends at Sir Robert's. I'll try if the 
 coachman will carry us for that." 
 
 " We want to go to - Square," said 
 Edith approaching the man, and not having any 
 money, I will give you this ring if you will 
 
 carry us there at once. Wont you de it? 
 I'll bless you if you will, from my very heart." 
 
 The man looked at her for a moment in sur 
 prise at the singular proposition, and read in 
 Edith's eyes such an imploring look, that he 
 seemed to change in his whole appearance and 
 bearing towards her. 
 
 " What do you want to go there for, young 
 woman, eh ?" he asked. 
 
 " O, I have friends there, and I am very 
 weak and ill, wont you carry us ?" 
 
 The' man was a rough but honest Irishman, 
 by his appearance, and seemed to study the 
 appearance of the girl for a moment as if to 
 satisfy himself that he was not being deceived, 
 and then said : 
 
 " Is that all the means you've got to give for 
 the ride, eh ?" 
 
 " It is all 1 have." 
 
 " And you're not guying me ?" 
 
 " no, upon my word I speak honestly." 
 
 " Well, never mind the ring," said the rough 
 driver, " get in, my good girls, get in." 
 
 " You will not take the ring?" 
 
 " Niver a bit of it, my good girl." 
 
 " God bless you !" said Edith, as the two 
 got in, and the rough driver cracked his whip. 
 
 It was a long distance from the coach stand 
 to where Sir Robert Brompton lived, and as 
 the coach rolled through street after street, and 
 turned corner after corner, the two girls had 
 ample time to review their present position, 
 and to look back at their late achievement of 
 the passage of the fearful vault, and of the 
 almost miraculous escape from Lancewood's 
 house. Edith, who was physically less able 
 and strong than her companion, was too ner 
 vous to converse as they drew nearer and ne"ar- 
 er to their place of destination, while Clara 
 asked again and again how she should behave, 
 and what she should say to the people where 
 they were going, if they asked her about her 
 self. 
 
 She almost trembled too at the idea of going 
 into such a fine, magnificent house as Edith 
 had so often described to her astonished ears, 
 but then she tried to calm herself by thinking 
 if good Mrs. Marlow was there, of whom her 
 companion in misery had so often spoken, she 
 at least would be good and kind to her, and 
 she was sure she need not be afraid where she 
 was. While both were thus reasoning and 
 speculating within themselves, the hack fast
 
 160 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 approached Sir Robert's residence, where the 
 two girls at last got out ; the honest driver 
 still refusing the ring and hurrying away like 
 one who felt repaid for a worthy act by the 
 consciousness of right that he experienced 
 within. 
 
 Edith looked after the honest Hibernian 
 with a tear in her eye ! The rough man had 
 befriended her at a critical moment. 
 
 " Is this the house ?" asked Clara almost in 
 a whisper, as she looked on in wonder at the 
 princely abode before them. 
 
 " Yes," said her companion, with her hands 
 upon her brow, striving to still its rapid mo 
 tion. 
 
 No wonder her heart beat so quickly ; no 
 wonder that her limbs trembled so beneath 
 her ; no wonder that she almost gasped for 
 breath, on approaching so nearly again the 
 only spot on earth that had been a true and 
 happy home to her. Besides this, her physi 
 cal strength had been much impaired and her 
 feelings were less under control, otherwise she 
 could hardly have wept outside the door. 
 
 " Edith you must go in first, and then if 
 you think best I will come when you send for 
 me." 
 
 " No, no, Clara," said Edith seizing her 
 hand, " you shall go in with me, and if they 
 receive me again, they must receive you also." 
 
 " But not at first, Edith, by and by. I will 
 go in at the back door, and you can easily 
 send for me," continued Clara, who was be 
 wildered by the appearance of the house and 
 its magnificence. 
 
 " Say no more, Clara. You have been good 
 and kind to me, and we go together, if at all." 
 
 Clara held by her hand firmly, as she said 
 this, but made no reply. She knew Edith 
 
 well, and she felt that she would abide by 
 what she had said, but still she could not help 
 fearing that her welcome would be but a cold 
 one at best under the singular circumstances 
 that introduced her there, but still trusting to 
 Edith's assurance, she felt that at any rate she 
 was committing no crime in following her 
 companion. 
 
 They paused and listened for more than a 
 minute, before Edith could summon sufficient 
 courage to ring the bell, while Clara, astonish 
 ed at the magnificent appearance of the richly 
 lighted and ornamented door- way, gazed in 
 amazement, and as the servant admitted them, 
 she seemed to lose herself in satisfying her 
 curiosity, by gazing at every object which met 
 her delighted and curious vision. 
 
 It is doubtful which of the two girls pre 
 sented the most interesting picture at that mo 
 ment, Edith with her plaintive and anxious 
 look, seeking for those dear friends that she 
 expected to find there, or Clara, who had now 
 dropped her companion's hand, and gazed 
 about her much as an Indian from the depth 
 of the forest might do at his first glimpse of 
 the refinements of civilization. Her eyes 
 seemed to be riveted upon all things at once, 
 and though she kept so close to Edith, yet 
 her face was turned in all directions to observe 
 what to her was such a curious array of rich 
 ness and lavish ornaments. Her feelings were 
 not unlike those of Edith, when a twelve 
 month before she had entered that splendid 
 abode for the first time. The numerous ser 
 vants, the gorgeous lights and the brilliancy of 
 every thing dazzled 'her, but following close to 
 Edith she said nothing. 
 
 Poor child, so young and handsome, thy 
 story is also to be written in these pages. 
 
 The next number of this work will be issued on Saturday, May 25th.
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 C HAPTER XXIX. 
 
 THE LOST FOUND. 
 
 ' Such scenes had tempered with a pensive grace, 
 The maiden lustre of that faultless face ; 
 Had hung a sad and dreamlike spell upon 
 The gliding music of her silver tone ; 
 And shaded the soft soul which loved to lie, 
 In the deep pathos of that volumed eye." O'NciL, OR THE REBEL. 
 
 WE left Sir Robert and Walter heart sick 
 at the failure of their purpose upon the ren 
 dezvous or headquarters of Bill the Bold, in 
 searching which they were aided, as we have 
 shown, by the police. By the preceding chap 
 ter, the reader has learned the reason why this 
 search on the part of Sir Robert and his asso 
 ciates had produced no signs of her they 
 sought. Singularly enough, the two girls had 
 hardly closed the trap door after them and 
 reached the wet footing at the base of the 
 steps, before the police had entered the house. 
 A very few moments sufficed to satisfy Sir 
 Robert that Edith was not there, and as we 
 have seen, the police were at once dismissed, 
 and Walter and himself made their way home 
 again. 
 
 The tea service had just been removed, and 
 Sir Robert arid Walter sat together, ruminating 
 with sad faces upon their fresh disappointment. 
 The bright polish of the elegant furniture cast 
 back the glare of the fire with almost dazzling 
 effect, while a rich clock upon the mantel-piece, 
 with its ingenious machinery all visible through 
 a transparent case, slowly and soberly ticked 
 the passing moments. So quiet was the spa 
 cious and elegant apartment, that the tiny 
 
 voice of the instrument seemed to be singular 
 ly and almost ominously loud, as it will some 
 times seem in a sick room. Now and then, 
 Sir Robert, half aroused from his fanciful 
 thoughts, would raise his eyes to the clock, as 
 if starilea by its never varying steadiness, and 
 the constant unremitting stroke that chronicled 
 the footsteps of time towards eternity. 
 
 As they sat thus meditating, and now and 
 then interchanging some single remark, sud 
 denly Mrs. Mario w rushed into the room in a 
 state of excitement that bordered on actual 
 frenzy, exclaiming: 
 
 " Sir Robert, Sir Robert, O, Sir Robert !" 
 
 " Good gracious, Mrs. Marlow, what's the 
 matter with you ?" 
 
 " She's come, she's come." 
 
 " Who ? What do you mean, Mrs. Mar- 
 low ?" asked Sir Robert. 
 
 " She's come, she's come," continued the 
 housekeeper, in an ecstasy of delight. 
 
 " Who has come ?" asked Walter eagerly, 
 and half suspecting the truth. 
 
 " Edith, Edith, tbe dear child !" sobbed the 
 housekeeper. 
 
 " Where is she ?" said Sir Robert, springing 
 to his feet at the mention of her name, and
 
 164 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 just in time to receive the embrace of the 
 weeping girl, who ran into his arms. 
 
 " A just God be thanked !" said Sir Robert 
 Brompton, in a hoarse voice, as he folded her 
 tenderly to his heart, and held her there as 
 though he feared some one stood ready to take 
 her from him. 
 
 " Dear, dear Sir Robert," resumed the poor 
 girl, all bathed in tears. 
 
 Then turning from her benefactor, Edith 
 ran to Mrs. Marlow, and putting her arms 
 about her neck, she kissed her again and again, 
 while the kind-hearted housekeeper could only 
 bite her lips, and sob like a child. Suddenly 
 turning towards Walter, as though she had 
 ha]f forgotten herself, she came to him the 
 very picture of frankness, and placing both 
 her hands in his own, she said so truly and so 
 earnestly, though perhaps with a slightly 
 heightened color, as she spoke : 
 
 " I am too glad, too happy to see you again, 
 Walter." 
 
 " Ah, Edith, this is a joy that we have all 
 of us coveted this many-a-day," he answered, 
 warmly pressing her hands. 
 
 The reader should realize the picture that 
 parlor presented at this time, for it was one to 
 be remembered in the thread of our plot, a 
 tableau that must contrast strangely with the 
 relative position of those parties, ere our story 
 closes. 
 
 While this exciting and touching scene 
 was going on between Sir Robert, Walter, 
 Edith and Mrs. Marlow, there stood quite 
 alone and neglected, just within the entrance 
 of the door, a fifth party. It was Edith's late 
 companion. She was looking at the scene be 
 fore her with a trembling lip and full eye. 
 Now she tried to read the expression of Sir 
 Robert's face, and see if she might hope for 
 welcome from him, and then 'she felt lighter at 
 heart as her eyes fell upon the countenance of 
 Mrs. Marlow, which seemed to her to be mark 
 ed with a heart in every line of it. She loved 
 Edith very, very dearly, and yet a little tinge 
 of envy crossed her breast, as she witnessed 
 the tenderness of her welcome. 
 
 At the splendid furniture and belongings of 
 the room she gazed with undisguised astonish 
 ment. In her wildest dreams she had never 
 depicted so much elegance and wealth, or in 
 deed ever before seen anything of the sort, 
 even of the humblest character. Her heavy 
 
 shoes contrasted strangely with the soft velvet 
 carpeting, and her coarse frock with the satin 
 curtains, and damask furniture coverings. She 
 thought of this, and seemed to shrink back 
 nearer to the door, as though she felt that she 
 was trespassing. But spite of all her coarse 
 ness of dress, there beamed forth from her 
 really beautiful and expressive face, a pair of 
 soft blue eyes large and playful, and lips 
 of dainty freshness and color parted now in 
 surprise and discovering within, teeth of fault 
 less regularity and whiteness. At a casual 
 glance, she seemed to be the very counterpart 
 of Edith herself, so strongly did they resemble 
 each other. 
 
 " An apple cleft in twain, was not more twin 
 Than these two creatures." 
 
 It was only for a single moment that the 
 poor girl was permitted to stand thus alone and 
 neglected, for Edith now turning from Walter, 
 observed her trying situation, and ran and kiss 
 ed her in the excess of her joy, as she said : 
 
 " Dear Sir Robert, this is my friend Clara, 
 my sister, 1 should call her, for she has been a 
 dear, good one to me in my dismal confine 
 ment since I was forced away from here." 
 
 " If she has been kind to you, Edilh, it is 
 enough to make us friends at once," said Sir 
 Robert, as he approached the spot where Clara 
 stood, gazing upon her with intense interest. 
 
 " I cannot tell you, Mrs. Marlow, how kind 
 and good Clara has been to me." 
 
 " Has she ?" said the good housekeeper, tak 
 ing Clara's hand kindly. 
 
 " How much they look alike, Sir Robert," 
 said Walter, in surprise. Then turning to 
 Edith again, he said, "you may well call her 
 sister, since she resembles you so strongly." 
 
 " Dear, dear me," said Mrs. Marlow, affect 
 ing to be very much shocked at the appear 
 ance of the girls, but in reality trying to dis 
 guise the telltale tears. " Come with me, 
 both of you, do quick, and I will get you some 
 proper clothes. Now, Sir Robert, pray don't 
 look so impatient, Edith shall come to you 
 again in a very short time." 
 
 " Yes, Sir Robert," said Edith, turningand 
 kissing him tenderly. 
 
 " Come to me in the library, Edith," he re 
 plied, when you are rested. 
 
 " I will, Sir Robert, for I have so much to 
 tell you, 1 ' she answered.
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 165 
 
 "Edith," said Walter, touching her upon 
 the arm as she was speaking to Sir Robert, 
 " you have not introduced your young friend 
 to me yet, pray what is her name ?" 
 
 " Thank you, Walter," she said, " for re 
 minding me. I did forget." 
 
 " Clara, dear, this is Mr. Walter Manning, 
 of whose kindness I have told you before." 
 
 A heightened color diffused itself over the 
 young girl's face as Walter bowed to her. 
 
 " I feel as though I knew each one of you 
 already. Edith has described you all so of 
 ten to me," said Clara, modestly. " She has 
 talked of nothing else but your goodness for 
 these twelve months past, until through her I 
 have loved you all without knowing you, ex 
 cept in your great kindness to her." 
 
 Sir Robert had been much affected before 
 this, his voice had been hoarse, and his lips a 
 little tremulous; but now, while he listened to 
 this modest and unaffected speech, big drops 
 rolled down his cheeks, and he was forced to 
 turn away his head from those before him. 
 They were the first tears he had shed for many 
 long years. 
 
 " My good girl," said he, taking her hand 
 tenderly, "believe yourself perfectly welcome 
 here, and strive to be as happy as you can. 
 Your kindness to Edith alone would claim the 
 warmest gratitude from all who are in this 
 house, did not your own modest spirit bespeak 
 for you a generous reception. Aie you an or 
 phan, Clara?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "Then be indeed a sister to Edith, and 
 share her welcome here." 
 
 "Live here like Edith, sir?" 
 
 " Certainly, Clara, that is what I mean." 
 
 " 0, many, many thanks, sir," but I did not 
 even think of that, I should not feel at home 
 here. I told Edith when she persuaded me to 
 run away with her, that if you would let me 
 wo*rk for her and you, it might be perhaps 
 pleasant, if you were willing. I know I could 
 be useful, for I am used to it, I am indeed, 
 sir." 
 
 Sir Robert was much affected as he listened 
 intently to her voice, and observed her minut 
 est expression of feature. It seemed to charm 
 him, and win a way to his heart at once. Af- 
 ^ ter gazing upon her a moment, and from her to 
 Edith, he parted the rich hair that lay so neg 
 ligently about her head, as he said kindly : 
 
 " We shall be good friends, Clara, I know 
 that we shall; talk no more about work, my 
 good girl, but go with Mrs. Marlow, and let 
 her exert her good taste and kindness upon 
 you." 
 
 " Here, Mrs. Marlow, take both these chil 
 dren. I need not ask you to be kind to them." 
 
 Mrs. Marlow said nothing, but she looked 
 volumes of tender solicitude, as she led them 
 away with her. 
 
 What a change had an hour made in the 
 appearance of everything about Sir Robert 
 Brompton's household. The sad expression 
 that seemed the predominating characteristic 
 of one and all, had given place to bright and 
 cheerful looks, and all were full of the satis 
 faction that they read in Sir Robert Bromp 
 ton's face. Good Mrs. Marlow went bluster 
 ing about in all directions, now here, now 
 there, ordering the best of everything for the 
 new comers, now baths, now fresh linen, now 
 a hosier, now a milliner, now a coiffeur, until 
 at last both Edith and Clara were almost 
 completely overpowered with her kindness. 
 The truth was, the young girls were extremely 
 worn out by tneir late adventures, and re 
 quired some wholesome nourishment and quiet 
 sleep, more than aught else. The former was 
 supplied to them profusely and of the nicest 
 kind, and after enjoying a grateful bath, tem 
 pered to soothe their chilled and aching limbs, 
 and a luxury that both of the girls had long 
 been a stranger to clean linen, they were 
 placed on soft downy beds, the rich curtains 
 of which shut out the light, and the luxuri 
 ance of which wooed them to sleep. There 
 their soft slumbers were watched over by the 
 good Mrs. Marlow for a large share of the 
 night. 
 
 " Dream orr, blest pair, 
 
 Yet happier if you knew your happiness, 
 
 And knew to know no more !" 
 
 A casual observer could hardly have real 
 ized that the two bright beaming and happy 
 faces that were opposite to Sir Robert and 
 Walter at the breakfast table on the morning 
 succeeding the adventures we have described, 
 were the same two, who, pale and haggard, 
 had issued on the preceding evening from the 
 mouth of the subterranean passage on the banks 
 of the Thames. How happy they looked 
 now, what quiet joy shone in their eyes !
 
 166 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 Edith, over happy at her return to those she 
 loved ; Clara, all gratitude and amazement at 
 the sumptuousness that she observed around 
 her. To look at them only for a moment,' it 
 would be hard to say which of the two might 
 be called the handsomest. Edith had the 
 advantage of her former experience and culti 
 vation to aid her, although this had been en 
 joyed but for a brief twelvemonth. But Wal 
 ter Manning observed that notwithstanding 
 Clara was all impulse and curiosity in the 
 contemplation of everything around her, yet 
 she was really very far from being awkward. 
 Indeed there seemed to be a native grace and 
 gentility about her manner, in spite of her 
 humble origin. Her form, which was very 
 fine and slightly more full in outline than her 
 companion's, was very pliant and easy ; though 
 her curiosity leH her to assume an original 
 and peculiar attitude, still she was very far 
 from appearing as lacking ease or grace ; she 
 possessed them by nature. 
 
 " You slept soundly, I hope," said Sir 
 Robert, cheerfully. 
 
 " Both of us," replied Edith, " we never 
 woke until nearly ten this morning. " 
 
 " I feared you might be too tired to fall 
 easily to sleep." 
 
 " O no," replied Edith, " and yet I did lie 
 awake for nearly an hour," 
 
 " And why ?" 
 
 " O, I was thinking, Sir Robert." 
 
 " Of what, Edith ; what should keep you 
 awake, pray?" 
 
 " I was thinking how much the night re 
 sembled that when I was first brought here," 
 she replied. 
 
 Thus they chatted together, Clara being 
 almost too much engaged in familiarizing her 
 self with matters around her, to pretend to 
 talk much, although she answered 'cheerfully 
 when Sir Robert or Walter addressed her. 
 
 " This evening, Edith, you must give me a 
 history of your adventures for the long time 
 you have been away from us." 
 
 " Yes, Sir Robert, I will do so." 
 
 "And Clara's story, too," said Walter 
 Manning, " we would hear that." 
 
 " If you wish it, with all my heart," she 
 replied, smiling pleasantly. 
 
 Edith was beyond a doubt more sentimen 
 tally lovely than Clara, her epres sion evin 
 cing more of her soul in every glance than did 
 
 her companion. Clara was far more lively 
 and vivacious by nature than Edith, and her 
 beauty, like her spirits, seemed in a degree to 
 come and go as her face became suddenly 
 animated with interest, or gently settled into 
 repose. There appeared to be ever lurking 
 beneath the surface a half suppressed flood 
 of mirth and cheerfulness, while her com 
 panion was at times perhaps almost melan 
 choly. 
 
 Both had dark, soft and most luxuriant 
 hair, blue eyes, and features, which in profile 
 were quite classical. They were very nearly 
 of the same size, Clara, perhaps was a little 
 the smallest, both were about the same age, 
 being hardly fifteen. Perhaps in all London, 
 two such happy, expressive and handsome 
 faces might not elsewhere be found, as Mrs. 
 Marlow boldly said. Both soon fell happily 
 and pleasantly into the new routine and dis 
 cipline of life that surrounded them, impro 
 ving almost hourly in many respects, while 
 Edith, by her constant endeavors, helped Clara 
 forward most surprisingly in the studies that 
 both at once applied themselves to, until their 
 instructers declared that never were pupils 
 more apt and industrious. 
 
 It would be hard to draw a picture of a 
 happier household than Sir Robert Bromp- 
 ton's, at this period ; the two new comers 
 growing more and more interesting and beau 
 tiful every day, and the whole household 
 becoming no less endeared to Clara, for her 
 generous, self-sacrificing and ever-cheerful dis 
 position, than they had been to Edith before. 
 Sir Robert, though he evidently held Edith 
 as his favorite, still seemed to enjoy a marked 
 and constant interest in the society of Clara. 
 He would often sit by her side, and listen to 
 a relation of her past life, as far as she knew, 
 it herself, and was even content to sit by her, 
 hours together, and hear her read to him, 
 watching with interest her expression, ap 
 pearing to gain peculiar pleasure from the 
 soft and musical intonations of her sweet 
 voice. 
 
 Walter Manning seemed strongly attracted 
 towards them both, exerting all his powers 
 and versatile talent to please and amuse them. 
 His attention was directed to neither in par- ^ 
 ticular, but he seemed devoted to both alike. 
 Clara's quick wit and sparkling humor kept 
 them ever merry, and Edith's tender and
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 167 
 
 gentle sweetness of disposition bound them 
 nearly together in the silken cords of sisterly 
 and true regard. Indeed, the two seemed to 
 vie with each other, as to which should be 
 the most kind and most considerate to the 
 other. The memory of the suffering they 
 had shared together served as another tie 
 between them, and its recollections served for 
 converse, as they compared it with their pre 
 sent home. 
 
 In the mean time, Sir Robert Brompton^ 
 having fully heard the story of Edith's im 
 prisonment by the burglar who styled himself 
 Lance wood, took measures for a second visit 
 thither with a strong body of police, for the 
 purpose of breaking up this den of infamy. 
 But although they found all the localities as 
 described, yet the escape of the two girls had 
 been sufficient warning for him to move his 
 quarters, for he knew full well, that they 
 would be importuned to witness against him, 
 and thus without further evidence, lead to his 
 conviction by the laws. 
 
 For these reasons, he left at once after dis 
 covering the escape, which was to him a most 
 unaccountable affair, since he knew nothing 
 of the subterranean passage, a place which he 
 might himself have turned to good account. 
 He removed, as we have said, to another part 
 of the town, and when the police surrounded 
 the house and entered it, they found that the 
 bird had flown, though in the hurry, some 
 valuables and burglars' tools had been left 
 behind. The secret passage was also fully 
 explored by the police, and found to have been 
 used for the purpose of smuggling and of stor 
 ing contraband goods, tobacco, spirits and the 
 
 like. The passage was destroyed by the 
 authorities, who decided that it could serre 
 no good purpose, and might aid crime. 
 
 Time passed swiftly on as it had ever done, 
 as it is doing now, and as it will do to-mor 
 row. Edith and her companion Clara evin 
 ced steady improvement in all lady-like ac 
 complishments, and in diligence. Indeed, as 
 it regarded brilliancy, Clara eclipsed Edith, 
 there was more sparkling vivaciousness in her 
 disposition, than in that of Edith, whose even 
 sweetness of disposition was none the les 
 lovely for the comparison. Edith was like a 
 bright, beautiful star, that burns pure and 
 steady in its sphere, Clara was more like a 
 comet, startling and almost glorious in its ma 
 jestic beauty and flashing brilliancy. Some 
 times her natural ability, surprising wit and 
 power of repartee would astonish Sir Robert, 
 who would turn to Walter Manning and say : 
 
 "Never boast to me of blood and descent 
 again ; there is a child born in the very hum 
 blest sphere of life, who would startle the 
 whole court, were she to mingle there, with 
 her elegance of thought and grace of manner, 
 and yet she has been scarce half a year living 
 in a civilized condition. Blood indeed !" 
 
 " I acknowledge, Sir Robert, that your ex 
 ample is ahead of my argument." 
 
 "She is very handsome and interesting, 
 Walter," replied Sir Robert, " but she has not 
 that combination of womanly beauty that 
 Edith possesses ; do you think she has ?" 
 
 " Spare me, Sir Robert, I cannot be so par 
 tial as to answer that question." 
 
 And thus went matters at the house of Sir 
 Robert Brompton at this period.
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 A DOMESTIC SCENE. 
 
 " They grew in beauty side by side 
 They filled one home with glee." 
 
 HEMANS. 
 
 IT will be remembered that the young pi 
 lot, Walter Manning, had now for the term 
 of two years devoted his time to the study of 
 the law, a profession which seemed to him to 
 open for his ambitious hopes and aspirations, 
 the gates to fame, and through its means he 
 hoped yet to be able to win his way to honor 
 able distinction. His association with Sir 
 Robert Brompton was the same as it had ever 
 been, and though there was such a disparity 
 in their ages, yet they seemed like brothers 
 together, or perhaps still more like father and 
 son. Thus their amusements and hours of 
 relaxation were mainly spent together, though 
 in fact the attraction that drew them to their 
 own fireside was so strong, that most of the 
 time they were at home, enjoyjag the society 
 of Edith and Clara, who were never happier 
 than when with them. 
 
 To the casual reader it may seem a little 
 singular that one who was so far advanced in 
 life as Sir Robert was, should have chosen for 
 a companion one so young as Walter. But 
 the fact was, the singular accident which had 
 brought them together in the first place, and 
 the attendant circumstances, which we have 
 related, had done much to render them firm 
 friends, had there been no other prompting 
 
 causes ; but these were not wanting, for there 
 were many traits of character in both (al 
 though there was so much difference in their 
 ages), which were so similar and so of a nature 
 to draw them together, that it was easily ac 
 counted for to those who knew them best. 
 There was evidently another reason why Sir 
 Robert looked upon Walter with so much 
 interest; in the first place, his heart seemed 
 every day more and more wrapped up in 
 jjdith, and it is useless to disguise the fact 
 that he had evidently in his mind arranged 
 that Walter should finally marry her, though 
 he had never so much as hinted the matter to 
 either of them. 
 
 " Walter, you remain too constantly at 
 home, and too much engaged over your books," 
 said Sir Robert. 
 
 " no, Sir Robert, I enjoy myself very 
 much at home." 
 
 " But it would be an improvement for you 
 to mingle more in society." 
 
 " Do you think so ?" 
 
 "Yes. Go to the clubs, and make new 
 acquaintances, and study human nature." 
 
 " Perhaps you are right, Sir Robert." 
 
 Walter was actually of a generous and 
 impulsive disposition, though very studious,
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 169 
 
 but he acted upon Sir Robert's suggestion, 
 and was in the habit of visiting the clubs and 
 mingling with the gay world of London soci 
 ety. The truth was, his elder companion and 
 firm friend had too much confidence in Wal 
 ter to fear that he would suffer by the con 
 tact; and he trusted to his home associations, 
 which he knew to be so strong upon him, as 
 well as the influence that he himself possessed 
 over him, to prevent any contaminating effects 
 upon his protege. Sir Robert knew that the 
 experience which Walter would gain in this 
 way was not without its value, to a man 
 whose profession was such as to call into 
 active play a full knowledge of human nature ; 
 besides, he was one of that class of philoso 
 phers who reason, that a young man should 
 see vice as well as virtue, and thus forewarned, 
 become forearmed, and the better fitted to 
 combat with it. 
 
 As time rolled on it would be unreasonable 
 to suppose for a moment, that Walter Man 
 ning, a high-spirited, handsome and manly 
 youth, did not fully entertain the tender feel 
 ings naturally induced by his intimacy with 
 two such lovely females as Edith and Clara. 
 He felt inwardly drawn towards them, to 
 Edith for the soft, winning and tender charac 
 ter of her whole spirits, and towards Clara for 
 her free, unconstrained and constant playful 
 ness and wit. 
 
 To look upon the two young girls now, you 
 would have supposed them both born to the 
 sphere which they graced so fittingly. Their 
 occupations were of the most intellectual 
 character, and of course imparted that mental 
 grace which more than all else, is so winning 
 and beautiful. In their conversation and com 
 munion with Walter, they seemed like his 
 sisters ; there was no coyness, no reserve, no 
 coquetry, they both loved him as a dear, 
 familiar friend. Even Sir Robert, who often 
 watched them with cautious eye, more es 
 pecially in relation to the plan which he 
 had formed in his own heart, could detect not 
 the least partiality on Walter's part, though 
 he manifested at all times how agreeable their 
 society was to him, and indeed sought it too 
 constantly and devotedly not to lead his 
 patron to believe that his heart was engaged 
 there. To a man of Sir Robert's leisure, his 
 hopes even if simple ones, became subjects oJ 
 much thought in his own mind, and that of a 
 
 union between Edith and Walter seemed to 
 have been dwelt upon by him until his heart 
 was much set upon its consummation ; and yet 
 he was too delicate to intimate, even by the 
 slightest token to either of the parties, that 
 such was his desire. 
 
 But Walter, in the meantime, kept on the 
 even tenor of his way, thinking no doubt 
 
 " How happy could I be with either, 
 Were t'other dear charmer away." 
 
 How many have been situated like Walter 
 Manning, and how many have said these 
 very words in their hearts ! 
 
 Sir Robert Brompton's standing and wealth 
 were such as to attract many fashionable and 
 even noble visiters to his house, though his 
 taste was of that cast that was not calculated 
 to attract much display and parade about 
 him. Still everything here was in most ex 
 cellent taste; the pictures were so admirable, 
 the statues so finely executed, and the orna 
 ments that graced his drawing rooms so curi 
 ous and so rich, that many persons of taste 
 and refinement visited them, attracted by 
 these subjects strongly, as well as by Sir 
 Robert's generous hospitality. 
 
 Edith and Clara were too young to go into 
 society, had either they or Sir Robert desired 
 it, but this was not the case. Both they and 
 Sir Robert preferred retirement, but they were 
 of course introduced to such as were frequent 
 visiters to their patron's house, and the idea 
 was left to be inferred, or was perhaps thrown 
 out by Sir Robert himself, that they were 
 children of a poor but well beloved friend, at 
 whose decease he had promised to adopt them 
 as his own. The good sense of the girls 
 themselves was of course sufficient guard on 
 their tongues, while the high-bred persons who 
 frequented the drawing rooms at Sir Robert 
 Brompton's, were too polite and considerate to 
 refer to a subject that they might naturally 
 suppose to be a delicate one with them. 
 
 This was an important matter as it regard 
 ed the settling o the young girls' positions, 
 and was perhaps the most probable story that 
 could have been invented, inasmuch as no one 
 doubted it for one moment, and the matter 
 once understood to be as we have said, it in 
 duced no further consideration, but was for 
 gotten in the present position that they occu 
 pied.
 
 170 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 Seeing by the character of the society into 
 which they were gradually thrown, the im 
 mense importance and even necessity of cul 
 tivation and mental improvement, the two 
 friends were led to the most unremitting ex 
 ertions in order to instruct themselves, and 
 with the advantage which Sir Robert so liber 
 ally supplied, of the best masters in all branch 
 es, they made most wonderful progress. On 
 the part of Clara there was a secret incentive 
 which operated strongly to cause her to make 
 the most determined effort to improve, and 
 that was that she might fully equal, if not ex 
 cel Edith, There is emulation in every 
 thing, and though she loved her dear com 
 panion with all her heart, and like a fond sis 
 ter, still a secret wish to excel her in their 
 studies, caused Clara to labor upon her books 
 many an hour when Edith slept. The im 
 provement of Clara was in turn an incentive 
 for fresh exertion for Edith, and thus they 
 both went on in their studies, advancing rap 
 idly. 
 
 " I don't know what to make of those two 
 girls," said a young sprig of aristocracy to a 
 friend one evening, at Sir Robert Brompton's 
 house. " They are as unassuming and intel 
 ligent as they are beautiful." 
 
 " Beautiful indeed," said her companion, 
 earnestly. He was a frequenter of the house, 
 and the son of a proud family, having himself 
 just attained to the title and estate of Lord 
 Amidown, his father. 
 
 Edith and Clara were engaged at this mo 
 ment with a group of friends in an opposite 
 corner of the apartment. 
 
 " To my mind, Amidown, Clara is by far 
 the most handsome and entertaining of the 
 two. See now how she carries the company 
 with her," said he who had first spoken. 
 
 " Do you think so ?" said Lord Amidown, 
 still regarding them intently. 
 
 " Certainly, I do. There, do you not see 
 how she keeps them in a broad laugh ? Why, 
 Amidown, her wit is as keen as that of the 
 king's jester, and yet as delicate and finely 
 tempered as a Damascus blade." 
 
 " She may be more entertaining, I grant 
 you," said Lord Amidown, still observing 
 them, " but to my mind, Edith is by far the 
 most interesting. Did you ever mark how 
 very soft her eyes are ; and of- what a lovely 
 hue?" 
 
 " Yes, I have observed that they were blue," 
 was the reply. 
 
 " Ah, but suck a blue," replied Lord Ami- 
 down, with emphasis. 
 
 " Yes, but Clara's eyes are blue also," re 
 plied his companion. 
 *" True, but" 
 
 "But what, Amidown." 
 
 " Clara's eyes are blue," continued his lord 
 ship. " I do not dispute tljat, they are full of 
 life too, but they lack that plaintive sweetness, 
 that speaks of full confidence and reliance, 
 giving constant token of a soul too pure to sus 
 pect another of wrong, and too innocent to 
 buffet with the selfish and calloused world." 
 
 " Ho, ho, Amidown," Said his friend, look 
 ing at his lordship from beneath his contracted 
 eyebrows, and following his exclamation by a 
 low, half suppressed whistle. 
 
 " Well, what's the matter now ?" asked his 
 lordship in surprise. 
 
 "So, so, sits the wind in that quarter?" 
 continued his companion, with a half taunting 
 voice. " We shall have a duel and bloodshed, 
 yet, my lord. Why look ye, this young East 
 Indian, Walter Manning, is dead in love with 
 Edith, and would eat fire itself before he'd 
 yield her up, or give an inch of ground to any 
 man. Besides, my lord," whispered his friend 
 significantly, " it is said that he is a crack 
 shot, sure at fifteen paces." 
 
 " Fie, fie," said his lordship, " this is no sub 
 ject for nonsense." 
 
 " True, it is assuming rather a serious turn,' 
 said the other, laughing. 
 
 " But do you think that Mr. Manning loves 
 her ?" asked Lord Amidown. 
 
 " To be sure he does. See her lean upon 
 his arm now as they go over to talk about that 
 picture, by this light. Faith, she has a queen 
 ly form. Everybody says they are in love, 
 and what everybody says must be true." 
 
 " But I have observed him closely to-night," 
 said Lord Amidown, " and I doubt if he does 
 not pay fully as earnest court to Clara, as he 
 does to Edith. If he has a partiality in that 
 quarter, he does not show it. Egad, I envy 
 him his brotherly relation to them, all three 
 adopted children of the rich old fellow, Sir 
 Robert." 
 
 " He picked up young Manning somewhere 
 in the East Indies, eh ?"
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 171 
 
 " Yes, didn't you ever know the story of 
 their being cast away together?" 
 
 < No." 
 
 " It's as good as a novel. I'll tell it to you 
 some time." 
 
 " I'll remind you of it at the club, and you 
 shall tell me the whole of it. In the mean 
 time, my lord, let us approach the party oppo 
 site, and observe the game more closely. 
 Mark me, Walter is playing his cards to 
 Edith." 
 
 The two young gentlemen walked leisurely 
 across the spacious room where this conversa 
 tion had taken place, and joined the little knot 
 of which Edith and Clara were the centre. Of 
 course they did not let it appear that they had 
 been talking of them, but seemed to have 
 lounged to their side after a circuit of the 
 room, during which they had ostensibly been 
 engaged in a minute inspection of several of 
 the paintings that graced the walls. 
 
 " Ah, here is Lord Amidown," said Clara, 
 as he drew near to the little circle, " he will be 
 my champion in this all-important controver 
 sy. Won't you couch a lance for me, my 
 lord ?" 
 
 " Most assuredly, Miss Clara," said his 
 lordship quickly. " Count on me against 
 whatever odds. But pray what is the subject 
 in dispute, if I may be so bold as to ask ?" 
 
 " Hold," said Clara, " you are first to pledge 
 yourself to my support." 
 
 " O, yes. I have taken your side of the 
 argument already." 
 
 " Well, then you must know, my lord," be 
 gan Clara, " that we were speaking of nation 
 al costumes. Mr. Manning is in favor of our 
 good old English fashion of dressing like men 
 and women, as he calls it. Sir Robert likes 
 best the old Roman toga and sandals, 
 though, between ourselves, nay lord, I shrewdly 
 suspect he assumes the preference merely for 
 argument's sake. Edith affects the Italian 
 and Spanish modes which puzzles me the 
 more because Edith is always right in almost 
 everything. Mr. Steaton here, thinks the 
 Swiss peasantry a model but I was just hop 
 ing to win him over to my side, when you 
 came up, my lord, and as you are not commit 
 ted as yet, why I am most fortunate." 
 
 " And which choice is yours, or perhaps I 
 should say, ours ?" 
 
 " I have been advocating the grace and 
 
 beauty of the Turkish costume," she replied. 
 " And now my lord, honestly, which of them 
 all do you advocate ?" 
 
 " Upon my allegiance ?" asked his lordship, 
 referring to his promise to support her side of 
 the argument. 
 
 " No, but honestly, my lord." 
 
 " If I could see Miss Clara Brompton in a 
 Turkish dress, beyond a doubt I should ever 
 after be a devotee to the style of the East, but 
 since I have only had the pleasure of seeing 
 her grace an honest English fashion, I shall 
 be compelled to agree, with Mr. Manning, that 
 it is decidedly my favorite." 
 
 " You are as ready as a barrister, my lord, 
 and as shrewd, and non-commital ; but I ac 
 knowledge that I am in the minority, that I 
 am thoroughly outwitted, and that our English 
 fashion has carried the day, though I did de 
 pend upon you, my lord, for a casting vote in 
 my favor," she said, turning a playful glance 
 at Lord Amidown. 
 
 " I recant, 1 racant," said Lord Amidown, 
 quickly, won by the half coquettish, half 
 earnest appeal that he had interpreted in the 
 glance from Clara's lovely eyes. "I do re 
 cant, upon my soul. I am certainly in fa 
 vor of the turban and the yashmack ; in fact 
 it is a deplorable truth, that none but the 
 Orientals know how to dress gracefully." 
 
 " Excellent ; a convert, a convert," exclaimed 
 Clara, in seeming delight. 
 
 Edith clapped her hands playfully, and 
 laughed at the scene. 
 
 " I'll shiver a lance with him who gainsays 
 it," continued Lord Amidown, half in earnest, 
 warmed up by the recent smiles of Clara, 
 who thanked Jiim for thus supporting her 
 choice. 
 
 "To my mind," said Walter, trying to 
 provoke the playful controversy still farther, 
 " a Turkish lady with all her flowing ample- 
 ness of dress, is not a bad representative of a 
 ship's canvass all spread, alow and aloft." 
 
 " Now, Walter," said Clara, " if you cast 
 such reflections upon my choice, I will scold 
 you for bringing in your nautical comparisons, 
 which I cannot teach you to drop." 
 
 " Excuse me," said Walter, laughing, " I'll 
 trespass no more." 
 
 "You support Miss Clara in her Moslem 
 fancy, then?" asked Mr. Steaton of his lord 
 ship.
 
 172 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 " Most decidedly," he replied. " I will 
 have a turban and half moon engraven upon 
 my seal." 
 
 " Thou gallant and devoted knight," said 
 Clara, laughing. 
 
 " And yet one can't deny that the Neapoli 
 tan costume is novel, graceful and pictur 
 esque," continued Lord Amidown, catching 
 the sweet expression of Edith's faee turned 
 towards him. 
 
 <; There, what reliance can be placed upon 
 the faith of man ! O, you fickle monster," 
 exclainfed Clara, laughing heartily, " why 
 that was Edith's vote." 
 
 " Indeed ; well, upon a second thought," 
 said Lord Amidown, laughing, though a little 
 confused, " I think half the dress should 
 be Turkish, and the other half Italian." 
 
 " How, my lord," said Clara, while her 
 eyes sparkled with fixe and humor, " the right 
 side in one mode, and the left in another, as 
 Punch wears his colors at the show ?" 
 
 "No, no, no !" exclaimed his lordship, hold 
 ing up both hands. 
 
 " 0, I see, you mean latitudinally, not 
 longitudinally," said Clara, laughing heartily, 
 and making the motions with her hands to 
 signify her meaning. 
 
 " Upon my word, Miss Clara, I believe it 
 would be safer to be on your side," said Lord 
 Amidown. 
 
 Though as they passed to the supper room 
 that night, Edith leaned upon Walters arm, 
 and Clara upon Lord Amidown's, yet to a 
 careful observer, one who could read the wiles 
 of the heart, it was apparent that the gentle 
 men would have been pleased to have ex 
 changed partners. Even Sir Robert thought 
 he noticed this, and as it materially affected 
 the spirit of the plans he had formed, he 
 mused thoughtfully upon the indication. Be 
 fore they left the supper room again to return 
 to the parlor, Sir Robert joined them, resolv 
 ed if possible to test the suspicion which had 
 found place in his mind, and he cunningly 
 managed it so that in the return, Walter and 
 Lord Amidown had in reality changed part 
 ners. The result of this change was such as 
 to make him more thoughtful and anxious 
 within his own breast than before. 
 
 Edith, though perhaps of a more retiring 
 disposition than her young friend Clara, was 
 yet by no means tame. Her spirits were gay 
 
 and flowing, but she seemed rather to follow 
 her companion's lead than to advance herself, 
 and yet in conversation she evinced that pow 
 er of mind and soundness of judgment which 
 we are wont to look for only in those whose 
 experience has been of the most extended 
 character. Though all were delighted and 
 attracted by the gay, overflowing spirits and 
 quick wit of Clara, yet it might be doubted 
 if they thought of her when she was absent, 
 so much or so tenderly as they did of Edith. 
 The impression she left upon the mind was 
 more evanescent, though no less pleasing than 
 that of her adopted sister. 
 
 Sir Robert Brompton seemed much bound 
 up in the two children, as he familiarly called 
 them, and one thing was very certain, they 
 both loved him with the most undivided and 
 sincere affection. If he strove to think within 
 himself that he loved Edith better than Clara, 
 the gentle voice and winning manner of the 
 new comer sprang 'up before his mind's eye, 
 and he found that there was an undefinable 
 fascination about her voice, her manner, and 
 her presence, that had most indelibly fixed her 
 also upon his heart. 
 
 Thus Sir Robert often found himself watch 
 ing her movements and expression of face, 
 and listening most intently to the sweet mu 
 sic of her voice, all forgetful of the presence 
 of those about him, or the associations of the 
 hour and the place. All these influences ap 
 peared to force themselves upon his mind ; 
 they were not the result of any endeavor to 
 realize an interest in the subject of them, but 
 seemed to come over Clara's protector with 
 irresistible force. 
 
 Notwithstanding this affection for her com 
 panion, he still seemed to cherish for Edith 
 the warmest regard and love, and indeed, as 
 we have before said, earnestly hoped to see 
 her one day the wife of Walter Manning, 
 whom he regarded with but little less affection ; 
 and he looked upon the two as his future 
 heirs, or rather his principal heirs, for he found 
 himself so nearly allied in his regard for Cla 
 ra, that he had promised himself to appropri 
 ate for her benefit a most princely endow 
 ment. And her patron had told her this in 
 his kindness. 
 
 Sir Robert had more than once resolved to 
 talk seriously with Walter upon the matter to 
 which we have referred, but somehow delicacy
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 173 
 
 always forbade the first advance, and though 
 he still had the subject of their future union 
 very near at heart, yet he never seemed to 
 have the necessary spirit to broach the sub 
 ject to Walter. The late scene in the draw 
 ing room which Sir Robert had closely noted, 
 had given him much trouble, and to almost 
 any one present on that occasion, it was very 
 evident that Walter was more at home with 
 Clara than with Edith. 
 
 " Walter," said Sir Robert, one day about 
 this time, " you are very intimate with Edith 
 and Clara." 
 
 " Intimate, Sir Robert ?" 
 
 " Yes, I mean to say that you seem never 
 so happy as when in their company." 
 
 " That is true, Sir Robert, I am never so 
 happy as when with them." 
 
 "Or perhaps it would be more correct to 
 say, when with her." 
 
 " Which, Sir Robert ?" asked Walter, color 
 ing not a little. 
 
 " Which ? why the one you most prefer, of 
 course, Walter." 
 
 Walter saw at once the meaning of Sir 
 
 Robert's query, but let his preference be what 
 
 it might, he was not prepared to express it to 
 
 . any one, not even to Sir Robert, whom he 
 
 deemed to be his best friend. 
 
 Sir Robert saw this reluctance, and of 
 course said no more upon the subject, though 
 he had hoped to satisfy his mind upon a sub 
 ject which was most nearly allied to his peace 
 of mind. 
 
 " See you at the club to-night, Walter ?" 
 he asked, turning away. 
 
 " Most likely I shall drop in by twelve, Sir 
 Robert," he answered. 
 
 We do not wish to intimate that Walter 
 Manning had seriously said to himself within 
 his own heart that he preferred Clara to Edith. 
 By no means, nor had his conduct decidedly 
 evinced any token of this character. If he 
 did prefer her, he had never yet realized the 
 fact, but that he had 'entertained something 
 more than a brotherly interest and regard for 
 Edith before the time of her abduction, he 
 
 had even acknowledged again and again to 
 himself, but to Edith .herself he had never 
 said a syllable to this effect. 
 
 As it regarded his feelings towards Clara, 
 he was attached to her by her companionable 
 qualities, pleased with her wit and spirit, and 
 yet not so much so as to fail in rendering to 
 Edith the constant and grateful attention that 
 he had 'ever accorded to her, and with doubt 
 less as much pleasure both to himself and her 
 as ever. 
 
 Indeed the fact of his more earnest suit to 
 Clara had seemed to render him more free 
 and easy with Edith than he had ever been 
 before, for though she loved him as an earnest 
 friend, yet when he had thought himself most 
 fondly attached to her, she at heart was the 
 same as now. 
 
 " To him she was 
 Even as a sister but no more." 
 
 Still there was an attendant delicacy that it 
 was impossible not to realize under such cir 
 cumstances, that was now entirely removed It 
 even gave Edith no little pleasure to see Wal 
 ter so intimate and so kind to Clara, and 
 both of them felt that they had Edith's kind 
 est and most constant regard. Walter had 
 even thought of making a confident of Edith 
 touching his regard for her companion, and 
 more especially since he had become convinc 
 ed by observation that Lord Amidown was so 
 warmly attached to her. He thought that 
 some such thing might serve to settle the 
 matter between them as to the regard he had 
 himself once borne for her. 
 
 As to the girls themselves, we have said 
 nothing thus far touching the secret prompt 
 ings of their hearts. Perhaps they had no 
 fixed thoughts upon the subject. They were 
 most happy, grateful, and pleased with Walter, 
 and with every one who showed them marked 
 kindness. Both Edith and Clara were in re 
 ality too young to have any settled preference 
 as it regarded the matters of the heart; but 
 these passions were soon to be developed, as 
 the thread of the story will show.
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 THE GAMBLER. 
 
 Dig as much gold, boys, as you like, but don't gamble. 
 
 FREMONT. 
 
 ABOUT eleven o'clock one night, not long 
 subsequent to the date of our last chapter, Sir 
 .Robert Brotnpton found himself with a party 
 of gay friends coming out of the opera house, 
 when one of them suggested that they should 
 order their vehicles to drive round to St. 
 James street, and drop into some one of the 
 numerous gambling houses, for variety's sake, 
 and take an observation as to how they car 
 ried sail there. It would be a change in the 
 ordinary routine of life, and they were weary 
 of the stupidity of the town. 
 
 None of the associates of Sir Robert were 
 of a class upon whom such a visit could possi 
 bly exercise any hurtful Influence, being almost 
 without an exception men who had long since 
 settled in life, and had lived their day of dis 
 sipation and recklessness years gone by, men 
 mostly of his own age, with whom he was 
 accustomed to meet at the clubs, and now 
 and then to visit the opera with, or to join 
 over the convivial board on social occasions, 
 This being the case, and there still being a 
 full hour before the usual supper time, the 
 party generally consented to the proposal, and 
 they drove round to the most celebrated of the 
 gaming hells. 
 
 Paying the entrance fee at the door, the 
 party entered the establishment, and lounging 
 
 into the splendidly furnished saloon, soon 
 separated into couples, or strolled here and 
 there among the excited players. Most of 
 these were young men taking their first les 
 sons in the hateful vice, and buying experi 
 ence at a fearful risk and expense. 
 
 Sir Robert looked with a secret shudder 
 upon the forlorn and hopeless expression of 
 more than one face, the owner of which had lost 
 doubtless his last penny. In some he could 
 read the demon-like passions that led them 
 on to stake hundred after hundred, until per 
 haps a momentary change made them win 
 ners, and then'he observed the almost assassin- 
 like spirit that beamed from their eyes as 
 they gathered in the golden pile once more, 
 seeming to gloat over it as they did so. " Is 
 it possible," he said to himself, "that men 
 endowed with souls, and the powers of intel 
 lect, will voluntarily make such slaves, such 
 fools of themselves, losing as they must do, 
 all self-respect, and bondaging themselves to 
 the spirit of evil?" 
 
 Those who permanently held these tables, 
 were always experienced gamblers, employed 
 by the establishment upon a share of the 
 profits, as well as a fixed salary. These were 
 chosen for their cunning, and perhaps not 
 unfrequently, for their ability at intrigue and
 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 175 
 
 cheating, for there never was an honest gam 
 bler ; indeed such a case would form a para 
 dox. In a few instances females were em 
 ployed, and here and there among the gaming 
 tables, Sir Robert saw one of this class, filling 
 the banker's chair. These employees were 
 chosen first for their attractive qualities as it 
 regarded their personal beauty and manners, 
 and then for the possession of those qualities 
 which best adapted them to play the evil part 
 that was expected of them. It is true that 
 such were generally calculated as decoys for 
 new beginners, and old hands rarely played 
 at these tables. But they played indiscrimin 
 ately with all who visited this temple of for 
 tune, as the gambling saloon was denominated 
 in rich gilt letters over the arched and richly 
 ornamented entrance. Everything was in a 
 style of splendor calculated to dazzle and 
 bewilder the uninitiated. 
 
 The controlling mind that governed the 
 gambling house referred to, must have been a 
 master spirit, though its powers were exerted 
 for evil. A consummate knowledge of human 
 nature and the habits of men of the world, 
 could alone have dictated so perfect an ar 
 rangement in all respects, one so well calculated 
 to win and attract the visiters to come again. 
 The principal saloon or gaming room, lined 
 with mirrors in gilt frames, was dazzling in 
 its brilliancy ; the ceiling and cornice work 
 elaborately gilded and painted in fresco. The 
 furniture is all solid and of the most costly 
 and recherche pattern. But let us turn for a 
 moment into this ante-room; it is a supper 
 hall, where a most sumptuous and free repast 
 is nightly supplied, and where the choicest 
 and best wines are liberally furnished without 
 charge, for the cunning proprietor knows full 
 well that its potent influence will presently 
 unloose the purse strings of those who partake, 
 when they shall retire to the hazard room. 
 
 All these belongings Sir Robert minutely 
 inspected, and although they were not abso 
 lutely new to his experience, yet they sug 
 gested a train of reflections that a careful 
 observer might have detected in his eyes and 
 manner. 
 
 At this moment he saw a person draw near 
 to one of the tables referred to, and at which 
 a female presided. The stranger placed a 
 hundred pounds upon the velvet cloth of the 
 table, and bowing to the female, indicated his 
 
 challenge. Sir Robert paused for a moment 
 to witness the result of the hazard, and see 
 which should be the winner. A few seconds 
 of time decided the stake, and he saw that 
 the female had lost. It seemed, however, not 
 to disconcert her at all, but to be too much a 
 matter of business to create any great degree 
 of feeling as it regarded the result. She who 
 held the bank was in many respects a remark 
 able person, rather tall and commanding in 
 figure, with a fine, expressive and intellec 
 tual face, but yet Sir Robert could see that 
 constant excitement caused by her peculiar 
 occupation had given it premature lines, and 
 a deep shadowing of care and thoughtful- 
 ness that seemed to his suggestive mind to be 
 the record of past crime and misery, and the 
 memory as well of many a noble and generous 
 heart that she had helped to destroy. Once 
 she caught Sir Robert's eye bent upon her 
 while his mind was thus exercised, and seem 
 ing to read the thoughts that rushed thickly 
 upon his brain, her own eyes sunk at once, 
 and Sir Robert thought he maiked a 
 heightened color upon her cheek, and a 
 quickened breathing in her he gazed upon. 
 
 He sighed himself at the picture before him, 
 but said nothing as he carefully observed the 
 manner of the girl. That which we have 
 described had all passed in a moment of time. 
 
 " Do you double ?" she asked, looking at 
 the winner, while she shook the dice enticing 
 ly towards him. 
 
 " Double," answered the one addressed, 
 quietly, while the money was left in the 
 centre of the table before her. 
 
 " First, if you please," he said, conceding 
 the throw to her, and then taking the die, he 
 followed her with a quick, careless throw, 
 that showed he was no stranger to the game 
 he was playing. 
 
 The number that each had made was regis 
 tered, still the gentleman had won. 
 
 " Double again ?" asked the female, com 
 placently, looking in his face. 
 
 " Certainly, if you please," said the winner, 
 moving the four hundred pounds into one pile 
 for her to cover. 
 
 " Good," said the female, taking the ne 
 cessary sum from the drawer before her. 
 
 The money was at once set, the dice as 
 quickly thrown, and the female looked up with 
 a marked expression of surprise as she observed
 
 176 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 that fortune had a third time favored her an 
 tagonist. The eight hundred pounds were al 
 lowed to remain upon the table and the bank 
 meeting the stakes, sixteen hundred now lay 
 exposed before them and subject to the next 
 throw of the fickle dice. Each party threw 
 the allotted number of times, when a quick 
 glow upon the female's face and an impatient 
 biting of the lip, showed that she had again, 
 to her astonishment, lost the game But 
 knowing full well that he who doubles con 
 stantly must eventually lose, she said, with 
 a forced smile : 
 
 " Will you set me once more, sir?" at the 
 same time adding to the pile of bank notes 
 before them two little bags, making the whole 
 sum three thousand two hundred pounds. 
 
 " Certainly," said the winner, in reply to 
 her request, and whose good fortune seemed 
 not to elate him in the least. " Do the bags 
 contain the necessary sum?" 
 " Yes, they are labelled." 
 " Very good, proceed." 
 This time the female seemed to use more 
 caution than before, and to be slower in her 
 throw of the dice. In the three casts she 
 scored thirty-six, a high number, and she 
 looked at her antagonist with ill suppressed 
 satisfaction and with an increased glow upon 
 her cheek, that said in dumb show, "beat 
 that if you can, sir ; fortune runs not all one 
 way." There were other faces now gathered 
 about them that sided with her, and expressed 
 as much in their looks. 
 
 The gentleman threw again with a steady 
 hand as before, when the female cried : 
 " Eighteen !" 
 
 " Eighteen," repeated a half score of in 
 terested spectators. 
 
 Again the dice rattled in the little leather 
 box, and lay upon the table. 
 
 " Twelve !" said the female, now rising in 
 her excitement and bending over the table. 
 
 " Twelve," again repeated the by-standers, 
 little less interested. 
 
 Once more the dice were raised and cast 
 carelessly upon the table. 
 
 " Twelve !" repeated the female, sinking 
 back in her chair, with the greatest disap 
 pointment. " This is very strange," she con 
 tinued, turning to a friend by her side, who 
 had also been observing the game. 
 
 A smile only played about the mouth of the 
 
 winner ; he spoke not a word. He had thrown 
 forty-two, and the money was his, though he 
 did not put his hands upon it, preferring rather 
 to mark the expression of the female be 
 fore him. Sir Robert thought that he 
 seemed to enjoy the pain and disappointment 
 of his antagonist far more than he did the 
 winnings that lay before him. It was impos 
 sible for the woman to disguise her feelings 
 and her extraordinary chagrin. The loss had 
 excited her so much that she was forced to 
 toss her feet and drum upon the table with her 
 hand, to prevent the discovery of the tremor 
 that actually shook her frame. 
 
 Two or three persons who had been close 
 observers of the singular game, stepped up to 
 the stranger as they noticed that he still left 
 the money upon the table, and without hesi 
 tation, though manifestly strangers to him, 
 asked him if it was possible that he could be 
 so imprudent as to tempt the chances of the 
 game still farther ? " Fortune has strangely 
 smiled upon you to-night," said one close by 
 his side, " but if you tempt her too far, she 
 may frown in turn." To all he only returned 
 a half vacant smile, and seemed still to glance 
 from the money to the female, and laugh 
 again, as though he were studying her feelings 
 at her great loss. She in the meantime re 
 garded him with mingled surprise and regret, 
 while all paused to see what he would do. 
 At last relieving his breast by a long drawn 
 sigh, and arousing to a new consciousness of 
 things about him, he said : 
 
 " Will madame double ?" 
 
 " Again ?" asked the female, in amazement 
 at his temerity. 
 
 " Again," he answered. 
 
 " Certainly," she said, borrowing a part of 
 the necessary sum from an adjoining table. 
 
 " All being prepared and the money proper 
 ly stacked, the stranger said : 
 
 " Throw first, if you please." 
 
 The female paused for a moment ; she felt 
 confident that the extraordinary luck which 
 had fallen to the stranger's share could not 
 still favor him, but yet she threw the dice 
 three times and scored : 
 
 " Forty" she exclaimed, in an excited tone ; 
 " but a miracle can beat even that," she con 
 tinued, sarcastically. 
 
 Her antagonist seemed to have no words to 
 spare ; he answered her not, but smiling 
 

 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 177 
 
 blandly, took the dice, and throwing them 
 three times, smiled again, as a half dozen 
 persons exclaimed : 
 
 u Forty!" 
 
 " Forty a tie," said the female, in amaze 
 ment. "Do you withdraw now, or shall a 
 single throw decide it ?" 
 
 " It is the best way," said the stranger, 
 " and the shortest. Let a single throw decide 
 between us which takes the stakes." 
 
 The extraordinary fortune that had attend 
 ed the winner had, as we have already said, 
 drawn many curious witnesses about the table 
 where he was playing, and even Sir Robert 
 found his own interest of no slight character; 
 he watched the result with the warmest curi 
 osity, and in common with the rest now drew 
 still nearer to the parties to note the final 
 throw that should decide the ownership of so 
 much money. Even in that place it was 
 unusual to see so large a sum staked at once, 
 as no thoughtful person ever permits him 
 self to double upon the winning certainly 
 more than once, but the oldest gamblers play 
 for moderate sums at a single chance, unless 
 they play unfairly. 
 
 As had been the case before, the female 
 threw first, and with a voice that betrayed her 
 feelings, exclaimed : 
 
 " Eighteen !" 
 
 This he could not beat : it was the highest 
 single number. He might equal it, and thus 
 there would be another tie. This he knew 
 very well, and also that according to every 
 precedent, he was sure to lose. But he was 
 still unruffled, smiled, and threw the dice as 
 calmly as he yet had done in the game. 
 
 " Twelve !" said the female, with a startled 
 energy that caused her voice to be heard dis 
 tinctly in every part of the room, while she 
 gathered in the money into the bank, and 
 arranged her table once more for fresh play. 
 
 A moment's pause ensued, when the female 
 asked, with a smile : 
 
 " Will you play again?" 
 12 
 
 There was no reply, the gambler seemed to 
 have forgotten himself. 
 
 " Will you play once more ?" repeated the 
 woman, in a louder tone. 
 
 The gambler started as from a reverie, and 
 answered quickly : 
 
 " Not to-night, not to-night." 
 
 " You are satisfied ?" she asked, bkndly. 
 
 " Entirely." 
 
 " You lose like a hero," said a rough person 
 by his side. 
 
 " Sir ?" said the strange man, in a tone 
 that made the speaker recoil. 
 
 " I said you lost like a hero," repeated the 
 other, less boisterously. 
 
 " It is my own business, sir, and concerns 
 myself alone," said the gambler, frowning 
 darkly upon the other, as he turned to go away. 
 
 Wondering at the singular game he had 
 played, and at the coolness that could enable 
 a man to remain unmoved, and see so much 
 money one moment his and the next lost for 
 ever, Sir Robert examined him with much 
 interest, and fixed his eyes intently upon the 
 stranger. As he raised his head from the ta 
 ble where he had been playing, and turned 
 calmly to leave it, his eyes met those of Sir 
 Robert, and both started as though some 
 strange recollection came suddenly ovethem, 
 some vivid memory of the past. At first the 
 gambler seemed as if he desired to avoid a 
 further recognition or acquaintance, but as Sir 
 Robert still fixed his eyes upon him earnestly, 
 he appeared to think it best to appear uncon 
 cerned, and with the same air of coolness 
 which had characterized his movements at the 
 table, even approached him still nearer. 
 
 " We have met before," said Sir Robert, 
 after a moment's pause, "or my memory 
 serves me poorly." 
 
 " Perhaps so," replied the singular person 
 age who had created so much interest for the 
 time being. " Let us walk into the air, if you 
 are not engaged. I am somewhat heated 
 with this game and the close room."
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. 
 
 The times have been 
 
 That when the brains were out, the man would die, 
 And there an end but now they rise again. 
 
 MACBETH. 
 
 SIK ROBERT and the stranger passed from 
 brilliantly lighted saloon where the scene 
 we have described had just taken place, into 
 the little court before the house, and paused 
 beneath the street lamp that was posted by 
 one of the pillars of the gate leading into 
 the enclosure. The gambler wiped the per 
 spiration from his forehead, and seemed to 
 obtain singular relief from the change of at 
 mosphere that he now realized, They stood 
 there for a moment in silence, Sir Robert 
 gazing upon the countenance of his compan 
 ion with an earnest look, and striving to recall 
 the place where he had met that countenance 
 before. But it was all in vain, he was com 
 pletely puzzled, until at last, when some mo 
 ments had expired and the gambler had ap 
 parently once more quite recovered himself 
 from the excitement which he must necessari 
 ly have felt, notwithstanding the outward 
 calmness which he had evinced and which 
 had created so much surprise among those 
 who witnessed his game, Sir Robert said : 
 
 " Can you tell me, sir, when we have met 
 before, and where ?" 
 
 " It is a little singular that you should have 
 forgotten me," said the gambler, musing, 
 " though many years have passed since we 
 met. I know that I have altered much, but I 
 knew you in a moment." 
 
 Indeed ?" 
 
 Yes.' 
 
 " The name and locality I have forgotten, 
 but not the face ; that lives fresh in my mem 
 ory," said Sir Robert. 
 
 " You have good reason to remember it, I 
 should think," said the gambler, smiling with 
 a deep meaning. 
 
 " Many years, you say, have passed," con 
 tinued Sir Robert; "perhaps it was in India 
 that we met." 
 
 " You cannot remember ?" 
 - "No." 
 
 "It was not in India," said the gambler, 
 " but in the valley of the Rhine." 
 
 " The Rhine, the Rhine," said Sir Robert, 
 repeating the words rapidly, as though with 
 them all the train of thought which he had 
 sought came back to him. " The valley of 
 the Rhine, say you ?" 
 
 " Ah ! you remember me now," said the 
 gambler, smiling with a sarcastic expression 
 as he gazed upon Sir Robert. 
 
 " You were the traveller that I met at the 
 inn of Mornentz," said Sir Robert, gazing at 
 him with interest. 
 
 " Or rather the robber chief," said the other, 
 bending his wrinkled face upon Sir Robert as 
 he spoke. " We know each other now, why 
 disguise it? I am Karl Blasius, the robber." 
 
 " But I have seen you since then." 
 
 " Impossible."
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 179 
 
 " It is true." 
 
 " Where ?" 
 
 "Have you not a wound upon your left 
 wrist a sword cut ?" 
 
 " Yes, what of that ?" 
 
 " If I tell you where you received it, will 
 you not believe that we have met since we 
 parted at the cave ?" 
 
 " I will," said the robber, with interest. 
 " Where was it ?" 
 
 " In the West Indies." 
 
 " Well." 
 
 "On board a sloop manned by English 
 men," said Sir Robert. 
 
 " True." 
 
 " And the man who wounded you was a 
 strong person, who threw you into the sea." 
 
 " Ha ! I see you know all," said the gam 
 bler ; " and his name, who was he ?" 
 
 " He stands before you," said Sir Robert, 
 calmly. " I could not recall your face at that 
 exciting moment, though I knew that we had 
 met before, and you too paused ; do you re 
 member ?" 
 
 " The succeeding casualty drove all from 
 my mind, though methinks that after I was 
 picked up by the crew of the vessel in which 
 I sailed, I did seem to recall a face that appear 
 ed familiar to me." 
 
 " But the world thought you were dead," 
 said Sir Robert, " that you perished in the at 
 tempt at escape." 
 
 " They were wholly wrong," said the gam 
 bler ; " my time had not yet come. The 
 hatred I owed the world has been still more 
 deeply satiated, and I have been daily more 
 and more revenged, as you may well suppose, 
 knowing what you know. But did I not hear 
 some one address you in the saloon as Sir 
 Robert Brompton ?" 
 
 " That is my name." 
 
 " Then you travelled incog when you were 
 in the valley of the Rhine." 
 
 " 0, no," said Sir Robert, " bore my true 
 name at that time." 
 
 " How am I to understand you then ?" ask 
 ed the other, with interest. 
 
 " It is easily explained." 
 
 " I knew you as Robert Stanley," said the 
 gambler, " and thus your letters introduced 
 you to the leading families of Bronts. No 
 one should know their import better than 
 
 for reasons that you will not have readily for 
 gotten." 
 
 " I had my own name, for Stanley is still 
 attached to it. At my father's death I took 
 his, with the addition, and was then knighted 
 by the king. So you see I was not incog, 
 after all." 
 
 It was most singular that they should have 
 met thus, and the strange dark man before 
 him gazed upon the ground for some minutes 
 in silence, during which he seemed to be re 
 calling the picture of the past, and a part of 
 its scenes too that moved him much, as his 
 expressive face evinced. He said : 
 
 " You married the fair lady Gustine, Sir 
 Robert Brompton, of course, and brought her 
 with you to England ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " She is dead these many years," said the 
 ex-robber, hoarsely. " That I have long since 
 been informed of." 
 
 " It is nearly twelve years since she died," 
 said Sir Robert, calmly. 
 
 " Is it so long as that ?" murmured the 
 strange man, thoughtfully. 
 
 " It is just twelve years, this very month, 
 since her death." 
 
 "Then, sir," continued the other, with a 
 manner and tone that carried conviction with 
 it as to the speaker's honesty, " there can be 
 no harm nor indelicacy on my part in telling 
 you how much I loved that lady." 
 
 " Can that be possible ? How could you 
 really have loved her, and. yet have deceived 
 her as you did, and have played the false 
 hearted game that you did in imprisoning 
 her ?" 
 
 "The false-hearted game that I played, 
 was only false so far as I deceived her in re 
 lation to my name. I went to her father's 
 roof to win by stratagem one through whom I 
 might disgrace him, and a score of noble fami 
 lies besides, in the valley where we lived. 
 But, alas ! I lost my heart at the outset, and 
 wooed and loved her from the time of our first 
 meeting, with my very soul. The lady knew 
 this I told her all before I parted from her, 
 previous to that escape which you conducted 
 so cunningly. My regard was most honest, 
 and Heaven bears me witness that lady 
 Gustine might have entirely reformed me, 
 and made me what she pleased. My whole 
 soul was wrapped up in her, and I loved her,
 
 180 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 sir, as few men can love. It was my utter 
 undoing that ever we met, for since that time 
 I have never been the man 1 was before. 
 Sometimes I have fancied that I saw her be 
 fore me, as a spirit, and then I have been lit 
 tle better than crazed, and when I think long 
 of her, I believe I am really so." 
 
 " You have changed much since I knew 
 you on the Rhine," said Sir Robert. 
 
 " Have I ?" asked the gambler, abstractedly, 
 seemingly lost in reverie. 
 
 " Much, very much," said Sir Robert. 
 
 Sir Robert could not but pity the being he 
 saw before him, so different from the manly 
 and noble looking individual whom he had 
 known under such peculiar circumstances. 
 His brow was wrinkled now, and in the deep 
 stern lines might be read the record of many 
 hardships, and yet his still handsome face was 
 marked with intellect and expression. There 
 was a slight sprinkling of gray too in his dark 
 hair, and his figure, which had once been a 
 model in its form, was now a little rounded at 
 the shoulders, and inclining forward. Sir 
 Robert could see that he had mingled, since 
 they had met, with trouble, dissipation and 
 debauchery of all kinds, and that the hand of 
 time already lay heavily upon him. As he 
 made these observations, the broken-down 
 man still mused to himself, apparently forget 
 ting all about him. 
 
 " You had a singular run of luck to-night," 
 said Sir Robert, attempting to arouse his com 
 panion. 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 " At the bank." 
 
 " At the bank," said the gambler, starting ; 
 " 0, yes, and was perhaps a fool not to walk 
 away with the proceeds, instead of waiting 
 there to lose them ; but I never can do that 
 a devil within me always presses me on. 
 But I care not for the loss ; it affords me what 
 I so much desire excitement. I am lucky 
 though, with my chances, and this is not a 
 new thing with me. I have broken a bank 
 before this, and loaned it money to win all 
 back again from me." 
 
 After a few minutes of pause between 
 them, the ex-robber seemed to remember him 
 self. 
 
 " Fortune has thrown us most singularly 
 together once more," said he, " but perhaps 
 we may never meet again ; and yet we may 
 
 meet when you least expect it, and least de 
 sire it. But on my own part, of course, self- 
 preservation teaches me that 1 must preserve 
 my incognita. So, Sir Robert Brompton, 1 
 bid you a hasty farewell." 
 
 Thus saying, the ex-robber turned suddenly 
 away, and disappeared down a narrow and 
 dark by-street, leaving his companion stand 
 ing by himself, quite dumb with the surprise 
 that the few previous moments had caused. 
 It was a strange meeting, and under most sin 
 gular circumstances ; no wonder that Sir Rob 
 ert mused so thoughtfully for some time. 
 
 A gay, half-intoxicated party passing out of 
 the gaming house, started him at length from 
 his forgetfulness of the present. Some of the 
 passers knew him and addressed him familiar 
 ly, desiring him to join them in some propos 
 ed plan of amusement. 
 
 " Excuse me," said he, " I am already en 
 gaged. Another time perhaps " 
 
 " No excuses, my old cove," cried a young 
 fop, half-intoxicated ; " come you must, or 
 egad we'll force you." 
 
 Sir Robert only pushed the speaker aside, 
 as he would have removed a dog from his 
 path, and after a moment's pause to collect his 
 thoughts relating to the singular events that 
 had just occurred, turned his steps slowly 
 homeward. 
 
 As he walked on thus by himself, his mind 
 reverted with a keen retrospective glance to 
 the past, and he reviewed those vivid scenes 
 of his life which had transpired nearly a score 
 of years gone by, and which the ex-robber and 
 gambler had once more so vividly recalled. It 
 was all once more pictured before his mind's 
 eye, from his meeting with the unknown travel 
 ler at the little inn of Mornentz, of their path 
 through that lone and mysterious forest, and 
 of his long imprisonment in the robber's cave. 
 He then reviewed the details of the deception 
 that Karl Blasius had played upon him, and 
 of his stratagem with the lady Gustine, of her 
 imprisonment and the release which he him 
 self effected, of that startling adventure with 
 her in the forest, even to the irresistible desire 
 that crept over him to sleep as he watched, 
 and the killing of the wolf. How keenly he 
 recollected each circumstance now, after so 
 many years had elapsed ! Then of their safe 
 arrival at last at her father's castle, and the 
 cordial friendship that ensued, and which rip-
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 ened into love, and finally resulted in their 
 union. 
 
 And as he still pursued his way, Sir Robert 
 went on with' his contemplation of the past, 
 and from step to step he came to review his 
 connection with his wife, recalling the feelings 
 of jealousy that had at times wrung his very 
 heart. Some of the scenes that he thus re 
 viewed in his panoramic glance of the past, 
 must have been vivid and have troubled him 
 much, for his very step evinced a nervous ir 
 ritation, and a dark cloud seemed hanging 
 over his brow and shadowing his very heart. 
 He turned neither to the right nor the left, but 
 pressed forward steadily on his way towards 
 his home. So intense were his meditations, 
 that a boisterous criminal struggling past him 
 in the hands of the police did not arouse him 
 at all. Ah! Sir Robert, yours had been a 
 chequered life, and it was the one dark spot 
 that you contemplated now ; a portion that as 
 yet we have found no place to name, but 
 which the plot of our story must ere long re 
 veal. 
 
 Though Sir Robert Brompton was melan 
 choly and troubled in thought, how quickly 
 were these ills dispelled on his entering his 
 own house, when a soft inquiry from Edith 
 cast a ray of sunshine over his brow, and her 
 loving glances and tender caresses acted like 
 balm upon his wounded and fretful spirit. 
 Her words were so delicate and well-timed, 
 her sympathy so abundant without being in 
 quisitive, and her love so truthful and over 
 flowing, that she could have shared the keen 
 est grief. Even the most casual observer 
 would have marked how Sir Robert doted 
 upon the lovely girl, and though his lips did 
 not frequently lavish praise upon her, yet his 
 eyes betrayed how closely the gentle being be 
 fore him had bound herself about his heart. 
 He had no time for sorrow and regret in her 
 presence ; all was gladness and joy while she 
 was by his side. 
 
 And no one would have wondered at this, 
 who had seen her there watching him so ten 
 derly, ever thoughtful of his presence, and 
 ever striving first of all to please him, and then 
 to render herself agreeable to others. Sir 
 Robert saw and marked this well, for his eyes 
 were constantly upon her, and he noticed her 
 simplest movements. Nor was it a matter of 
 surprise that she should have gained such in 
 
 fluence over him ; a heart of stone must have 
 been instinctively drawn towards so sweet a 
 being. Thus besieged by her child-like love 
 and devotion, adamant itself must have yield 
 ed to such an irresistible current of affection. 
 And how natural it all was on Edith's part, 
 how natural and honest in every prompting ! 
 There was so much to draw out her love from 
 the still remote depths of the heart, for every 
 one and everything in that princely establish 
 ment seemed devoted to her will and service. 
 And then Sir Robert had rescued her from a 
 situation to which she could not refer even in 
 memory, without a blanched cheek and a shud 
 dering frame. He was the first human being 
 who had ever been really kind to her that she 
 could remember, and the only one whom she 
 felt that she might love with all the tenderness 
 of her affection. 
 
 O, it was a most joyous thing for that young 
 heart to find an idol for its fondest affection, so 
 capable was it of love, and so dormant and 
 neglected had its sweet fountain of dear hom 
 age been until now. But once undammed and 
 its current permitted to flow freely with all its 
 native impulse, a never-dying spring seemed 
 at once to burst forth, finding its rise in her 
 very soul, while the supply appeared only to 
 increase by the quantity that was lavished. 
 She loved Sir Robert, she loved Mrs. Marlow 
 dear woman, how kind hearted and consid 
 erate she was and then she loved Walter 
 and even the servants who were so good to 
 her. Indeed, Edith's life had come to be one 
 fountain of affection, and her heart a tablet of 
 love. 
 
 Thus it was between the gentle Edith and 
 Sir Robert Brompton, at this period of our 
 story, and no wonder with such a gentle, capti 
 vating home influence as we have referred to, 
 the cloud should have left his brow so quickly 
 after the exciting scene at the gaming house, 
 when he once more became seated in his own 
 chair. 
 
 But where was Clara all this while, the 
 dear, well beloved companion of Edith during 
 her exile, and her adopted sister in this her 
 new home ? If the author was inclined to for 
 get her, we feel confident that the reader would 
 not be. She too was there, as loving and 
 charming as ever, casting about her at all 
 times smiles and jests, so happy and gladsome, 
 that she seemed to be a stray spirit from the
 
 182 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 realms of Momus. She was the life of all 
 around her, and kept each one in bursts of broad 
 humor by the very heartiness with which she 
 enjoyed and keenly appreciated the ever oc 
 curring points of wit, no less refined and deli 
 cate than keen and pungent. We do not mean 
 to insinuate that Clara played the part of a 
 punster. It was not so much what she said 
 that kept those about her in such good humor, 
 as it was the light of her laughing eye and the 
 natural flow of spirits that constantly emana 
 ted from her lips. 
 
 " Clara, how can you be always so cheerful 
 and merry ?" asked Edith. 
 
 " O, one may as well laugh as be sad, Edith," 
 she answered, pleasantly. 
 
 " That may be true, but I cannot always 
 feel like laughing." 
 
 Feel like it, Edith ?" 
 
 " Yes. Sometimes I am sad at heart with 
 out knowing why." 
 
 " Do you think when I am merry that I am 
 always happy, Edith ?" 
 
 "Why not, Clara?" 
 
 " Why not ?" 
 
 " When people smile, Clara, we think it the 
 reflection of inward joy." 
 
 " Ah, but Edith, I am often saddest when I 
 seem to be the most merry. But that is of no 
 consequence. Why should I make others sad 
 by forcing upon them my own troubles ?" 
 
 "True, Clara. I never thought of that; 
 how stupid I must sometimes appear." 
 
 " No, no, I did not mean that, Edith. You 
 misunderstand me. You are far more truth 
 ful than I am, for if you feel sad you look so, 
 and if you are happy your face shows it as 
 well." 
 
 " But after all, Clara, we have great cause 
 for thankfulness, and should be very happy, 
 situated as we are. Don't you think so ?" 
 
 " Sometimes I do, and then again but this 
 is not often I think perhaps if I had remain 
 ed in the station where I was born, perhaps I 
 should be happier." 
 
 " How is it possible that you can feel thus, 
 Clara ?" 
 
 " Only by comparison." 
 
 " How do you mean ?" 
 
 " Why, I knew nothing of the heart-ache^ 
 Edith, until refinement, and the high associa 
 tions that have encircled us here, opened my 
 eyes." 
 
 " Do you mean to say, Clara, that you 
 would be happier to return to your old habits, 
 and those from whom you escaped ?" 
 
 " By no means ; now I behold those asso 
 ciations in the most despicable light, because 
 I have experienced the contrast ; but yet I 
 have sometimes doubted whether I should not 
 have been happier not to have known this 
 prosperity, and never to have shared the cul 
 tivation that we have received here." 
 
 " Yours is a queer philosophy, Clara ; but I 
 will not argue with you about it. We must 
 strive to be happy, though if I were to tell 
 any one that you were unhappy, I should be 
 laughed at, for you are set down for a pattern 
 of merriment." 
 
 "Few persons look beneath the surface, 
 Edith, but, on the contrary, they flatter them 
 selves that they read character at a glance, as 
 they would examine an article of dress you 
 might wear." 
 
 " There is dear Sir Robert I must go to 
 him at once." 
 
 Clara loved Sir Robert, but not as Edith 
 loved him ; first she loved him because he was 
 so good and kind to Edith, whom Clara set 
 down in her young heart as the best creature 
 living, and whom she really loved better than 
 any one else. Then she regarded him as her 
 benefactor, and for this her affectionate heart 
 teemed with gratitude to him ; but the very 
 fact that she sought for reasons to love Sir 
 Robert, was an evidence in itself that she did 
 not love him as Edith did, whose every faculty 
 seemed to merge into this one affection, and 
 without a thought as to the cause, yielded its 
 purest and most undivided wealth of fondness 
 at the feet of its idol. 
 
 Such was the character of the regard that 
 each of the girls bore Sir Robert.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 FIRST LESSON IN LOVE. 
 
 Cassius. Brutus, I do observe you now of lale : 
 I have not from your eyes that gentleness 
 And show of love as I was wont to have. 
 
 JULIUS C.SSAR. 
 
 LORD AMIDOWN, of whom we have already 
 spoken, was the son of an earl, and the rep 
 resentative of one of the proudest lines of the 
 English aristocracy. Besides which this was 
 a period when the sacredness of birth and 
 blood was most strenuously enforced, a period 
 when, comparatively speaking, there were but 
 two classes, the high and the low. Young 
 Lord Ami down was at that age when the 
 heart is most impressible, and when one feels 
 oneself enslaved at once by every pair of blue 
 eyes that chances to look kindly upon him. 
 As to his experience, he was but lately free 
 from the hands of the learned professors of 
 Oxford, and had only made a hurried tour 
 of the United Kingdoms, and a short one of 
 the Continent, tarrying for half a year at 
 Paris, just long enough to fill his head with 
 romance, and his brain with the most exagge 
 rated ideas of the beautiful in nature and art. 
 But he was of a generous and noble spirit, 
 nevertheless. 
 
 Unlike most young men of his class and 
 birth in society, the position to which he was 
 born had not spoiled him, and spite of the 
 homage that was paid to wealth and blood, he 
 was little moved by the respect that a thou 
 
 sand hangers'on upon the skirts of fashionable 
 life were ever ready to render him. Though 
 somewhat above Sir Robert in the matter of 
 position, yet the princely wealth of the latter 
 and his father's position during life, as well as 
 that of his ancestors for centuries past, remov 
 ed all barriers on the point of aristocratic 
 etiquette. Moreover, he belonged to the same 
 club as Sir Robert, and it was there that they 
 first became acquainted with each other. A 
 cordial invitation to his house had been re 
 sponded to by his lordship, who there met 
 Edith and Clara and formed their acquaintance 
 with evident delight. 
 
 Being strongly impressed by the beauty of 
 both the adopted children of Sir Robert, and 
 more particularly with the soft and winning 
 loveliness of Edith, he was a devoted friend 
 at once. Lord Amidown showed his own 
 taste and appreciation in his choice of Edith, 
 and also that it was a discriminating choice, 
 for ninety-nine in a hundred at first sight would 
 have been pleased with the undeniable attrac 
 tions of Clara, .so lively, yet so modest and 
 handsome. It required a mind not unlike her 
 own, to fully appreciate the true and delicate 
 beauty that lay half hidden beneath the scarce 
 ly less lovely pxtprior of Edith.
 
 184 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 Before he had once thought of analyzing 
 the purposes of his doing so, Lord Amidown 
 found himself drawn to the house of Sir Kob- 
 ert Brompton with a frequency and regularity 
 that began to cause not a little remark among 
 his friends at the club. Besides which, it 
 served as a theme for gossip among the blue 
 stockings, whose peculiar province it was to 
 preside over the actions and motives of their 
 neighbors a class, thank heaven, that is 
 gradually fading away from the better circles 
 of society. Though this gossip and the more 
 licensed raillery of his companions annoyed 
 him perhaps in some degree, yet it did not de 
 ter him in the least from the regular continu 
 ance of his visits. 
 
 Yet these jeers and reflections did have one 
 important effect, and doubtless a beneficial one 
 upon himself; it led him to analyze his own 
 feelings carefully, and to ask himself what it 
 was indeed that drew him hither?" 
 
 One serious glance at his heart and its se 
 cret promptings while in this mood, served to 
 show him that he was undeniably in love. It 
 awoke him to the full consciousness that he 
 was deeply and truly in love with the gentle 
 Edith. Six months of delightful intercourse 
 had shown him the depth and richness of her 
 pure and gentle soul, and he felt that it was 
 not without its chastening influence upon him 
 self. The rough and passion fostering society 
 of his former companions had now suddenly 
 lost its charm, a desire for the wild stimulus 
 of dissipation was usurped by a fascination 
 almost too potent, attracting him to the society 
 of purity and beauty. If in a thoughtless 
 moment a hasty word escaped him of passion, 
 or a half formed oath rose to his lips among 
 his friends at the club, he thought of Edith, 
 and the expletive died upon his tongue. 
 
 In short Lord Amidown was most irrevoca 
 bly in love. 
 
 " Amidown, we are going to Ascot to-mor 
 row, and shall have a fine time. You will go 
 with us of course, wont you ?" asked a young 
 friend who met him in his usual daily call at 
 the club. 
 
 " I can't go, as I have an engagement," said 
 his lordship. 
 
 " Engageme?it," said the other, emphasizing 
 the word, and looking very knowing at his 
 friend as he did so. 
 
 " Is there anything very remarkable in the 
 
 fact that a gentleman happens to have an en 
 gagement?" asked Lord Amidown. 
 " O no," said his friend, laughing. 
 " Well, then, why do you seem to wonder at 
 my engagements ?" he asked. 
 
 " There is nothing to be wondered at, your 
 lordship ; on the contrary, I should suppose an 
 engagement would be the natural result of 
 your present mode of passing time." 
 
 " You are a mad wag, George," said his 
 lordship, good naturedly, and trying to laugh 
 off the affair. 
 
 " Sorry for you, Amidown, very sorry in 
 deed," continued his friend, with mock seri 
 ousness. 
 
 " Fudge, George. Who goes down with 
 your party to-morrow to the race ?" 
 
 " Baulking your leap, old fellow, eh don't 
 like the look of the ground," said the other. 
 
 " Can't you leave off raillery for one single 
 moment, George ?" 
 
 " With all my heart, but " 
 " Don't have any buts about it." 
 " Now seriously, Amidown," said his friend, 
 " are you going to throw yourself away at 
 your time of life ? Why, my dear fellow, you 
 haven't sowed your wild oats yet ; just think of 
 your age, and what a chance lies before you." 
 " Nonsense, nonsense. Choose some other 
 theme for your fun, George," said Lord Ami- 
 down, a little annoyed. 
 
 " It may be fun to you now, but look out 
 for breakers ahead, Amidown; believe me, no 
 man should attempt to join wits with a woman 
 until he has had at least thirty good years ex 
 perience of this world, in general, and of wo 
 men in particular. Why, man, you are scarce 
 ly twenty -two, what have you to do with mar 
 riage ? :J 
 
 " Did I say that I was about to marry ?" 
 asked his lordship, almost in despair at his 
 friend's earnestness. 
 
 " No, but all the club say so, and every 
 body believes it to be true, 
 
 ' But where a lady's in the case, 
 You see all other things give place,' 
 
 continued his merry companion, laughing 
 heartily. 
 
 " Here, George," said his lordship, handing 
 him a couple of guineas, " be so good as to 
 get me a ticket in your party to Ascot, and if
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 185 
 
 I don't come in time, fill my place with a good 
 fellow, and give him my ticket." 
 
 " That's equivalent to saying you wont go," 
 said his friend. 
 
 ; ' No, George, I didn't say that." 
 
 " Ah ! I see how it is, Amidown you are 
 shot right through the heart." 
 
 Lord Amidown felt no inclination for amuse 
 ment, but on the contrary was not a little puz 
 zled and uncomfortable as it regarded matters 
 at Sir Robert Brompton's house. In review 
 ing his own position as connected with the 
 family, his lordship found matters in a com 
 plicated shape. Walter Manning seemed by 
 common acceptation to be really engaged to 
 Edith, and yet to his lordship's discrimi 
 nating eye, he seemed to be far more de 
 voted at heart and engaged by Clara's bril 
 liant and captivating fascinations. He could 
 not fail to discover that Sir Robert favored the 
 idea of a future union between Walter and 
 Edith, and that if his own visits were not so 
 understood in reality, yet it was evidently the 
 fact that Sir Robert wished to understand 
 them as relating to Clara. The fact is, like 
 children, we are apt to believe what we hope, 
 and so Sir Robert was deceived. 
 
 With Edith herself, Lord Amidown thought 
 he was better understood, though he had nev 
 er uttered the first syllable that he might not 
 have said with the utmost propriety to any 
 other lady, yet he believed that in the inter 
 change of feelings and sentiment which they 
 so often enjoyed together, and by the wonder 
 fully silent, yet eloquent language of the eyes, 
 he must have often betrayed to her the 
 feelings that prompted every sentiment of 
 his heart. He consoled himself, we say, 
 with this idea ; but then even this was all 
 conjecture, for Edith was so kind and gentle 
 to all, so unaffected and frank in her manner, 
 so delicately earnest as well with Sir Robert, 
 Walter, or himself, that he could not interpret 
 from her actions even one single ray of hope, 
 that might lead him to the conviction that she 
 he loved so dearly, favored him above any 
 other. 
 
 There was an unhappy shade sometimes 
 visible on Edith's face, a soft tinge of sadness, 
 that seemed to say that all was not right with 
 in her gentle bosom, that there was some 
 secret cause for unhappiness within her heart, 
 and it was this gentle, half-discovered melan- 
 
 choly that threw, in no small degree, such a 
 lovely mystery about her, while it formed no 
 trifling contrast to Clara's apparently uncloud 
 ed and happy spirits. And yet the keen ob 
 server might have read sorrow too, at times, 
 but scantily hidden beneath the laughing ex 
 terior and merry eye of Clara herself. But 
 let time develop the story of her heart. , 
 
 " Edith, who gave you that beautiful bou 
 quet?" asked Clara, one night as the two girls 
 had thrown themselves listlessly upon the soft 
 couches of their chamber, before retiring to 
 sleep. 
 
 " Lord Amidown," answered Edith, frank 
 ly. " It is a beautiful bouquet these flowers 
 are so rare." 
 
 " A man of taste is that Lord Amidown," 
 said Clara, " but not exactly after my taste, 
 however." 
 
 " Why so ? Pray what is the matter with 
 Lord Amidown ?" 
 
 " O, he's too sombre by half, and should 
 take orders in the church." 
 
 " Sombre ?" 
 
 " Yes, melancholy and thoughtful ; half 
 the time dreaming." 
 
 " Why I think him very agreeable, Clara. 
 He surely is not over melancholy, as far as I 
 can see." 
 
 " Then you do not see with my eyes, that 
 is all, Edith." 
 
 " Perhaps not," she answered, thoughtfully. 
 
 " Now what think you, Edith," continued 
 her companion, " of Walter as compared with 
 his lordship, position aside, for we both know 
 very well that the one is a lord and the other 
 a simple commoner ?'' 
 
 " What a queer question to ask, Clara. I 
 could not draw a comparison between them. 
 I have known Walter so much longer, that I 
 might be prejudiced in his favor on that ac 
 count." 
 
 " Now, Edith," said Clara, half rising and 
 speaking earnestly, " I wouldn't give one of 
 Walter Manning's good hearty laughs for a 
 dozen of Lord Amidown's soft sighs and pol 
 ished speeches." 
 
 "Walter is very cheerful and convivial," 
 said Edith, pleasantly ; " but I think Lord 
 Amidown is also very agreeable. Perhaps 
 he is less earnest and boisterous than Wal 
 ter." 
 
 " Ah, Edith, Edith," said Clara, shaking
 
 186 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 her finger playfully at her companion, " you 
 see with queer eyes, but I suppose you cannot 
 help it ; his lordship has been bribing you with 
 soft speeches, I fear." 
 
 " Soft speeches ?" 
 
 " Ay, and tender glances." 
 
 " O, no, Clara," said her companion, hon 
 estly, " Lord Amidown has never said that to 
 me which he might not have said before Wal 
 ter, yourself, or any one. No, Clara, you are 
 wrong." 
 
 " Walter tells me that they write all their 
 love letters in the East by means of flowers," 
 said Clara. " Let me see your bouquet ; now 
 here are buds in any quantity, what does that 
 mean? here are violets and a backing of 
 heather grass." 
 
 " It is so fragrant, too," said Edith, handing 
 it to Clara's extended hand. 
 
 And as Clara went on cheerfully and thought 
 lessly analyzing the flowers, she gradually tore 
 the bouquet to pieces, leaving not two stems 
 together. Though Edith observed this with 
 regret, yet she said not a word to her com 
 panion, who she knew would not intentionally 
 displease her. 
 
 As time passed on, and the two lovely girls 
 approached more nearly the confines of wo 
 manhood, new and attractive friends were 
 formed, from among the best society, and 
 they began to move in a more extended 
 circle imparting constantly to their man 
 ner, polish and improvement. Sir Robert 
 seemed well pleased at all this, and his means 
 and time were freely expended to render his 
 house the gay and cheerful resort that he 
 wished, for Edith's sake more particularly, to 
 make it. His house was therefore the very 
 home of hospitality. 
 
 Sir Robert Brompton felt no slight regard 
 and even love for Clara ; this every one saw 
 who noted their daily intercourse, but the good 
 Mrs. Marlow, who was a keen observer, and 
 who also understood the human heart far bet 
 ter than even her master, said that Sir Robert 
 loved Clara principally because she looked so 
 much like Edith, and because Edith herself 
 loved her so dearly. But still the housekeep 
 er, in the goodness and largeness of her kind 
 heart, found out a hundred reasons herself for 
 loving Clara, and declared unhesitatingly that 
 next to Edith, she was the sweetest young 
 lady in all of London, and truth to say, Mrs. 
 
 Marlow was very nearly right in this supposi 
 tion, as she was in most everything else. 
 
 Both Edith and Clara appealed to her as to 
 the propriety of every action, and respected 
 her advice as much as though it had been sup 
 ported by the most profound and unquestioned 
 authority. 
 
 It was a matter of no small importance to 
 these young and inexperienced girls, situated 
 under such peculiar circumstances as those in 
 which they found themselves, that they 
 met with so good a friend in Mrs. Marlow, who 
 was one of those strong-minded, yet most 
 devoted and affectionate souls that one often 
 finds among her class of the community. 
 Single-minded, quiet, attentive, and ever de 
 sirous to please ; yet she was no cringer, and 
 if Sir Robert in his simplicity proposed 
 aught for the young ladies that Mrs. Marlow, 
 in her better experience of the sex, considered 
 improper, or not exactly lady-like, she told 
 Sir Robert so at once, and he in fact respected 
 her the more for it, and as to the girls them 
 selves, she seemed to them little less than a 
 kind mother. It would have been a very 
 difficult matter for them to appear so well, 
 had this been otherwise ; it was all-important 
 to them in their new sphere of action. Edith 
 told Mrs. Marlow that she could love her no 
 better were she indeed her mother, while 
 Clara felt as much, though she said it not; 
 indeed it was not her way to give open ex 
 pression to her feelings ; she seemed to be 
 equally animated by them with Edith, but 
 they rarely found utterance from her lips. 
 
 Some months subsequent to the evening 
 scene which we have described as occurring 
 between Edith and Clara, Lord Amidown 
 fancied that he discovered in Edith a disposi 
 tion to avoid him when she could do so with 
 out its being manifestly her purpose. He 
 fancied that his advances were received less 
 cordially, and indeed that he was, as far as she 
 was concerned, a less welcome visiter than he 
 had deemed himself heretofore. Sorely an 
 noyed at this state of affairs, his lordship was 
 much puzzled to discover any cause for it. 
 He reviewed his every word, and strove to 
 recall at what precise time this evidence 
 of her feelings first showed itself. 
 
 Naturally of a diffident temperament, Lord 
 Amidown longed in secret to speak to Edith 
 upon this subject, but did not find himself
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 187 
 
 possessed of the requisite courage. This 
 was a strong and truthful evidence of the 
 sincerity of his love. He would have thought 
 nothing of appearing before the queen at 
 court, and of receiving with easy self-possession 
 the respect that was his due but before this 
 simple and lovely girl, his manhood quailed ; 
 he did not dare to speak to her upon the 
 theme nearest to his heart. He had hedged 
 her about in his love so like a sacred divinity, 
 that he dared not himself overstep the barriers 
 constructed by his own love. 
 
 With his true and constant heart thus 
 racked with fear and the misery of suspense, 
 he resolved to write to Edith that which he 
 felt he lacked the courage to say to her in per 
 son, and in accordance with this resolve, one 
 evening as he left her, he bade her good night 
 with more than usual tenderness, and as they 
 parted, laid a note to her address in her 
 hand. 
 
 Edith blushed, and said nothing, but the 
 moment that he was fairly gone, she sought 
 her chamber at once, and throwing herself 
 carelessly upon a couch, covered her face with 
 her hands, and wept. 0, how bitterly, how 
 sadly she wept there alone. She did not 
 open the note immediately, but wept thus for 
 minutes ; then drying her eyes, she said to 
 herself : 
 
 " What need is there that I should read 
 this note ? How well I know its purport al 
 ready. Could two hearts like ours mingle so 
 long together and not fully understand each 
 other ? It is impossible ; and yet to realize the 
 barrier that separates us, a barrier so fearful 
 that I shudder when I remember how far it 
 removes me from him ! True, I am dear 
 Sir Robert's adopted child, true, he has said 
 that a queenly dower shall go with my hand, 
 but O, what of that ? am I not lowly, maybe 
 ignobly born, and when his lordship knows 
 this, will he still love me ? I feel, alas ! I 
 know it cannot be. His birth is so immeasur 
 ably above mine, that I tremble to know the 
 distance between us. How have I been so 
 blind as to thus live on in intimacy with him, 
 knowing all this, while he knows nothing of it. 
 It is a fearful thought, my very life has been 
 a lie this many a day. I have sat and smiled 
 upon him, have enjoyed his fascinating society, 
 have responded to his sentiments, day after 
 day, and all this time, too delicate and con- 
 
 siderate to be inquisitive, he has believed me 
 the daughter of humble but respectable pa 
 rents, the orphan child of Sir Robert's friend. 
 Alas, alas, would that we had never met. I 
 thought I was happy when Sir Robert receiv 
 ed me, and with his dear love and that of good 
 Mrs. Marlow, my world of joy seemed to be 
 complete ; but now, O, how my very heart 
 aches. !" 
 
 She paused, and with her eyes upon the 
 floor and her bosom heaving quickly, present 
 ed the very picture of grief and despair. At 
 last, as if remembering herself, she "broke 
 the neck of the wax," and read the contents 
 of the note as follows : 
 
 " DEAR LADY : 
 
 " These few days past I have observed 
 a seeming desire on your part to avoid my 
 society, and while I take the liberty to express 
 the hope that I have not incurred your dis 
 pleasure by any remark or course of action, 
 permit me also to refer to a subject very near 
 and dear to my heart, and one which has en 
 gaged all my hopes and thoughts for many a 
 day, Since our first meeting, I have felt that 
 I loved you most dearly, but if this was the 
 sentiment that actuated me so early m our 
 acquaintance, how much deeper must that af 
 fection have taken root after more than a 
 year of happy intercourse, in which the entire 
 wealth of your mind and soul have been laid 
 open to my admiration nearly every day, so 
 intimate have we been. 
 
 " I have never told you in words, Edith, 
 that I loved you, but, ah, have you not read 
 it a hundred times in my eyes, my voice, my 
 every action ? These indications have been 
 spontaneous and beyond my control, the 
 promptings of a heart that is solely and con 
 stantly yours. And now am I loved in re 
 turn ? Ah ! Edith, on the answer of this lit 
 tle query, I feel that all my future happiness 
 in life depends. I write this in all calmness 
 do not think me rash or impetuous. I am 
 neither. I know that your tender age would 
 debar a union at present, nor should I have 
 even hinted at such a subject, but for the cir 
 cumstance referred to in the first part of this 
 note. Your age, dearest, need be no bar to 
 the union of our hearts, we may be pledged 
 to each other, Edith, and only be the happier. 
 Your choice would be mine as to time.
 
 188 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 "But alas ! my pen has quite run away 
 with me, and I write as though I were sure 
 of success in my suit, but I know you will 
 receive these few lines as they are intended, 
 dearest. If they seem to be abrupt, think 
 how very unhappy I am at your coolness 
 towards me of late, and send me one line to 
 say I am forgiven, if no more. 
 " Devotedly yours, 
 
 " AMIDOWN." 
 
 Edith's eyes were clear and bright as she 
 raised them from the paper, after reading this. 
 She had thoroughly relieved her aching heart 
 before she opened the note, by a flood of tears, 
 ad now she considered its import with calm 
 ness and cool judgment, though her heart beat 
 more rapidly, and a heightened color nestled 
 in her soft cheek. She mused thoughtfully 
 for some moments. At first she thought it 
 would be proper for her to show this note to 
 her adopted parent, Sir Robert, but here was 
 a struggle, for delicacy forbade her to do so. 
 Yet she knew not how to act in this singular 
 situation. She felt that Mrs. Marlow was 
 not a proper person for her to go to in such a 
 dilemma, and also that Clara's kind heart 
 would fail to be of any service to her here. 
 She even thought of going to Walter, and 
 seriously, too, as she would have gone to a 
 brother, but a certain feeling kept her in check 
 on this point. 
 
 In this dilemma she sat and picked the 
 mottoed seal of the note to pieces, until at 
 last the poor girl, with an aching heart, re 
 solved to follow the dictates of her own judg 
 ment in this dilemma. She trusted to the 
 first promptings of her feelings, and sitting 
 down to her writing desk, indited the follow 
 ing reply to Lord Amidown's epistle : 
 
 "My LORD: 
 
 " I have just read your esteemed favor. 
 To pretend that I do not fully understand it, 
 would be to deceive you. While it has given 
 me pleasure to know that I share your lord 
 ship's warm friendship, it has also pained me 
 to realize that you have referred to any more 
 tender relationship between us. It is a sub 
 ject upon which to multiply words, would be 
 to harrow up feelings on my part, that I must 
 strive to suppress. Permit me to assure you 
 that it will be my pride ever to consider you 
 
 as a very dear friend, but I pray you, my 
 lord, do not misunderstand me when I add 
 that a nearer relationship can never exist be 
 tween us. So far from your lordship's having 
 ever offended or annoyed me at any time, 
 which you seem to imagine, I can only say 
 that the happiest moments of my life have 
 been passed in your society, nor have you 
 ever by word or deed, dispelled the high es 
 teem and respect that we have all entertained 
 for you. 
 
 "It were better, my lord, that this note 
 should seal up the subject forever. 
 
 " Respectfully and truly your friend, 
 
 " EDITH." 
 
 When she had done this, she re-read her 
 note, then folded and sealed it, after which she 
 sunk back into her seat upon the couch, and 
 sighed heavily, as though she had] signed her 
 own death warrant. It was a decided, but 
 most generous and self-sacrificing resolve that 
 had dictated this answer which the fair young 
 girl had written, for under the profuse and 
 splendid patronage of Sir Robert, she might, 
 had she felt thus disposed, have obliterated all 
 record of the past as it related to her humble, 
 and indeed degrading associations of the 
 past. How easy it would have been to invent 
 a story in accordance with that already believ 
 ed by his lordship, touching the matter of he 
 humble but respectable parentage and adop 
 tion by Sir Robert. But the pure and gentle 
 heart of Edith was not capable of deceit ; she 
 would not have entertained such an idea even 
 for a single moment. 
 
 How dearly and tenderly she had learned 
 to regard Lord Amidown, with a love so deep 
 that it had already become a part of her very 
 existence. To her he seemed all that was no 
 ble and good, and though Lord Amidown was 
 entirely hers as it regarded his heart, yet it 
 may be doubted if he loved her as well as 
 she loved him. As to the matter of his sin 
 cerity and truthfulness of purpose, however, 
 and his strict notions of honor, he was indeed 
 worthy of Edith. That which he had writ 
 ten in his note to her was as true as her own 
 fond regard for him, a love that deserved the 
 richest return and interest that -her heart 
 might give. All this she realized, and thought 
 upon with even redoubled force at this mo 
 ment.
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 189 
 
 
 Edith at last aroused herself from the sad 
 thoughts that oppressed her, and prepared 
 herself for rest, and kneeling by her bedside, 
 with her hands clasped upon her breast arid 
 her eyes uplifted to the throne of him who is 
 the Father of the orphan, her lips moved in 
 prayer for him she loved. Her long hair 
 hung fondly about her heaving breast and 
 dimpled shoulders, and a diamond drop fresh 
 from the soul, trembled in her eye ! 
 
 As she knelt there, the door was gently 
 opened, but in her earnestness she heeded it 
 not, and as she went on with her prayer, 
 Clara drew behind one of the curtains, and 
 remained in silence until Edith arose from 
 her kneeling posture. Clara gazed at her 
 during the few moments that transpired with 
 an expressive face, warmly sympathizing 
 with her, and even weeping silently by her 
 self as she seemed to understand Edith's po 
 sition in relation to Lord Amidown. She 
 loved her, too, most sincerely, and it gave her 
 no slight pain to see her unhappy in any mat 
 ter, but probably there were reasons why she 
 sympathized more particularly with her at 
 this moment, as the story will explain. 
 
 Who would not have loved her to see her 
 thus pleading for him she loved, presenting a 
 figure so pure and beautiful, that she looked 
 more like an ethereal being, dropped from 
 above, than like a mortal. 
 
 " How beautiful is sorrow when 'tis drest 
 By virgin innocence ! It makes 
 Felicity in others seem deformed." 
 
 Poor Edith, how inexperienced thou art, 
 and this is thy first lesson in the varied wiles 
 of the heart. 
 
 When Edith had ended her prayer, Clara 
 pretended to have just come in, that she might 
 not embarrass her, and kissing her tenderly, 
 she said : 
 
 " Are you not well to-night, Edith ? can I 
 do anything for you ?" 
 
 " O, no, thank you, Clara dear. I am not 
 ill." 
 
 " Do you not remember the lesson you 
 read me but a little while since about being 
 unhappy, and now I find you in tears ?" 
 
 "They are foolish, Clara, I confess, but 
 they will sometimes flow." 
 
 "I will not ask the cause, Edith," said 
 Clara, " but when it is in my power to console 
 you, as you love me, let me do it." 
 
 " I will, I will, Clara. You are always so 
 good, so kind and thoughtful with me, that I 
 owe you much thankfulness," said Edith, 
 throwing her arms about her neck. 
 
 Thus the two evinced the honest feelings 
 that prompted them in relation to each other, 
 and now as the reader has seen Edith's most 
 secret thoughts, we have another heart to un 
 mask.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 A HEART UNMASKED. 
 
 Come, the plot thickens, and another fold 
 
 Of the warm cloak of mystery wraps us round. 
 
 And for their loves, 
 Behold, the seal is on them ! 
 
 BANNER OF TYBURN. 
 
 OF COURSE Walter Manning was not an un 
 observant witness, day by day and week by 
 week, of the intimacy of Lord Amidown and 
 Edith. Indeed it was noticed by all in the 
 house. There was a time when such a state 
 of things would have caused him the most un 
 mitigated distress and misery, but somehow, 
 all unconsciously to him, Clara had gradually 
 usurped in his heart the place that Edith had 
 filled there. Not that Walter was blind to her 
 remarkable attractions and sweet loveliness of 
 person and disposition; indeed he was the first 
 to pay truthful homage to them, and even now 
 fully realized and spoke of her attractions to 
 Clara with an earnestness that gave token of 
 his sincerity. It was not that he lacked the 
 power of appreciation, that " a change had 
 come o'er the spirit of his dream," but the 
 truth was, Clara's liveliness and vivacity were 
 more in accordance with his feelings, and then, 
 too, she was nearly as handsome, at least in 
 his eyes, as Edith herself. In fact their .re 
 semblance to each other was so remarkable as 
 to be the cause of frequent allusion by those 
 who were strangers to them, and save those 
 differences of disposition which we have no 
 ted, they also much resembled each other in 
 tastes and general characteristics. 
 
 Clara and Walter were sitting together on 
 the day subsequent to the date of the letters 
 
 which we have given in the last chapter. 
 They were en famille in a retired part of the 
 reception room, when Walter asked : 
 
 " What is it that has troubled Edith to-day ? 
 She has seemed melancholy and dejected all 
 day, I think." 
 
 " Perhaps she is not well," replied Clara, 
 carelessly turning the leaves of a book that 
 she held. 
 
 " If she is ill, Clara," said Walter, " it is 
 mentally. I am confident of that it is the 
 mind, not the body." 
 
 " Do you really think so ?" said Clara, with 
 an earnestness that Walter could not but ob 
 serve. 
 
 " I do, most assuredly." 
 
 " Well, there can be no harm surely in my 
 being frank with you, Walter," she continued, 
 speaking low that Sir Eobert, who was read 
 ing the Gazette in an opposite corner, might 
 not hear. " I know that something does 
 trouble her mind." 
 
 " Indeed, and do you know the cause of 
 this, Clara, or does she make it a secret even 
 between you ?" 
 
 " In all her affairs save this one, she has al 
 ways spoken freely to me and confided in me," 
 she replied. 
 
 " This, what do you mean ?" 
 
 " Speak low, Walter. I mean her intimacy
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 191 
 
 with Lord Amtdown, and her feelings towards 
 him." 
 
 " What possible trouble can there be in re 
 lation to that matter ? She seems ever happy 
 in his society, and it is very evident that Ami- 
 down himself regards her with the tenderest 
 interest." 
 
 " All that is very true." 
 
 " Then pray what trouble or misunderstand 
 ing can there be between them to cause her to 
 feel unhappy ?" 
 
 " Can you see no possible cause for trouble, 
 Walter ?" asked his companion in a tone of 
 voice so much more serious than it was her 
 wont to speak in, that he seemed surprised as 
 he answered : 
 
 " None." 
 
 " Then you do not see with my eyes, and 
 my experience," said the fair girl, sighing 
 heavily as she spoke. 
 
 " How did you discover that this was the 
 ceuse of her dejection ?" asked Walter, after a 
 moment's pause. 
 
 " By mere chance, last night." 
 
 " And how, Clara ?" 
 
 " I will tell you, Walter, though I could not 
 do so to any one else, for you seem to me as 
 though you were her brother, and I know you 
 feel like one towards her." 
 
 "I do indeed," replied Walter, earnestly. 
 L " Last night," continued Clara, " as I went 
 to my room to retire, I opened the door gently 
 lest 1 should awake her from sleep, for she had 
 retired some time before me. I discovered her 
 upon her knees, engaged in a pure and earnest 
 prayer for him whom you know to be so de 
 votedly attached to her. I hesitated at first 
 as to what I should do. I had gently closed 
 the door after me, and I feared if I should open 
 it again that I should disturb her and interrupt 
 her prayer. I this dilemma, I shrank back be 
 hind the hangings of my bedstead, where I 
 waited the closing of her prayer, when I pre 
 tended to have just come in at the door, which 
 I opened and closed again. But I heard 
 enough while I was there to show me that his 
 lordship had proposed to Edith, and also that 
 the note which lay upon her desk addressed to 
 him, contained her refusal of his hand." 
 
 Refusal !" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Edith refuse Lord Amidown ?" 
 
 " Yes, the letter which I saw lying upon the 
 
 desk, unquestionably contained her refusal of 
 his hand in marriage." 
 
 " Can it be so ?" mused Walter, scarcely ut 
 tering the words aloud, while a slight thrill ran 
 through his veins, as he thought perhaps the 
 memory of their own intimacy, which had 
 never ceased in fact, might have influenced 
 her. 
 
 " What are you musing about, Walter ?' 
 asked his companion. 
 
 " 0, nothing ; that is, about what you have 
 told me. It is very queer, for Lord Amidown 
 besides being one of the very best matches in 
 London, has evidently shared her best regards, 
 if not her love, these many days." 
 
 " All very true, Walter," continued Clara, 
 " and though I can easily divine the feelings 
 that prompted that refusal, it is not for me to 
 speak Edith's reasons, and time alone must 
 divulge them." 
 
 " This is very odd," mused Walter thought 
 fully; " think you Sir Robert knows aught of 
 these matters ?" 
 
 " As yet, probably nothing. But alas ! for 
 poor Edith, how much I pity her; she is very, 
 very unhappy." 
 
 There was a pause of some moments, dur 
 ing which Clara's eyes were bent upon the 
 floor in a thoughtful mood, while Walter re 
 garded her with more than usual tenderness 
 and interest. 
 
 " Let us set her an example, Clara," he said 
 at last, drawing nearer to her side, and taking 
 her hand tenderly within his own, as he look 
 ed into the depths of her blue eyes. 
 
 " How, Walter, by being unhappy too ?" she 
 said playfully, smiling at him as she struggled 
 gently to keep Walter's, arm from encircling 
 her pretty waist. 
 
 " Nay, Clara," he replied earnestly, " not 
 thus, but by promising to love and cherish each 
 other for a life time. That would be an ex 
 ample for them indeed." 
 
 " Walter !" 
 
 " Well, Clara." 
 
 " Walter, Walter," repeated the fair young 
 girl, in earnest accents, while she half blushed 
 at his familiarity, " have I not begged you 
 never to talk thus to me nay, did you not 
 promise me that you would not refer to this 
 subject again ?" 
 
 Walter made no reply to this appeal, but 
 only looked more earnestly the love that actu-
 
 192 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 ated him, as he gazed into those soft, clear 
 eyes, and gently strove to retain the hand he 
 held. 
 
 " Nay, then, I shall be really angry, Walter 
 Manning," continued Clara, with sudden en 
 ergy as she extricated her hand, and walked 
 to another part of the room, with an assumed 
 look of displeasure. 
 
 Sir Robert had risen a moment before and 
 left them alone together ; therefore there was 
 no one to witness this little scene between 
 them that had seemingly occurred so im 
 promptu, so unexpectedly. 
 
 Walter Manning sank into a chair without 
 any further remark after Clara left him thus, 
 but his face bespoke such a load of disappoint 
 ment, such poignant and bitter regret, that 
 even tears could not have lightened the sor 
 rowing picture. He remained thus for per 
 haps a minute by himself, but when Clara 
 turned to reseat herself at the opposite side of 
 the spacious apartment which formed the re 
 ception room, her eyes once more rested upon 
 Walter, and she seemed to pause for a mo 
 ment struck by the picture of unhappiness she 
 had created, and hastening back to his side, 
 she said : 
 
 " Walter, Walter, forgive me if I have been 
 too hasty ; but, O, could you truly read my 
 heart, and see the load that often presses it, 
 even when my face is disguised in smiles, and 
 merry words come from my lips ; could you 
 know the agony and sorrow that only my 
 sleepless pillow witnesses ; 0, could you real 
 ize for one moment these things as keenly as 
 I do, Walter, you would forgive me, you 
 would pity me, I know you would." 
 
 Walter Manning was astounded. He had 
 never seen Clara shed a tear before ; indeed 
 her face seemed to him only capable of produc 
 ing smiles, so sunny had it ever been in his 
 presence. But now, as she stood before him 
 thus, a tear-drop wet either cheek, and her 
 fair young breast heaved with a short aching 
 sob. As she finished what she had said, she 
 covered her face with her hands and sinking 
 into a chair, wept like a child ; her feelings 
 were beyond control. 
 
 It was true that Walter had more than once 
 before attempted to express to her the tender 
 feelings that he cherished for her, on the 
 first occasion when he had done so, she repuls 
 ed him so playfully that he was quite at fault. 
 
 . 7 vntt be published Saturday June 1. 
 
 The second time she had been more seri 
 ous, and made him promise, as he regarded 
 her peace of mind, not to refer to this theme 
 again; and thus the matter had stood for 
 months, until the scene had occurred to which 
 we have just referred. But now there was 
 some reason, so earnest, that, as she expressed 
 to him, it seemed to harrow her very soul a 
 reason so potent that it clothed her face in 
 such a guise as he had never until then seen 
 it wear. He was fairly startled at this, and 
 felt most guilty that he had broken his prom 
 ise, and while he mused thus, he took her 
 hand gently within his own, and said, ten 
 derly : 
 
 " Forgive you, Clara ; ah ! rather forgive 
 me, who by breaking my promise, have cost 
 you so much sorrow and cast a cloud over 
 your ever sunny sky. Believe me when I 
 say, that in future, let it cost me ever so much 
 grief and pain, I will strive to be silent on this 
 subject, though it be so nearly allied to my 
 happiness. I will condemn my tongue to a 
 Pythagorean silence, rather than it shall make 
 you unhappy even for one moment." 
 
 " Thank you, Walter, many, many times," 
 she answered, still weeping. 
 
 " Though I cannot understand why refer 
 ence to an honest and true regard can distress 
 you, Clara, still I drop the them^ from this 
 moment, at least until you shall ^ ourself re- j 
 move the edict of silence." 
 
 Clara pressed the hand tenderly that held 
 her own, and left the room without further 
 remark. Her tears having once found vent, 
 they seemed to defy control, and she retired to 
 her chamber to sorrow by herself. 
 
 " Is it possible," thought Walter, as she left 
 him thus, " that this young and apparently 
 joyous creatnre, who has kept the house in a 
 merry mood so often, was all the while ach 
 ing at her own heart. Could she be so happy 
 in appearance and so sad in reality ? Can 
 Clara be really unhappy, the witty, merry, 
 beautiful Clara ? I did not wonder to see 
 Edith, who is so delicate and Jjejasitive, with 
 melancholy written on her brow, but Clara, 
 Clara to be unhappy. Why it seemed to me 
 as though it would be impossible for her to 
 weep at all, and yet how sad, how very sad 
 she was. How little do we know of each oth 
 er, after all ; how hidden a thing is the human 
 heart !" 
 
 The work will be completed in six numbers more.
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. [CONTINUED.] 
 
 
 Walter paused there where she had left him 
 for some time, musing to himself, and walk 
 ing back and forth in the elegant apartment. 
 At last he paused, and said half aloud in his 
 earnestness : 
 
 " She cannot love another it would be im 
 possible without my knowing of it. Nay, I 
 feel that she loves me, ay, without vanity, 1 
 may say that I know our affection is mutual. 
 What then can there be so necessarily to sep 
 arate us ? Maybe it is the same reason that 
 has acted upon Edith, a simple cause that 
 will yield before the power of reason. Prob 
 ably Edith's delicacy has had an effect upon 
 Clara also, and she feels that if her adopted 
 sister may not with propriety receive the ad 
 dresses of such a person as Lord Amidown, 
 neither can she those of humble Walter Man 
 ning. It is odd, very odd. If I thought that 
 she disliked me, it would be quite another 
 thing; that would be reason enough, but here 
 she looks upon y me with eyes that speak to my 
 very soul in their sweet and kindly expres 
 sion, and bids me never speak of these things 
 again. 
 
 ' Alas ! what is it, in this world of ours, 
 That makes it fatal to be loved?' " 
 
 " Well, well," he continued, " there is only 
 one way, though hope deferred maketh the 
 heart sick, I must be patient and bide my time 
 
 leaving the result, -whatever it may be, to 
 the future." 
 
 Walter Manning was not the only one who 
 had mistaken Clara's true disposition and char 
 acter. Those who generally met her at Sir 
 Robert's, though delighted by her merry con 
 versation and ever engaging manner, added 
 to her remarkable personal beauty, had not 
 set her down as possessing those reliable traits 
 of character that Edith seemed to evince. 
 And yet the most observant of them were 
 often startled by the depth and brilliancy of 
 her native wit, which at times gave token of 
 much thought and research, but none of all 
 those who knew her best, unless perhaps Edith 
 herself, would have supposed that beneath 
 that cheerful and mirthful exterior the canker 
 worm of sorrow and regret was gnawing at 
 her heart, day and night. 
 
 " Walter," said Sir Robert, meeting him in 
 the parlor, soon after Clara had left him, " what 
 ails you all ? Are you sick, my boy ? What 
 has gone wrong in the house ?" 
 
 " O, nothing, that I am aware of, Sir Rob 
 ert. I am very well, and was only musing to 
 myself as you came in." 
 
 " Only musing ?" said Sir Robert, looking at 
 Walter half suspiciously. " Well, what ails 
 Clara? I just met her on the stairs, and if
 
 196 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 I'm not blind, she looked as if she had been 
 crying." 
 
 " Crying, Sir Robert ?" 
 
 " Crying, Sir Robert ; yes, crying, Sir Rob 
 ert," repeated his patron, " yes, crying, Sir 
 Robert. I want to know what has possessed 
 you all. Here's Edith, too, coming to the 
 dinner table with swollen eyes " 
 
 " Edith, sir ?" asked Walter, absen-tly, inter 
 rupting his patron. 
 
 " Edith, sir ?" continued Sir Robert, " yes, 
 sir, Edith. But what the deuce are you echo 
 ing me for in this way ? Zounds, if I 
 don't think you are in the plot too, Walter." 
 
 " In the plot, Sir Robert ?" 
 
 " There you are again ; yes, I say in the 
 plot, or conspiracy, or whatever it is that is 
 turning all your heads." 
 
 '" Ton my word, Sir Robert, it is all a mys 
 tery to me, that is to say, I don't understand 
 the matter at all." 
 
 " No skylarking, Walter, eh ?" 
 
 " Fie, Sir Robert, you are pleased to be 
 facetious," replied Walter. 
 
 " Well, well, I don't suppose it is anything 
 very serious, and it will probably soon blow 
 ever ; but at any rate, Walter, keep a sharp 
 look out ahead for breakers," said Sir Robert, 
 with a nautical leer. 
 
 " Ay, ay, sir," said Walter, laughing heart 
 ily, and following up his patron's lead. 
 
 Sir Robert smiled, arid turned away from 
 him in his usual good humor. 
 
 To say that Walter was puzzled in the 
 present state of affairs, would hardly be a suffi 
 ciently strong term to express the fact he 
 was completely bewildered. In his honest, 
 frank and open disposition, he could conceive 
 of no reason why Clara should thus desire him 
 to avoid a subject so eminently dear to him, 
 when at the same time he felt fully satisfied 
 within his own breast that she regarded him 
 with a love as truthful and earnest as his own. 
 This was the point that puzzled him. 
 
 He could "even see a far better reason for 
 Edith's conduct, in relation to the offer that 
 she had so lately refused, because he realized 
 that Lord Amidown must doubtless labor un 
 der profound ignorance as to her actual origin, 
 while he himself knew full well the story of 
 both Edith and Clara's early life. He could 
 appreciate the truth and delicacy in Edith 
 that would not stoop to decf it in the matter, 
 
 and also the pride that would not permit her 
 to speak out and expose her unfortunate story 
 to his lordship. But then Walter reasoned 
 that such an actuating motive did not apply 
 or hold good in any way as to Clara's situation, 
 for both knew that he offered her his hand 
 and heart with a full knowledge of the story 
 that made up her early life. 
 
 This was the main point that so complete 
 ly nonplussed Walter's reasoning ; but he re 
 solved that he would love Clara none the less. 
 Indeed he need not have determined to do 
 this, for he could not help it ; but he made up 
 his mind to play as he had so long done, the 
 part of a brother to both, and trust to time for 
 an adjustment of these matters and the con 
 summation of his hopes. 
 
 There was one other person who was no 
 less a keen observer of all that was passing 
 between the two girls and their friends, than 
 was Sir Robert, or the parties themselves ; we 
 refer to the good Mrs. Marlow. She too was 
 puzzled not a little, and had it related to any 
 other matter than that of the heart, it is alto 
 gether probable that ere this she would have 
 spoken to the young ladies about it. But she 
 said to herself, " time will explain all," and so 
 she went on, as ardently as ever serving her 
 young mistresses with all her heart. 
 
 As to Clara, she sought her room and wept 
 long and bitterly, as we have seen Edith do 
 before her; but differently did her grief affect 
 her, seeming to bear the stamp of despair it 
 self the outpourings of a broken heart. Her 
 fine dark hair hung neglected about her neck, 
 and with her hands pressed against her ach 
 ing temples, she walked her room like one al 
 most deranged by the thought that rankled in 
 her heart. Now and then she would pause 
 and almost struggle for breath, as though her 
 grief would choke her, and then she would 
 walk again with a nervous, hurried step, that 
 was scarcely less expressive of her mental 
 agony than were her sobs. 
 
 " But thou, remorse ! there is no charm, 
 
 Thy sting, avenger, to disarm ! 
 
 Vain are bright suns and laughing skies 
 
 To soothe thy victim's agonies ; 
 
 The heart, once made thy burning throne, 
 
 Still while it beats, is thine alone." 
 
 Alas ! poor Clara, so young, so beautiful, 
 and yet so unhappy. Thy heart seems so 
 full of sadness, that it can hnrdly sustain itself.
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 THE FORTUNE TELLER. 
 
 " Men said she saw strange visions, which none besides might see ; 
 
 And that strange sounds were in her ears, which none might hear but she." 
 
 PERHAPS no stronger proof of the natural 
 delicacy of both Edith and Clara could have 
 been adduced, than the fact that neither of 
 them spoke to the other upon the subject of 
 their feelings, in relation to Lord Amidown and 
 Walter. A less sensitive heart beating in the 
 bosom of either, would have induced them to 
 discuss the subject together, but as it was, 
 they both held it sacred, and neither alluded 
 to it, though both fully realized the other's 
 position. Edith had not detected Clara in 
 such a manner as she herself had been dis 
 covered, but actions speak louder than words, 
 and Edith was observant. Indeed, long before 
 Walter had acknowledged to himself that he 
 loved Clara, Edith had read his heart, and 
 had said so within herself, and afterwards, 
 from circumstances that it is unnecessary to 
 explain, she had discovered the repulse that 
 Clara had gave to Walter Manning. 
 
 At this time, all London rang with the fame 
 of a noted fortune-teller, who had shrewdly 
 placed her prices so high as to exclude all but 
 the better classes, and very few, save the no 
 bility, were able to patronize her on this ac 
 count. According to the papery of the day 
 and common report, this woman seemed really 
 possessed of secret sources of information, so 
 potent and correct as to completely confound 
 those who came to purchase knowledge of her. 
 Showing an understanding of human nature 
 
 and an experience of the world that was most 
 remarkable, this woman also commanded, in 
 more than one instance, the attention of the 
 wise and philosophical, who came to her often 
 nonplussed by her shrewdness and knowledge, 
 as well as by her consummate tact. 
 
 One of the strongest evidences of the power 
 she possessed, had been adduced by certain 
 government emissaries. It appeared that 
 some of the police, who had been sent to her 
 in order that the heads of the department 
 might understand what was transacted at her 
 rooms, were not a little puzzled, for, notwith 
 standing they came to her disguised with all 
 the art of their calling, she coolly told them 
 who they were at once, and that they would 
 be better engaged if employed in suppressing 
 crime and debauchery in the metropolis, and 
 ended by giving them some piece of informa 
 tion, which she pretended to have learned 
 through her miraculous powers, and which on 
 being inquired into, not only proved correct, 
 but also of imminent importance to the po 
 lice. 
 
 It required but a very few circumstances of 
 this character to transpire, before this singular 
 woman had as much business as she could 
 possibly attend to, and that also on her own 
 terms, being forced to establish regular hours 
 for the dispensing of her power, and to make 
 other regulations that should enable her to
 
 193 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 answer and satisfy the increasing demand 
 upon her services. Whether possessed of re 
 markable wisdom and penetration, or whether 
 getting her information through some secret 
 and unusual channel, one thing was very cer 
 tain the fortune-teller did reveal most re 
 markable and truthful things, and in such a 
 manner as to create amazement and supersti 
 tion in the minds of those who resorted to her 
 mystic abode. 
 
 Knowing well the powerful effect upon our 
 nature of the paraphernalia and pomp of cir 
 cumstance, and the surroundings with which 
 one hedges one's self in, the fortune-teller had 
 taken good care to furnish her apartments not 
 only in the richest and most tasteful manner, 
 hut also to place here and there among the 
 furniture upon the tables and along the walls, 
 strange and uncouth symbols of subjects that 
 none could possibly understand, and which 
 must have been manufactured for this express 
 purpose, but which nevertheless added greatly 
 to the effect of her otherwise strangely deco 
 rated and dimly lighted rooms, and to the pe 
 culiar surroundings of her own mysterious 
 person, all being admirably arranged for ef 
 fect. 
 
 In a distant corner of the spacious reception 
 room where she presided, was a cross of ebony 
 and a human skull, with some monastic em 
 blems, flanked on either side by lofty burning 
 candles in silver candle sticks. In the corres 
 ponding corner opposite, were diverse Ma 
 hometan emblems, the Koran and Crescent, 
 while a lamp of perfumed oil, and pastilles of 
 incense, and myrrh from Palestine, were burn 
 ing upon a pedestal hard by her seat of state. 
 In another corner, was the emblematic fire of 
 the devout Peruvians, with images of other 
 nations mingled together, forming stars arid 
 triangles upon the walls. In a fourth, there 
 might be seen the idols and images sacred and 
 profane of a heathen people, cunningly carved 
 in sandal wood, and beside them were mottoes 
 and letters in Chinese and other obscure and 
 heathenish characters, with emblematical pic 
 tures rudely pencilled and hung by their side. 
 A Nubian servant, black as night itself, in 
 a Durban of purest white, with the correspond 
 ing dress of an Arab, received the visiters to 
 this temple of mystery, and conducted them to 
 the mysterious presence, before which he nev 
 er failed to kneel and bow three several times, 
 
 in profound respect, at each return. This 
 strange servant was in himself quite a singu 
 lar and wonder inducing object. No solicita 
 tions could induce him to speak, though he 
 bowed low and accepted all pecuniary gratu 
 ities that was offered him by those who came 
 to consult his mistress. It was supposed that 
 the Nubian was dumb. 
 
 The mistress of all this strange arrange 
 ment, had a coarse and masculine expression 
 of countenance, with swarthy feature* like 
 those of a Turk. Her face was partly screen 
 ed by a closely fitting turban, covered with 
 many strange emblems and figures, and sur 
 mounted by a serpent coiled at the feet of a 
 pure white dove, formed of silver. Her 
 voice was deep and sententious, but there was 
 one redeeming feature in that strange and re 
 pulsive countenance, which seemed capable of 
 so much expression, of either fierceness or plea 
 sure, and which seemed to read the visitor's 
 most secret thoughts. 
 
 We say all London was filled with curiosi 
 ty, touching the strange fortune-teller to whom 
 we have referred. The carriages of the no 
 bility were constantly stopping before her 
 door, and waiting patiently there for their turn 
 to be admitted. Some came incited by mere 
 curiosity concerning one who was able to 
 create such a furor; others, more credulous, 
 came with a secret prompting of superstition, 
 and a desire to learn those things which ordi 
 nary life and the everyday resources of time 
 leave undeveloped, and many were the strange 
 questions that were put to the mysterious wo 
 man, by lover and husband, male and female 
 visitant. 
 
 " Have you heard any particulars about 
 this strange woman, of whom it is said that 
 she knows everything, and who is able to look 
 into futurity with an eye as clear as other 
 people view the past?" 
 
 These words were addressed by Walter 
 Manning to Edith and Clara, who sat together 
 in the drawing-room, a few evenings subse 
 quent to that which we have particularly re 
 ferred to. Sir Robert Brompton was engag 
 ed over a game of chess with Lord Amidown 
 in one corner, Awhile the ladies and Walter 
 were sitting together in another. 
 
 " Sir Robert was saying that several of his 
 club had made up a party to go and see her," 
 replied Clara. " Is it not very singular that
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 199 
 
 a pretended fortune-teller should be able to 
 create so much interest and curiosity ?" 
 
 " Yes, but this woman is different from any 
 of her class I have ever heard of. She is 
 really a very remarkable person, and one who 
 reveals such matters as prove conclusively 
 that she is either gifted with superhuman wis 
 dom, or that she has extraordinary means for 
 obtaining all sorts of information," said Wal 
 ter. 
 
 " Do you really believe her to be gifted 
 above other people ?" asked Edith, quietly. 
 
 " If we believe the evidence of respectable 
 people, she must be so, though as I have not 
 yet seen her myself, I must acknowledge that 
 I am a little skeptical," answered Walter. 
 
 " For my part, I cannot bring my mind to 
 that degree of credulity that will allow me to 
 believe in witches ; it seems to me too fool 
 ish," said Clara. 
 
 " She is no witch," said Walter, " but sim 
 ply pretends to foretell the future." 
 
 " What is that but downright witchcraft ?" 
 asked Clara. " If she can do that, she can do 
 things even more wonderful. Now, Walter, 
 surely you don't believe in this woman." 
 
 ' As yet I am not prepared to say," answer 
 ed Walter, with assumed gravity. 
 
 * " He's not in earnest, Clara don't heed 
 him," said Edith, pleasantly. 
 
 " I not in earnest ? Now, Edith " 
 
 " Stay, here comes Lord Amidown ; let us 
 see what he will say," interrupted Clara. 
 
 " Pray what are you discussing ?" asked his 
 lordship, approaching them from across the 
 room, having finished his game of chess with 
 Sir Robert. " What is the topic ?" 
 
 " About a witch," said Clara, biting the top 
 of her fan, and trying to study the expression 
 of his lordship's face, as she saw his eyes rest 
 upon Edith. " Witch or no witch, that's the 
 question, my lord." 
 
 " A fortune-teller, you mean, don't you ?" 
 asked Lord Amidown. 
 
 "A fortune-teller or a witch, just as you 
 please to have it," replied Clara, pleasantly. 
 
 " Why do you call her a witch ?" 
 
 " Because Walter ascribes to her the most 
 witch-like power," said Clara, smiling. 
 
 " Be that as it may, Sir Robert and myself 
 were talking about the same person Madame 
 Duvall. She really seems to have created 
 
 considerable interest and attention. Let us 
 make up a party and go to her rooms." 
 
 ' To have our fortunes told ?" 
 
 " Ay, or merely for observation," replied 
 Lord Amidown, " as you please." 
 
 " With all my heart," said Clara; " I think 
 I should enjoy a visit." 
 
 " Will you go, Edith ?" asked Lord Ami- 
 down, turning towards her. 
 
 " O, yes ; if Sir Robert and Clara go, I 
 will go with pleasure." 
 
 "Very good. I'll go and persuade him di 
 rectly," said his lordship, crossing over to 
 where Sir Robert was sitting. 
 
 Sir Robert having agreed to the proposal, 
 a party was made up for the following after 
 noon, embracing them all, and after agreeing 
 to puzzle the witch with their queries, and 
 also promising to compare notes as to her an 
 swers after they should have passed through 
 the proposed interview, they separated for the 
 night. Walter seemed to be the most credu 
 lous of the party, and appeared really to 
 think that the woman possessed superhuman 
 powers, but as to Sir Robert and Lord Ami- 
 down, they laughed at the idea of her being 
 able to impart to them any positive informa 
 tion, but went out of curiosity, and to make 
 up the party. Clara laughed at all such 
 things, but Edith, though she said nothing, 
 was more than half credulous as to the witch's 
 honesty. She had heard from her friends of 
 the extraordinary power of the person referred 
 to, and indeed had really listened to exam 
 ples of her performance that were most re 
 markable and confounding. In short, Mad 
 ame Duvall's name was in everybody's mouth. 
 
 It was nearly twilight on the following 
 day, when Sir Robert and his party took their 
 seats in his carriage to drive to the far-famed 
 fortune-teller's residence. By chance, or the 
 shrewd management of some one, the party 
 were seated, as it regarded the gentlemen's 
 feelings, exactly contrary to what they would 
 have desired themselves, Walter being by 
 Edith's side and Lord Amidown by Clara's 
 but a half hour's drive brought them to the 
 point of their destination. Arrived here, 
 their cards were received and transmitted with 
 as much etiquette and formality as would 
 have been observed on a visit to the court, 
 and at last they were informed, after waiting 
 impatiently in an ante-room for some length
 
 200 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 of time, that they would be granted audience 
 of the august dealer in mysteries past and fu 
 ture, and being thus encouraged, they followed 
 the lead of the Nubian, whose skin shone like 
 polished ebony, towards the witch's presence. 
 
 They entered, all together, and paused as 
 they stepped within the door, to survey the 
 singular character of the apartment which we 
 have already partially described. The woman 
 sat upon a raised pedestal, calm and stern 
 in her mysterious gravity. She held a mar 
 ble tablet in her hand, on which she seemed 
 now and then to be making figures with a 
 large crayon, but only a few moments had 
 elapsed during which the new comers noted 
 these things, and glanced about the room, 
 when the Nubian approached them and asked 
 which of those present would first consult his 
 mistress. After a moment's hesitation, Sir 
 Eobert motioned Lord Amidown to go forward 
 first, while they remained as spectators, and 
 following the servant who bowed low before 
 the mysterious woman, his lordship stood be 
 fore her. 
 
 " I come," said he, " to obtain information 
 which, it is said, you can impart, concerning 
 those things which are hidden from the eyes 
 and knowledge of other mortals." 
 
 " You would know of the future," said the 
 woman, gazing intently upon him ; " but first 
 you would know of me something to prove 
 that my knowledge and power are sufficient to 
 reach your case. Then, listen ; you are no 
 bly born, with a single sister living, and no 
 parents ; with you rests the long and honored 
 line from which you have sprung. Shall I 
 whisper in your ear with which of yonder 
 ladies you are in love ?" 
 
 Lord Amidown, almost trembling at the 
 turn the conversation had thus taken, whis 
 pered assent as he drew still nearer to the 
 woman, in order to catch her words, and when 
 he drew back again, his face showed that the 
 woman had spoken correctly in designating 
 between Edith and Clara. 
 
 "Have I spoken aright?" she demanded, 
 calmly, of Lord Amidown. 
 
 " You have," said his lordship. "Pray go 
 on, and tell me of the future." 
 
 " Hold," said the woman, making a few 
 figures upon the slab she held. "A dim 
 cloud shadows your future, hanging most 
 densely over the matter of your love. If my 
 
 knowledge is worth aught to you, then heed 
 it. Your own pride will snap the silken cord, 
 but the revelation of one interested, will join 
 these bonds once more. I have done." 
 
 " Surely you will not be so indefinite as 
 this ?" said Lord Amidown. 
 
 " I can look no deeper," replied the woman, 
 motioning him away. 
 
 Lord Amidown came away evidently much 
 impressed with what he had heard from the 
 lips of the fortune-teller, while Walter Man 
 ning, at a signal from Sir Robert, was the 
 next to approach the raised seat of the strange 
 woman, and to yield his hand for her minute 
 inspection. She seemed to gaze long and 
 thoughtfully at its various lines. 
 
 " You are from the East," she said, at 
 last, " and an orphan ; you, like your friend, 
 are also in love ; ovei your future destiny a 
 thickening sky shadows your path so deeply 
 that all seems as night. Far be it from me 
 to discourage a frank and manly heart, but I 
 shall speak no more to you of the future." 
 
 " But you have discovered nothing at all to 
 me, as yet," he said. 
 
 " Shall I prove to you my knowledge of 
 that which concerns you ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Do you remember the rescue some three 
 years since in the tap-room of St. Giles ?" 
 
 " Hush," said Walter, fearing that they 
 were overheard for that scene was still a 
 secret with Sir Robert. 
 
 " You are satisfied ?" 
 
 " I am." 
 
 Walter turned to his party and tried to 
 laugh, but a weight had been cast upon his 
 heart that he found impossible to shake off, 
 and yet he was not superstitious. The char 
 acter of the place was such as at once to di 
 vest one of all mirthful promptings, and then 
 everything was conducted with such grave 
 and steady purpose, that it seemed impossible 
 not to be impressed with awe. Besides this, 
 the woman had told Walter of facts that had 
 occurred in his past life, that he knew no pos 
 sible means o( her having learned by any 
 ordinary course of events ; some mysterious 
 and superhuman agency must have aided 
 her. Then, too, he read in Lord Amidown's 
 face convictions no less evident and strong 
 than he already felt within himself. Edith 
 and Clara had noted the singular effect that
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 201 
 
 their interview had produced upon both Wal 
 ter and his lordship they said nothing. 
 
 Edith, after a moment's hesitation, was 
 next led before the woman's chair, who, taking 
 her fair hand within her own, gazed intently 
 at the palm and into the face of its owner, 
 with evident tokens of deep interest. It was 
 some moments before she spoke. Walter and 
 Lord Amidown thought that she was much 
 moved from some cause or other ; but be this 
 as it may, she seemed to be quite herself 
 again, as she said, in her deep hoarse voice : 
 
 " A fair, transplanted flower, the mildew of 
 pride and the pestilence of disappointment 
 will blight it, but it shall blossom in fragrance 
 again." 
 
 There was a pause for some moments, after 
 she had thus spoken. 
 
 " Can you tell me no more ?" asked Edith, 
 at length, timidly, with her eyes bent upon 
 the floor. 
 
 ' Of the past, fair girl, or of the future ?" 
 asked the woman, gazing earnestly at her. 
 " The former in your case it were better to 
 hurry into oblivion. Do you not think so ?" 
 
 " I do," said Edith, blushing deeply, as 
 she answered the strange woman. 
 
 " Of the future, I have spoken to you al 
 ready," said the woman, waving her hand for 
 her to retire from her presence. 
 
 Edith returned almost trembling, to the 
 arm of Sir Robert, who, noticing her tremor, 
 quietly assured her, while Clara, with a cheer 
 ful smile, and light step, followed the Nubian 
 to the woman's seat. The fortune-teller 
 seemed to be even more interested in her 
 than she had been in Edith, and gazed longer 
 and more intently upon her before she spoke. 
 She even covered her face for a moment, and 
 seemed to be ruminating within herself with 
 earnest thought, but raising her hand soon af 
 ter, she said : 
 
 (( A strange, strange fortune, child, is thine. 
 Twice transplanted, the past victim of strange 
 mishaps, and a hard fortune, the future victim 
 of thine own delicacy." 
 
 After waiting for a moment to see if the wo 
 man had any more that she would voluntarily 
 communicate, Clara asked : 
 
 " May I profit by your knowledge and know 
 more of the future ?" 
 
 " No more," said the woman waving her 
 away as she had done before. 
 
 Clara seeing that there was no use in im 
 portuning the woman had she felt inclined to 
 do so, turned towards her companions with a 
 shaded countenance, and a quick, throbbing 
 pulse. 
 
 There was a pause among them all for a 
 few moments, scarcely broken by a single 
 word, and during which it seemed to Edith 
 and Clara as though the beating of their 
 hearts must be audible to those about them. 
 All turned to Sir Robert, to await his turn, 
 and then to leave a place that had seemed to 
 chill their spirits with icy coldness. Sir Rob 
 ert approached the woman and paused before 
 her. She looked sternly at him for some mo 
 ments, and then said : 
 
 " Of what shall I tell you, Sir Robert Bromp- 
 ton what phase of life will you have me de 
 lineate ? Shall I speak to you of the past, 
 the present or the future ?" 
 
 " As you please, of either portion of time 
 that you will." 
 
 " You smile as you reply, and incredulity is 
 written on your face." 
 
 " I am not over credulous," said Sir Robert, 
 smiling derisively. 
 
 " Then test me ; of what shall I speak ?" 
 said the woman. 
 
 " Of the future if you can," said Sir Rob 
 ert, " though I must say that I probably know 
 as much of to-morrow, as you or any other 
 human being can do." 
 
 "Perhaps as you are so incredulous, it were 
 better that I should convince you of my 
 knowledge by referring to some matter which 
 you may think is known only to yourself; 
 would such proof be satisfactory ?" 
 
 " It would," said Sir Robert, evincing no 
 little interest at her remark. 
 
 " Draw nearer, Sir Robert." 
 
 " Go on," said he, drawing close to the side 
 of her chair. 
 
 The woman leaned forward so as to whis 
 per in his very ear. She uttered, seemingly, 
 but a single word, but that was a most potent 
 one, for it acted upon her visiter like magic. 
 He started back, gazed at the woman and 
 those about him for a moment as though he 
 was bewildered, then drawing his purse from 
 his pocket, he threw it at her feet, and seizing 
 the arm of Edith, led the way with the utmost 
 speed from the room. 
 
 " Why do you hurry so ?" asked Walter of
 
 202 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 Sir Robert, as he struggled forward through 
 the crowd to get to their carriage. 
 
 " Hurry ? 0,1 am in no particular hurry, 
 but it is very unpleasant here," he replied, help 
 ing the ladies into the carriage as he did so. 
 
 " It is true there is little satisfaction to be 
 had here," said Walter, shrugging his shoul 
 ders significantly. 
 
 " I wish we had not come," whispered Cla 
 ra, to Edith, " for though one is not prepared 
 to believe all that the woman said, yet there 
 was something about the place, so strange and 
 mysterious, that I could not but feel mystified 
 all the while." 
 
 " It would have been better, perhaps, not to 
 have come," answered Edith. 
 
 " See Sir Robert," continued Clara, in a 
 whisper, " he looks quite miserable. It is 
 queer what the woman could have said to dis 
 concert him so much." 
 
 " It is very odd. I have observed him ever 
 since with pain, for he seems most unhappy." 
 
 " She was very vague and indefinite," con 
 tinued Clara, addressing Walter in an under 
 tone, " and had probably learned just enough 
 about us to seem to know much more." 
 
 " Perhaps so ; but I must acknowledge that 
 she gave me evidence of her possessing infor 
 mation that I thought known only to a very 
 few, upon a subject upon which it did not 
 seem possible that she could have had any 
 previous knowledge." 
 
 All this had been whispered as it were 
 from one to the other in a moment of time, 
 when Sir Robert, who had now fairly taken 
 his seat, looked up impatiently, and in such a 
 manner as to effectually put a stop to any oth 
 er remarks of a similar nature. 
 
 In a quick, irritable tone of voice, he told 
 the coachman to drive them home, and the 
 man knowing well his master's disposition, 
 cracked his lash, and hurried away. 
 
 Could they have returned for a moment to 
 the fortune-teller's room, they might have seen 
 that their visit had created more than the or 
 dinary degree of interest in the woman her 
 self, who was now watching them through a 
 small side window with a curious eye. 
 
 The party of Sir Robert Brompton and his 
 friends as they drove away from the fortune 
 teller's rooms, presented a contrast of the most 
 marked character as it regarded their spirits, 
 when compared with their cheerful mien as 
 they entered the house of mystery but one 
 short hour^before. Sir Robert seemed to be 
 the most affected of them all, and appeared 
 most strangely disconcerted. True, the rest 
 looked sad enough, and if they believed the 
 prophecy that had just been read to them, they 
 had reason to feel so, for not one of them had 
 much pleasure to contemplate in the fulfilment 
 of these predictions which the woman had so 
 confidently uttered, and so cunningly enforced. 
 
 Edith felt less fear or sorrow for herself, 
 than she did .to notice Sir Robert's evident un 
 easiness, and by her gentle and soothing con 
 versation on their way home, she tried to make 
 him forget their late visit to the fortune-teller 
 who had evidently, by some chance, touched 
 upon some unhappy theme with him. All her 
 efforts, however, to awake his wonted spirits 
 failed, and Sir Robert remained exceedingly 
 nervous all the way home. As to Lord Ami- 
 down, Walter and Clara, they seemed dispos 
 ed to remain silent and to meditate upon the 
 promises of the fortune-teller. By some se 
 cret power or influence, the strange woman 
 had most markedly affected them all, and each 
 seeing this in the other, became still more con 
 scious of the fact, and more impressed within 
 themselves with forebodings and gloom. 
 
 In the succeeding chapters the reader will 
 have an opportunity to judge as to the correct 
 ness of the fortune-teller's predictions.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 THE DISAPPOINTMENT. 
 
 And is not love in Tain 
 Torture enough without a living tomb ? 
 
 BYROW. 
 
 THE events described in the last chapter 
 cast a deep gloom, for a few days, over the 
 house of Sir Robert Brompton. He seemed, 
 himself, to be more than usually depressed and 
 gloomy, and shut up within his study, remain 
 ed thus almost constantly by himself, avoiding 
 even his family circle at meals, and in short, 
 so to conduct himself as to lead them all to 
 wonder at his conduct, though nothing was 
 openly said upon the subject. 
 
 Whatever it might have been that the for 
 tune-teller referred to, it was of a character 
 that harrowed up Sir Robert's memory of the 
 past in a most poignant manner, and indeed, 
 must have been of the gravest import possible. 
 He was a person of too strong a mind and re 
 solution to be needlessly moved, and it was 
 this fact, that led those who knew him best 
 to wonder at his conduct. Edith, whose love 
 for her patron led her to observe him more 
 particularly than the rest were apt to do, often 
 heard him walking his room with a hurried 
 step late into the hours of night. 
 
 By common consent the subject of their 
 visit to the fortune-teller's was not referred to, 
 for all could see that some unpleasant recollec 
 tion had been brought to Sir Robert's mind by 
 the consultation that had been held there. 
 Besides which none of the family felt inclin 
 ed to revive the memory of their visit to the 
 place, since all felt a certain mysterious awe 
 
 and dread touching the singular predictions 
 that had been made. 
 
 The peculiar situation of affairs between 
 Lord Amidown and Edith in particular, seem 
 ed to be of a character that must be more 
 definitely settled ere long. True, she had an 
 swered his letter and declined his suit, but to 
 one so ardently impressed with love as his 
 lordship had been, all that was as nothing; he 
 must be rejected by her own lips, and that too 
 beyond all possibility of hope, else he would 
 not be satisfied. Thus actuated, he had deter 
 mined at the first appropriate moment to press 
 his suit more warmly and in person. Though 
 in Edith's subsequent manner towards him he 
 could gather no especial hope, yet it was im 
 possible for him so easily to resign an object 
 in which his happiness seemed to be complete 
 ly merged, and he watched an opportunity 
 when he might speak to her upon the subject, 
 but as she appeared to avoid any such chance 
 and never to see Lord Amidown except in the 
 presen.ce o f others, he grew not a little impa 
 tient in his anxiety. 
 
 " Walter," said he one day, " I can't get a 
 chance to say one word to Edith in private, 
 and I desire to have an interview very much 
 concerning a very important matter, both to 
 her and myself." 
 
 " Well, my dear fellow, I don't prevent you 
 do I ?" asked Walter, smiling.
 
 204 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 " Why no, Walter, not exactly, but couldn't 
 you manage it so as to help bring one about, 
 eh?" 
 
 " If I can help you in such a purpose, I will 
 do so most assuredly." 
 
 " Thank you, Walter, for I am as nervous 
 as an old woman upon the subject." 
 
 Edith had been quite ill, and indeed confin 
 ed to her room for some days from the excite 
 ment of mind that she had recently experienc 
 ed, and from her anxiety in behalf of Sir Rob 
 ert, who hardly appeared to be himself since 
 the unfortunate visit to the strange woman 
 they had all consulted. But some weeks had 
 elapsed since that eventful day, and she was 
 now much better. She had almost regained 
 her usual color and calmness, and having left 
 her room for the first time, was sitting or rath 
 er reclining upon a couch in the drawing-room, 
 when Lord Amidown came in. It was a 
 chance meeting. Edith's couch was placed in 
 a shady alcove of the apartment Lord Ami- 
 down thought he had never seen her look so 
 beautiful. Her delicate complexion reflected 
 the scarlet of the hanging curtains, while her 
 eye, in spite of all her caution, bespoke a wel 
 come to him who bent so tenderly over her. 
 
 " Edith," said Lord Amidown, tenderly, "I 
 am most happy to see you well enough to be 
 here." 
 
 " Thank you, my lord," she replied, as a 
 warmer glow suffused her cheek. 
 
 It would be difficult to conceive a fairer pic 
 ture than Edith presented at that moment. 
 She was just ripening into the fairest propor 
 tions of womanhood, like the swelling bud 
 that opes its petals to the genial warmth of 
 summer. Her graceful form displayed a per 
 fection of mould and beauty rarely attained 
 by one so young, while she bore herself with 
 a pliant, winning grace that seemed the very 
 embodiment of ease. Her dark, glossy hair 
 was smoothly parted across her brow and close 
 ly looped by a golden clasp at the back of the 
 head, from which confinement it hung in long 
 and natural curls. Her features were brilliant 
 ly lighted up by eyes whose wealth of thought 
 and tenderness beamed forth with every smile 
 that dimpled her fair, soft cheek. Lord Ami- 
 down felt that so much did he love her now, no 
 power on earth could win him from her, if that 
 love were but truly returned from her own 
 breast. He could hardly refrain from kneel 
 
 ing at her feet even before Clara, and declar 
 ing the love that so thrilled and warmed his 
 heart. 
 
 Clara, blooming, cheerful and apparently as 
 happy as ever, sat by Edith's head and held 
 one of her hands kindly in her own. A close 
 observer might have detected a glow of pleas 
 ure and satisfaction on the fair girl's cheek as 
 she observed the tenderness and love that 
 beamed from Lord Amidown's eyes upon 
 Edith. Her heart knew no jealousy, and she 
 felt really happy that Edith, whom she loved 
 so well, was justly appreciated. As Lord 
 Amidown seated himself, and drew his chair 
 nearer to the couch, Clara pleasantly observed 
 that she would resign her post to his lordship 
 for a few moments, and passing to another part 
 of the room, began to turn over and examine 
 some engravings upon a centre table, until 
 Walter Manning happening to come in, drew 
 her to a seat and engaged her in some pleas 
 ant bit of town gossip. 
 
 " Clara," said Walter, after looking a mo 
 ment at Lord Amidown and Edith, and re 
 membering his promise to aid him in a certain 
 object if opportunity should offer, " Clara, you 
 haven't seen the superb new Encyclopedia 
 that Sir Robert has got in his library, have 
 you ? the one in four volumes and illumined ?" 
 
 " No," said Clara, giving Walter a look of 
 intelligence that almost made him blush. 
 " Can we see it now ?" 
 
 " O, yes, Sir Robert is not in. Will you go 
 in and look at it ?" 
 
 " With all my heart," she replied. " I am 
 going to the library a few minutes, Edith, with 
 Walter," she continued. 
 
 If Clara had read the expression on Edith's 
 face at that moment, she would have seen a 
 regret there at being left alone with Lord Ami- 
 down. His lordship noticed and interpreted 
 the expression correctly, but his heart was too 
 full of love for him to remahi silent ; he deem 
 ed this a most propitious moment, one such as 
 he had long been wishing for, and feeling thus, 
 he gazed for a moment upon the fair being be 
 fore him, and taking her passive hand within 
 his own he said : 
 
 " Forgive me, Edith, I implore you to for 
 give me, if I seem rude or intrusive at this 
 time, but I cannot help referring to the notes 
 which have lately passed between us." 
 
 " Your lordship is never rude," said Edith,
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 205 
 
 slightly coloring at the mention of the subject 
 he referred to. 
 
 " Thrxnk you, Edith, I trust not ; but why 
 did you write to me so discouragingly, why 
 say that I must never hope for a nearer rela 
 tionship between us than the name of friend 
 will indicate ? How could you pen me such 
 an answer, Edith, one that has made me so 
 unhappy ?'' 
 
 " My lord," said the gentle girl, with a still 
 heightening color, " I wrote to you the truth 
 only. I could not find it in my heart to de 
 ceive one who had been so frank and noble in 
 his friendship to me." 
 
 " Deceive me," said Lord Amidown with 
 surprise. " Why, Edith, what possible reason 
 can there be why two hearts that love each 
 other truly for I know that I am not indiffer 
 ent to you should not be united ?" 
 
 " Let us drop this subject, my lord," said 
 Edith, " I asked that it might be so in my 
 note." 
 
 " You did ; but Edith, when I tell you that 
 my future happiness is so nearly connected 
 with this matter, I trust that you will acknowl 
 edge it sufficient excuse for my urging an ex 
 planation, will you not ?" 
 
 " Yes, yes indeed, my lord, I do not know 
 what I say." 
 
 " Pray be calm, Edith. I beg you not to 
 let me distress you." 
 
 " My lord," said Edith, with a struggle to be 
 calm, "I am a simple girl, wholly unequal to 
 argue with your lordship, but I know within 
 my own heart, that it is best that we should 
 part at once." 
 
 " At once ?" 
 
 " Ay, my lord, this very hour," she replied 
 earnestly, " this very moment." 
 
 " But why, Edith ? All this seems most 
 incomprehensible to me. When I realize, as 
 I do now, that my future happiness in life is 
 at stake, surely it seems to me as though I 
 had a right to know why its hopes may not be 
 consummated, and why my heart is to be 
 blighted in its first and only love." 
 
 " My lord, I feel that I am too weak and ill 
 to answer you now," she replied, almost trem 
 bling with excitement. And she had grown 
 so pile while she spoke that Lord Amidown 
 noticed the alteration as he said : 
 
 " If that be the reason why you may not 
 speak, Edith, then I will by no means press 
 
 you further," he replied ; " but will not a word 
 explain all, and place me out of this unhappy 
 and protracted suspense ?" 
 
 " A word ?" repeated Edith. 
 
 " Ay, as briefly as thou wilt." 
 
 There was but a moment's pause, in which 
 Edith seemed to be summoning courage for 
 some trying purpose. 
 
 " My lord," she said at last, prepared to 
 speak by the manner in which he had urged 
 her, " I will speak out boldly. Perhaps it is 
 best for us both, though it may cost me much 
 suffering. You are noble by birth and nature, 
 the blood that courses through your veins is 
 the tide of a noble line of ancestors whom you 
 reckon for many centuries back, you are titled, 
 rich and talented " 
 
 " Nay, Edith" 
 
 " Interrupt me not, my lord," she said, ris 
 ing from her recumbent posture in the excite 
 ment that moved her, " it is fit indeed that I 
 speak, and speak truly. You seek my hand 
 in honorable union, you would lead me to the 
 altar with full confidence in me, all heedless of 
 my humble position, my fortune, or of aught 
 else that concerns me, save that which our 
 everyday acquaintance may have chanced to 
 impart. Now were I to impose upon you, 
 who in your generosity of heart would make 
 me the sharer of the high position and name 
 that are yours, then should I be indeed most 
 unworthy of the regard you profess for me, or 
 even of your respect ; nay, I should do you, 
 my lord, a foul and bitter wrong, by accepting 
 the hand you so frankly offer me." 
 
 " I know, or at least have understood, that 
 you are of humble parentage and an orphan," 
 said Lord Amidown, kindly, " but what of 
 that, Edith? I love you for yourself, not for 
 the associations of family or property." 
 
 " Humbly born, say you, my lord ? Hum 
 bly born !" repeated Edith slowly, and with 
 a bitter sarcasm of expression upon her lips 
 that almost startled him as he gazed at her. 
 
 " 1 said humbly born, Edith, but I trust I 
 gave no offence by the remark," repeated Lord 
 Amidown, as he gazed with undisguised 
 amazement at the strange expression he read 
 in her face. 
 
 " Worse than humbly born, my lord, far 
 worse than that," she said. "Offence? O, 
 no, there's no offence ; I did not mean that,"
 
 206 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 she continued, with a cool, deliberate expres 
 sion that quite chilled him. 
 
 " I know not what you do mean, Edith," he 
 replied. " You almost make me tremble to 
 see you look and speak so very differently 
 from the manner that is natural to you." 
 
 " Humbly born, my lord," again repeated 
 Edith, as though she heard not his last re 
 mark, " so humbly born, alas ! that no one 
 knows of whom, no one knows when, and no 
 one knows where !" 
 
 As she spoke thus, a strange, wild and al 
 most demoniac fire beamed from her eyes. It 
 did not seem possible that it was the gentle, 
 sensitive and loving Edith who spoke, but she 
 was uttering the smouldering agony of thought 
 that had been so long pent up and so closely 
 confined within her own bosom. The secret 
 of her life had been uttered, the spell was brok 
 en. As she concluded, she had risen to her feet, 
 and stood before his lordship a picture of ex 
 traordinary beauty and anguish, for beneath 
 all, there was visible the fearful agony of the 
 heart, that found no outward vent in word or 
 action. 
 
 " Still, Edith, "said Lord Amidown warmly, 
 " I love you." 
 
 "My lord, my lord," she said, in accents al 
 most reproachful. 
 
 " I speak but the truth, Edith, when I say 
 that I love you still." 
 
 " How can you do so after the deception 
 that has been practised in relation to my ori- 
 gin?" 
 
 ".You have never deceived me upon that 
 subject," he replied honestly. 
 
 " But by my silence, when by chance 'twas 
 referred to, I did so tacitly." 
 
 " Nay, Edith," said his lordship, in his 
 warmth drawing nearer to her, and once more 
 attempting to take her hand. " These are 
 objections that can be happily gotten over. I 
 trust that " 
 
 " Nay, nay, my lord," said Edith, drawing 
 back as though there was pestilence in his 
 touch, now that she had spoken thus. " Have 
 a care, remember, of an unknown parentage, 
 the offspring, perhaps, even of infamy !" 
 
 " 0, Edith, Edith," he exclaimed in tones of 
 agony, at her words. " You have chilled my 
 very life's blood, you have made me wretched, 
 wretched indeed." 
 
 Lord Amidown covered his face with both 
 
 his hands as he uttered this exclamation, and 
 sank, like one comparatively broken-hearted, 
 into a chair. With the last words of Edith, 
 her true position, the low birth of her he had 
 loved so well, and the fearful suspicion that 
 must hang over her forever, all seemed to burst 
 upon his mind at a single glance. How could 
 he make such an one his wife ? Would not 
 his ancestors rise from the grave and curse 
 him for thus marring the splendor of their es 
 cutcheon ? Such thoughts as these rushed 
 through his mind with the anguish they cre 
 ated. 
 
 He could not raise his eyes to her face 
 again ; his heart ached so as to cause a chok 
 ing sensation in his throat ; he felt as though 
 death at such a moment would be a blessing 
 and a relief. His brightest hopes for the fu 
 ture to be shared with her, his dream of love, 
 his picture of Edith engraven so deeply upon 
 his very heart, and all the ties that so dear a 
 relation as had been cultivated between them, 
 by his more than usual devotedness, were now 
 all rudely dashed to earth, each tender rela 
 tion was severed at once, all was a blank be 
 fore him ; there was not one sunny spot left 
 for him to contemplate. 
 
 Edith gazed at his anguish with a no less 
 aching heart, and a swelling bosom, and then 
 turning away for a moment, strove to hide the 
 big tears that came bursting from her eyes. 
 
 " My lord," she almost whispered, as though 
 she felt that she had no right even to address 
 him now. 
 
 " Edith." 
 
 "Do you blame me that I have spoken 
 frankly, though with so much pain to you ?" 
 
 " Edith, no, you have done nobly, though 
 you have destroyed my peace of mind for 
 life." 
 
 " O, say not so, my lord ; look in your own 
 sphere for one who can make you happy, and 
 no one will pray so devotedly for your enjoy 
 ment as Edith," she said, still averting her 
 face, to hide the tears that would continue to 
 flow. 
 
 " Edith !" said his lordship, in a tone of re 
 proach that spoke more than many words 
 might have done, how vain it would be for 
 him to try and love another after the relation 
 that they had borne to each other. 
 
 " Farewell, my lord," said Edith, in an an 
 guish of grief, " farewell forever !"
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 207 
 
 " Edith, farewell !" whispered Lord Ami- 
 down hoarsely, and in a moment after he was 
 in the open air, hurrying as though for life, 
 though he knew not whither, and after, he 
 knew not what. 
 
 The secret was at last revealed, and Lord 
 Amidown knew all. The first part of the 
 fortune-teller's prediction had already proved 
 true. He recollected this fact as he hurried 
 along, and the words of the strange woman 
 recurred to him. She said, ' Your own pride 
 shall snap the silken cord," but did she not also 
 say, thought he, that those hands should be 
 joined once more together ? But alas ! that 
 can never be ; she may have chanced upon 
 the first prediction rightly, but the second is 
 beyond possibility. O, God ! that such a 
 blight, such a withering cloud, should hang 
 over one like Edith ; one whom nature hath 
 formed for a queen, whom cultivation could 
 hardly improve, so perfect and so beautiful is 
 she by nature, and whose gentleness would 
 grace the fairest lady of the land. Can it be 
 that such an one is the child of infamy ? O, 
 terrible word for her to utter to me. What a 
 dreadful thought to contemplate. 
 
 " And where could Sir Robert have found 
 this fair, this too beautiful being," resumed 
 Lord Amidown, " and what possible motives 
 could have induced him to deceive me and 
 others as he has done ? There is some singu 
 lar mystery in all this, a strange and cruel 
 business," he continued. " I must see Walter 
 Manning as soon as possible, that I may be 
 fully corroborated in my misery. Perhaps he 
 can explain all to me." 
 
 Hurrying home with this purpose upon his 
 mind, he wrote a line to Walter, requesting 
 him to meet him that night at a certain hour 
 at the club, and dispatching a servant, he 
 waited impatiently his return, which at length 
 brought an answer in which Walter agreed to 
 the appointment. 
 
 When they met there at the hour designat 
 ed, Lord Amidown explained the state of his 
 affairs frankly to Walter. He made secret of 
 no portion of his conduct, his feelings, or of 
 what Edith had divulged, but told him of all 
 that had taken place, repeating even Edith's 
 very words that had chilled him so terribly at 
 heart. 
 
 " Say, Walter," continued Lord Amidown, 
 in tones of heart-broken anguish, " is all this 
 
 true that she has told me ? Do I rightly un 
 derstand this unhappy business ?" 
 
 Walter hesitated ; it was a subject that had 
 never been referred to by him to any one, and 
 he had placed a seal upon his lips touching the 
 matter on all occasions, if for no other reason, 
 for Edith's own sake, but thus appealed to, and 
 the subject thus brought up, he could hardly 
 refuse to speak out frankly, and he thought it 
 the best way to do so. 
 
 " My lord," he said, " Edith has told you 
 most frankly and truly her veritable history. 
 I speak knowingly, for I was with Sir Robert 
 on the night* that he rescued her from one of 
 the vilest tap-rooms in St. Giles. It was not 
 for me to break such a secret to you, but as 
 Edith has seen fit to do so, there is no harm 
 in my corroborating her words." 
 
 " Why how strange, how passing strange is 
 all this, Walter. Why should one like Sir 
 Robert seek out this girl and from such a place, 
 to adopt her as his child ?" 
 
 "For her extraordinary beauty," replied 
 Walter. " Even at thirteen, my lord, Edith 
 was fairer and possessed more real feminine 
 beauty that I ever beheld in another. And 
 then, Sir Robert said she greatly reembled 
 a lost sister of his own, an only sister, who 
 died early, at about the same age that Edith 
 then was. The beauty and resemblance at / 
 first attracted Sir Robert, but her sweetness of 
 character afterwards cemented the love he bore 
 her. There was a time when she was stolen 
 away from the house by some villains who had 
 known her in her childhood and old quarters, 
 and then I thought that Sir Robert would have 
 gone mad. He rested neither day nor night 
 in his assiduous exertions to find her once 
 more. But you never heard of her abduction, 
 I suppose, after she had been with Sir Robert 
 some twelve months?" 
 
 " No. I know scarcely a word of her his 
 tory ; indeed I knew nothing until she told me 
 to-day. I have credited the story that was 
 generally believed, as to her humble but re 
 spectable birth." 
 
 " It is indeed unfortunate. I have myself 
 foreseen this result; but, my lord, how could I 
 speak and betray the secret that Sir Robert had 
 almost bound me by an oath never to reveal to 
 any one ?" 
 
 " I do not blame you," said Lord Amidown, 
 with a sad despondency.
 
 208 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 " Thank you, for I esteem your lordship's 
 friendship warmly," replied Walter. 
 
 " But what of Clara, was she in the secret 
 too ?" asked his lordship. 
 
 "Ay, more than that, she is as humbly 
 born as Edith, and comes ^rom the same low 
 sphere of life," answered Walter. 
 
 "Indeed?" 
 
 It is true." 
 
 " And Walter, excuse me, this unhappiness 
 must be my excuse for speaking so plainly, you 
 lore Clara ?" 
 
 " My lord, yes." 
 
 " And realize fully the humble character of 
 her birth, nay, more than that," said Lord 
 Amidown with a shudder, "you realize the 
 possibility of the most fearful facts as to her 
 parentage and birth ?" 
 
 " They weigh with me as a feather, my 
 lord, when I look upon her sweet face, and 
 listen to the intelligence of her mind." 
 
 " Ah ! Walter, you have not the burthen of 
 rank, station and blood upon your shoulders to 
 weigh you down. Were I to forget all these 
 things and blindly pursue the love that prompts 
 me, I should become ruined in the eyes of 
 every one. Indeed Walter, could I respect 
 myself or her either, if she were my wife 
 even, knowing what I now do ?" 
 
 " You speak wisely, no doubt, my lord, but 
 if Clara would be my wife, I would lead her to 
 the altar to-morrow." 
 
 Lord Amidown made no reply for some mo 
 ments, but paced the little ante-room where 
 they had met, with a hurried step. Walter 
 had corroborated all that Edith had told him, 
 the whole business was no longer a problem, 
 and he felt that there was no hope of peace or 
 happiness for him in the future. A feeling of 
 desperation crept over him of dark import. 
 
 " Of course, Walter," he said, at length 
 pausing in his hurried walk, " I can visit Sir 
 Robert's no more, but I hope that I may some 
 times meet with you ; come to me at home, 
 you shall be ever welcome and 1 shall always 
 remember the period that I have known and 
 passed with you and others at Sir Robert's, as 
 the happiest of my life. 
 
 " Good night," he said huskily, as he press 
 ed Walter's hand. 
 
 " Good night, my lord; if I can serve you in 
 any way, I pray you command me always," 
 said Walter. 
 
 As they parted, Walter himself felt scarcely 
 less miserable than Lord Amidown, both on 
 his account and that of Edith. He realized 
 keenly the unhappy state of affairs, but though 
 he lacked not the generous impulse that would 
 have dictated his best services to aid or allevi 
 ate either of the parties, yet he saw at once 
 with sorrow how utterly powerless he was in 
 the matter. 
 
 " It does seem as though a strange fatality 
 is hanging about us all," he said, to himself.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 THE SECRET DISCLOSED. 
 
 A secret- 
 Most astounding ! 
 And confounding ! 
 
 SOMNAMBULA. 
 
 Sin ROBERT BROMPTON was so much en 
 gaged in his own private affairs of late, that 
 he did not observe for some weeks that Lord 
 Amidown had entirely absented himself from 
 his house. It is true he had missed him, but 
 he knew that his lordship was sometimes call 
 ed into the country for a few days, to visit 
 and oversee his large estates, and presuming 
 that this was the case at the present time, he 
 made no inquiry for him. Edith, who had 
 suffered a relapse of her late illness, induced 
 by the excitement she had again experienced, 
 had engaged a large share of her patron's 
 thoughts. But she was better once more, at 
 least physically, and Sir Robert again sought 
 the solitude of his study with a pertinacity 
 that placed all conjecture, as to the cause, at 
 fault. Understanding his character fully, 
 Walter Manning, although he observed this 
 singularity of conduct, did not think it proper 
 to inquire into the secret annoyance that seem 
 ed to be making little less than a complete 
 slave of his kind patron. 
 
 But it was not long before Sir Robert no 
 ticed more particularly the absence of Lord 
 Amidown. At first he said nothing, half sus 
 pecting what was in fact the true state of the 
 case, but watched with a keen eye for himself, 
 the state of feeling that came under his obser 
 vation. At length one day he drew Walter 
 14 
 
 into his private room, and after exhibiting the 
 prominent signs of a man under the strongest 
 excitement, he paused before Walter and said : 
 
 " Walter, why is it that Lord Amidown has 
 absented himself so suddenly from this house 
 can you tell me ?" 
 
 "Sir Robert, nothing could induce me to 
 deceive you in anything I do' know." 
 
 " Thank you, Walter. I knew you would 
 unravel the business for me." 
 
 " Lord Amidown has at last found out the 
 facts relating to Edith." 
 
 "Who could have told him that story, 
 known only to ourselves and Edith?" 
 
 " She told him herself, Sir Robert, with the 
 most honorable purpose." 
 
 " Explain to me tell me all," said Sir Rob 
 ert, throwing himself into a chair. 
 
 Walter then related in detail the interview 
 he had with his lordship at the club, and every 
 word that transpired between them, as nearly 
 as he could remember, that Sir Robert might 
 exactly understand the matter. 
 
 " Thank you, Walter ; it was very neces 
 sary that 1 should know all this. We shall 
 meet again this evening." 
 
 Walter saw that he would be alone, and 
 turning, he left the study. 
 
 " Stay," said Sir Robert, calling after him. 
 " Walter a word with you."
 
 210 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 " Well, sir." 
 
 " Not a syllable of this to Edith, you un 
 derstand, of course ?' x 
 
 " Certainly, Sir Robert ; it is a subject I 
 should not be very apt to broach to her, you 
 may be assured." 
 
 It might have been an hour after this inter 
 view, that Sir Robert continued to walk his 
 room in a state of great excitement, when 
 Walter at last heard him order his carriage, 
 in which he drove away. 
 
 Sir Robert told the servant, who put up the 
 carriage steps and closed the door after his en 
 trance, to drive to Lord Amidown's. It was 
 no new point for the driver to direct his 
 horses to, and soon afterwards the carriage 
 stopped at his door. Sir Robert's card was ans. 
 wered, and he found himself welcomed in the 
 most formal manner to the presence of his 
 lordship. 
 
 " Doubtless, my lord," began Sir Robert, so 
 much excited that his voice trembled, " you 
 have already surmised the business which has 
 brought me to you at this time." 
 
 " You speak very confidently, sir, and with 
 no little warmth," said Lord Amidown, cocl- 
 ly. As to the matter of your visit, as yet 
 I have given it no thought." 
 
 "It would much better have become the 
 character that I had supposed your lordship 
 possessed of, had you done so," continued Sir 
 Robert, warmly. 
 
 " Will you be seated, sir ?'* 
 
 " Thank you," said Sir Robert, waving the 
 courtesy, and continuing to stand. 
 
 " You seem to be very much irritated and 
 heated about some matter, Sir Robert Bromp- 
 ton," said Lord Amidown, with provoking 
 coolness, as he threw himself into a chair. 
 
 " My lord," continued Sir Robert, " you 
 have of late wholly absented yourself from my 
 family circle, after making it a place of con 
 stant and protracted resort for a period of 
 more than two years." 
 
 " Well, Sir Robert, because I have seen fit 
 to visit your house for the period of time men 
 tioned, am 1 bound to do so to the end of eter 
 nity ?" asked his lordship, somewhat sharply. 
 
 " My lord, my lord, let us speak to the 
 point at once. 1 can see no good to be deriv 
 ed from a bickering, in which both of us may 
 lose our discretion." 
 
 " With all my heart, sir, let us come to the 
 point at once," was the reply. 
 
 " You will not of course deny, then, my 
 lord, that you have paid marked and constant 
 attention to Edith for nearly a twelve-month 
 past, during which time the strongest intimacy 
 has existed between you." 
 
 Lord Amidown turned his head aside to 
 hide the anguish that the bare mention of 
 her name caused in his heart, for though he 
 assumed this insulting air to Sir Robert, he 
 felt no hard feeling towards Edith ; indeed he 
 loved her most tenderly still. But feeling as 
 he did, that Sir Robert had bitterly deceived 
 him, he felt the injury keenly, and hence his 
 manner towards him. 
 
 " Well, Sir Robert," he said, at last, after 
 more than a minute's pause. 
 
 " You have won her love ; the entire wealth 
 of her young and pure affection is yours. In 
 short, she is a woman, and loves you, my lord 
 that is enough." 
 
 " Well, Sir Robert," continued his lordship, 
 breathing hard and fast. 
 
 " And now, my lord, after having made her 
 all your own, heart and soul, you abruptly 
 cast her oflfand leave her." 
 
 " Stay, sir" 
 
 " Ah ! I have touched you at last, even 
 through all that stiff" coat of indifference," said 
 Sir Robert, sarcastically. 
 
 " Listen, sir," said his lordship, rising to 
 his feet, " it is time for me to speak. All you 
 have said is true ay, and more, sir. I have 
 loved Edith to very madness ; I have gone on 
 from day to day, living in her sweet society, 
 and increasing in affection, until my whole 
 soul has been involved in this one absorbing 
 passion for her. At last, emboldened by her 
 kindness, I tell her my love, and am gently 
 refused, a fact that only adds fuel to the fire 
 that burns within me. Still I respect her 
 wish as thus signified, until in an unguarded 
 moment, captivated by her dear presence, I 
 gently renew my suit and plead at her very 
 feet, when lo ! I am told such things by her 
 own lips, that my very life blood is chilled, 
 and I find how blind, how deceived I have 
 been all this time. Yet, in my fond and al 
 most crazy devotion, I still believe that possi 
 bly there may be some mistake, some chance 
 misconstruction, or perhaps a ruse, and I call 
 impatiently for other evidence, when your 

 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 211 
 
 adopted son, Sir Robert, sets the seal to my 
 misery." 
 
 There was a few moments' pause after 
 these remarks, during which Lord Amidown 
 seemed to be struggling to suppress those 
 tokens of feeling and regret, that to another 
 might appear as womanly. 
 
 " But that dream is over and past now, Sir 
 Robert," continued his lordship, sadly ; " the 
 deceit, whether intended or not in relation to 
 Edith's birth, has been successful in wrecking 
 one heart, aud I do not hesitate to tell you, 
 sir, that so completely has the trick succeeded, 
 that I can never love again, for I have no 
 heart to offer to another now it is dead and 
 buried ! I am more than wretched. Had 
 that girl been not nobly, nay, nor even gently 
 born, but only respectably " 
 
 " Hold, my lord !" exclaimed Sir Robert, 
 starting as from a reverie, and struggling with 
 his words as though the effort were like to 
 choke him. 
 
 " I say, Sir Robert," continued Lord Ami- 
 down, unheeding the interruption, " I ask not 
 rank nor wealth with Edith, for had she only 
 been respectably born, and that fact substantiat 
 ed beyond a doubt, I could have freely forgiven 
 all in my fond regard for her ; but to have the 
 world point its finger of scorn at my wife, is 
 a thought too fearful to contemplate, could the 
 natural repugnance of my own feelings be 
 stilled. But, alas ! this cannot be, and I but 
 multiply words upon a painful subject." 
 
 " My lord," replied Sir Robert, " that child 
 is as gently born as yourself ay, you need 
 not stare at me, and gaze with a frowning 
 brow I am not crazy. 1 repeat it, she is of 
 gentle blood and an honorable offspring !" 
 
 " Sir Robert." 
 
 " Well, my lord." 
 
 " You could not have the heart in this di 
 lemma to deceive me ; to fall from such high 
 hopes again, would be very death." 
 
 As he said this, he approached his guest 
 and stood with a most imploring look upon 
 his face. 
 
 " Before heaven, I repeat that Edith is as 
 gently and honorably born as yourself." 
 
 " The proof, Sir Robert, the proof !" said 
 Lord Amidown, hurriedly. 
 
 "Have you entire reliance upon my word, 
 my lord ?" asked Sir Robert, who seemed to 
 have wrought himself up to a state of calmness 
 
 and stern self-possession since he first entered 
 his lordship's apartment. 
 
 " Undoubtedly, Sir Robert," he replied. 
 'Pray proceed with your explanation." 
 
 "And, of course, will receive unquestioned 
 that which I shall disclose." 
 
 " Most certainly." 
 
 " Then know, my lord, that which even 
 Edith herself has never so much as suspected 
 for one moment, since she has known me she 
 is my daughter /'' 
 
 " In wedlock ?" asked Lord Amidown, seiz 
 ing eagerly upon Sir Robert's arm, and almost 
 holding his breath for an answer. " I say, in 
 honest wedlock ?" 
 
 " She is the child of my honored wife, the 
 lady Gustine !" 
 
 " Do I hear aright, Sir Robert !" exclaimed 
 Lord Amidown, almost bewildered at the 
 thought that rushed across his mind. " Am I 
 myself, am I sane, or has this strange disap 
 pointment made me mad ? Do you say that 
 Edith is your daughter ; really and truly of 
 your own blood ?" 
 
 " She is." 
 
 " Then why all this strange mystery about 
 'her this rescuing Edith from the vile haunt 
 where you found her, and how came she 
 there ?" asked Lord Amidown, with rapid ut 
 terance. " What does this mean, Sir Robert ? 
 I feel that you cannot find it in your heart to 
 tamper with one in my situation." 
 
 " Far be it from me," said Sir Robert, 
 solemnly ; " I have suffered myself too much 
 mental agony already, from a fearful mistake 
 into which my jealousy of disposition has led 
 me. It may be that you will have a right to 
 know such particulars as 1 can never impart 
 to any other, save yourself and Edith. If so, 
 all will be explained to you in due time, but I 
 trust that until then you will credit my word 
 in this peculiar matter." 
 
 " I will, I will indeed," said his lordship, 
 eagerly, " and I bless you for the words you 
 have spoken," he continued, turning away 
 his face to hide the tears that wet his cheeks 
 so freely. 
 
 Having relieved his heart of this strange 
 secret, that had eaten like a rust upon his very 
 soul for so long a period of time, Sir Robert 
 seemed to be as much relieved as one suffer 
 ing by a fearful plethora, is by the free-letting 
 of blood. He appeared once more like him-
 
 212 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 self, and looked calmly upon Lord Amidown 
 now, who, in turn, was walking the room, 
 vainly endeavoring to still the nervous trepida 
 tion that was produced by the revelation he 
 had just listened to. 
 
 " Shall we go to her, my lord ?" asked Sir 
 Robert, at length. 
 
 " This instant," replied Lord Amidown, 
 with avidity. 
 
 " My carriage is at the door let us go to 
 gether," said Sir Robert. 
 
 " Thank you, I shall embrace the oportuni- 
 ty," he replied, " but" 
 
 " What, my lord ?" 
 
 " I have not yet apologized for my rudeness 
 at our first meeting." 
 
 " Name it not." said Sir Robert, " it was 
 all very natural, and is already forgotten." 
 
 In this amicable mood, the two entered the 
 vehicle and drove to Sir Robert's house. As 
 they both entered the reception room, they 
 chanced to discover Edith alone and reading. 
 Sir Robert had intended to prepare her in 
 some way, before he again introduced Lord 
 Amidown to his house, but circumstances had 
 forced aside this purpose. This accidental, 
 meeting seemed to afford, under this state of 
 things, as good an occasion as any other. 
 But Lord Amidown's impatience put aside all 
 calculation, as he rushed at once to Edith's 
 side and knelt there, overcome by his feelings. 
 
 " What means this, my lord ?" asked Edith, 
 rising from her seat half bewildered at his 
 conduct, and Sir Robert's presence. " What 
 am I to understand by this singular behav 
 iour?" 
 
 it was a most trying situation for all who 
 were there assembled. 
 
 Lord Amidown looked confusedly from one 
 to the other, while Sir Robert seemed unable 
 to speak one word, but sought the floor with 
 his eyes, and there the three stood in a most 
 embarrassed situation. The truth was, Sir 
 Robert had started on his visit to Lord Ami- 
 down without pausing to think as to what it 
 might at once 'lead. He was not prepared to 
 explain in so abrupt a manner a subject so im 
 portant, but there was no choice for him now, 
 and at last he said, in a hoarse voice that was 
 scarcely above a whisper : 
 * " Lord Amidown has been informed con 
 cerning your birth and pa " 
 
 " My birth, Sir Robert?" interrupted Edith, 
 with astonishment. 
 
 " Yes, Edith," he continued, though not a 
 little embarrassed, " he has been informed, I 
 say, touching your relationship and " 
 
 " Who knows aught of that, Sir Robert ?" 
 asked Edith, with a burning cheek, and an 
 earnestness of expression that made Lord Ami- 
 down almost start with fear. 
 
 " I have been hasty and thoughtless," he 
 answered, almost trembling as he saw the fire 
 in Edith's eyes. " This is not the time or 
 place for an explanation. At an early oppor 
 tunity, I will reveal all to you." 
 
 " Sir Robert, my kind benefactor, what does 
 all this mean ?" asked Edith, approaching and 
 laying her hand on her patron's arm. " There 
 seems to be some strange mystery here I 
 cannot understand you." 
 
 " Sir Robert," said Lord Amidown, scarcely 
 less moved than he whom he addressed, " why 
 not tell our dear Edith at once, and make her 
 happy ?" 
 
 " Not now, my lord." 
 
 " Tell me what, Lord Amidown, what is 
 this secret ? O, I pray you relieve my mind. 
 Is it, Sir Robert, relating to my birth and pa 
 rentage, as I thought that I understood you? 
 If so, break the spell, and I will bless you." 
 
 There was more than a minute's pause at 
 this painful juncture. 
 
 " Edith, calm yourself," said her patron, at 
 last; " the subject is relating to your birth; 
 at another time, I may explain all, but for the 
 future know that Sir Robert Brompton is 
 your father !" 
 
 For a moment, the beautiful girl cast the 
 natural ringlets that clustered about her head 
 away from her face, and shook her head as if 
 to relieve it from some sad weight ; the blood 
 left her cheeks, which became as pale as mar 
 ble, and thus she gazed on vacancy, but her 
 eyes gave back no reflection. The sight 
 seemed gone altogether. More than a mo 
 ment passed thus, in which no word was ut 
 tered by either of the party. 
 
 "Edith! Edith!" said Sir Robert, at 
 length, in an agony of suspense, "speak to 
 me." 
 
 But there was no answer Edith stood like 
 one bereft of speech. 
 
 Lord Amidown thought she would faint, 
 and sprung to her side to support her, but
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 213 
 
 she did not evince any token that his support 
 would be thus required. Suddenly the blood 
 which had so quickly left her cheek, returned 
 again, with a rushing current that suffused 
 her whole neck and face. After becoming in 
 some degree equalized, it once more left her 
 cheek ; but there remained a far more brilliant 
 color than had ever been there before, while 
 her eyes seemed lighted with a new and start 
 ling brilliancy. A long sigh escaped her lips, 
 and the struggle of nature seemed to be over. 
 An expression of keen disappointment 
 overspread Sir Robert's countenance. He 
 had looked to see her fall upon his neck fond 
 ly, and weeping there, rejoice to have found 
 in him a father. But how different was the 
 scene from this ! She had even withdrawn 
 from his side, and now stood quite aloof from 
 him ; a strange composure of manner pervad 
 ed her appearance, and a calm settled smile 
 took possession of her countenance, while a 
 spirit almost of indifference seemed to beam 
 from her eyes, as they rested now upon Sir 
 .Robert, who was regarding her most intently. 
 
 Turning to Lord Amidown, with the most 
 serene composure, she said : 
 
 " My lord, it seems that you and I have 
 been misinformed, touching the subject matter 
 of our last interview. It is pleasant, very 
 pleasant, to be so easily helped out of a dilem 
 ma !" 
 
 " It is indeed most agreeable," said Lord 
 Amidown, astonished at her coolness, and at 
 the peculiar expression that her countenance 
 had assumed while she spoke. 
 
 Sir Robert stood like a statue, gazing in 
 amazement, and astounded that Edith did not 
 even speak to him after what had passed. 
 
 " At a more fitting time, I shall be pleased 
 to meet your lordship," she continued, with 
 the same calmness that had characterized her 
 manner for the last few minutes. " At pres 
 ent I must retire to my room." 
 
 As she said this, she courtseyed low to Lord 
 Amidown, and without even so much as look 
 ing at Sir Robert at all, turned and walked 
 quietly out of the room. 
 
 " She did not even speak to me," groaned 
 Sir Robert, gazing after her. 
 
 " This strange news is too much for her," 
 answered his companion; "she will require 
 rest and many tears to relieve the fulness of 
 
 her heart. In the meantime, Sir Robert, I 
 will take my leave." 
 
 "Your lordship must make yourself at 
 home here," said Sir Robert. 
 
 " Thank you," he replied, bowing himself 
 out, as he did so. 
 
 Sir Robert was now once more alone. The 
 'owner of that proud mansion stood there like 
 a statue where Edith and Lord Amidown had 
 left him ; some strange fascination seemed to 
 bind him with irresistible force to the spot, for 
 he did not move even one single step from 
 where he had stood when he revealed that 
 startling secret to Edith. He now looked like 
 one whose cup of misery was full to the very 
 brim, his eyes still rested upon the door where 
 Edith had made her exit, and it was of her 
 that he was thinking so intently. He pressed 
 his hands upon his side, and breathed deeply, 
 but as though the effort cost him no little pain, 
 and then his chin sank upon his breast, like 
 a condemned criminal; a sort of lethargy 
 seemed to creep over him, but in a moment 
 after he aroused himself from this mood, and 
 asked himself: 
 
 " Is it possible that I have at last revealed 
 this terrible, burning secret, and does Edith 
 receive it unmoved, she whom I have loved 
 so deeply, so tenderly, she who has seemed to 
 reciprocate every thought of my heart ? Have 
 all my hopes been thus blighted in one single 
 instant? has the cunningly laid plot of years 
 been thus terminated ? She left me but now, 
 without uttering one single word, nay, she did 
 not so much as look at me when she turned 
 away. O, Edith, Edith ! is this the repay 
 ment of my fond and doting affection ? am I 
 to be thus regarded for all my sufferings in 
 your behalf? my heart will break if it findeth 
 not relief. 1 doubt me but 1 am dreaming, 
 the annoyance of that cursed fortune-teller 
 has half turned my brain this cannot be so ;" 
 and as he reasoned thus, he looked hurriedly 
 about him fora moment, and then continued : 
 
 " No, no, it is no dream," he almost groan 
 ed out; " it is a stern and vivid reality." 
 
 Sir Robert threw himself heavily into a 
 seat, and with his face buried in his hands, 
 leaned upon the table by his side, a picture of 
 wretchedness and disappointment. The main 
 hope and prop of his life seemed crushed, and 
 the expression of his face showed how keenly 
 he realized his misery.
 
 214 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 After remaining thus for a little while, he 
 rose to'his feet, and walked the room hurried- 
 edly, talking all the while almost incoherently, 
 while his grief, which found no vent in tears, 
 seemed to make him almost beside himself. 
 He paused now, and with an effort at calm 
 ness, asked himself deliberately : 
 
 " Have the nicely laid plans of nearly a 
 score of years been thus frustrated in one sin 
 gle moment ? Has the hour to which I have 
 so long confidently looked forward with the 
 brightest hope and dearest expectation, at last 
 arrived but only to curse me ? What have I 
 to live for now ? what charm will life have 
 for me, bereft of that child's love ? O, how 
 sadly I have mistaken her heart, how poorly 
 have I read her disposition. But let me pause ; 
 perhaps it was excitement perhaps she will 
 yet return to smile upon and kiss me again 
 with her heart beaming from her eyes. I 
 may have done her injustice^ It came sud 
 denly upon her, she was unprepared, and that 
 is the reason of her singular behaviour." 
 
 Scarcely had Sir Robert made this remark 
 when the door opened, arid Edith entered 
 hurriedly, and approaching him with a strange 
 expression in her face, said ; 
 
 " Are you my father ?" 
 
 " Edith ?" 
 
 " Are you my father?" 
 
 "I have already spoken to you on that 
 subject, Edith," he answered, soothingly. 
 
 Startled at the singular abruptness of the 
 question, and the manner in which she had 
 addressed him, Sir Robert stood gazing upon 
 her in amazement. It was too evident, and 
 he soon fully realized the fact that reason was 
 tottering on her throne, and that Edith was 
 mentally deranged already. 
 
 "If you are my father, then why don't you 
 say so?" she continued, with singular earnest 
 ness, and approaching close to Sir Robert's 
 side, she looked up into his face with such va 
 cant eyes that he shuddered. 
 
 " Edith, Edith, you are ill, and need re 
 pose," said Sir Robert, as he watched the 
 changing expression of her eyes, now bent 
 upon him with a wild, glaring lustre. 
 
 Then again she seemed to become more 
 subdued and calm, as she said : 
 
 " If you are my father, it is very unkind 
 in you not to have told me so before. It 
 would have saved me much misery, much 
 
 misery," sse repeated, shaking her head 
 sadly. 
 
 "I will explain all to you at another time," 
 answered Sir Robert, soothingly, as he averted 
 his face to hide the agony that her vacant and 
 listless air produced upon him. 
 
 " But where is my mother ?" she asked, 
 with a startled energy, as the thought came 
 over her suddenly. 
 
 " In heaven, I trust, Edith." 
 
 " Heaven ? Is that a long way from here ?" 
 she asked, vacantly. 
 
 " I cannot bear this any longer," he ex 
 claimed, in agony. 
 
 Ringing the bell, Sir Robert sent a servant 
 in all haste for Clara, who soon after answer 
 ed the summons, and to whom Sir Robert 
 whispered that she should observe Edith 
 closely, as she was evidently quite ill, wander 
 ing in her mind, and if possible, he desired 
 her to urge her to retire and sleep. 
 
 " Clara," said Edith, interrupting him, 
 " this is my father, you did not know that, 
 but it is true ; he has told me so himself. It 
 is odd, though, isn't it, Clara ?" 
 
 Sir Robert whispered to Clara, saying that 
 she must not heed her words at all, and that * 
 he would himself explain all to her at a 
 proper time. 
 
 " Come, Edith, come," said Clara, sooth 
 ingly, putting her arms about her waist. 
 " Let us go to our chamber for a while. 
 Wont you go to please me, Edith ?" 
 
 "O, yes." 
 
 " Well, come, then I am going." 
 
 " And leave him ?" she asked, pointing ra- 
 cantly at Sir Robert. 
 
 " Yes, for a little while come." 
 
 " But speak to him, first, Clara congratu 
 late him on having me for a daughter. Wont 
 you ?" she continued, as she held back from 
 leaving the room, and motioned Clara towards 
 Sir Robert. 
 
 " Alas, alas, what a sad business this is," 
 said Clara, looking at her patron. " What 
 can ail poor Edith ?" 
 
 " Never mind about the cause, now, Clara ; 
 but try and get her to her chamber." 
 
 Clara was confused, she knew as yet noth 
 ing of the fact, and though she strove to obey 
 Sir Robert's wishes, as to soothing Edith, yet 
 she was blind as to the cause of this unhappy 
 scene.
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 215 
 
 " I left her so well but a few moments 
 since," said she, sadly. 
 
 " Take her away, take her away as quickly* 
 as you can," said Sir Robert, earnestly. " I 
 will explain it all to you at another time, 
 Clara. She will go with you now." 
 
 " Come, Edith, dear, come with me to our 
 chamber, will you I" 
 
 " O, yes, Clara," she replied, leaning upon 
 her companion as she went. 
 
 But she paused again ere they passed out 
 side the door, and looked back at Sir Robert, 
 while her brain seemed to be striving to mas 
 ter and express some thought that was but 
 half formed from mental weakness ; but she 
 could only shake her head sadly without ut 
 tering any coherent syllables. She muttered 
 something to herself that Clara strove in vain 
 to understand, but all seemed to be rather the 
 action of a diseased brain than of any definite 
 ideas. Clara regarded her with a feeling of 
 awe, so mysterious was all this, too, as it re 
 garded its true import ; but she gently soothed 
 her, and urged her with persuasive speech to 
 come to her chamber. At last she turned to 
 her, and asked in reply to Clara's solicitation 
 for her to come with her to their chamber : 
 
 " What for ?" 
 
 " So that we may be quiet, Edith, so we 
 may lie down and sleep." 
 
 " Sleep, what is that?" she asked, vacantly. 
 
 " To go to bed, Edith, and close the eyes in 
 forgetfulness, and to wake refreshed." 
 
 " Forgetfulness ! that is good, forgetfulness 
 is very good. I wish I could forget." 
 
 " Well, come, Edith, we will go and try to 
 forget," said her companion, urging her away. 
 
 But Clara was striving with a heavy heart. 
 She felt that there was something sadly wrong 
 in this business, and her love for Edith ren 
 dered her doubly anxious, for she could gladly 
 have taken any pains to have saved her friend 
 from the infliction. 
 
 In the meantime, while this scene was going 
 on between Edith and Clara, Sir Robert stood 
 in an agony of suspense, because she was not 
 removed from the apartment, until at last she 
 sank her head upon Clara's shoulder, and qui 
 etly passed without the door of the reception 
 room. 
 
 It would be impossible for us to explain 
 fully the anguish that tore Sir Robert's heart 
 at the scene which we have just described. 
 Poor Edith seemed to have lost her senses en 
 tirely, and Sir Robert his peace of mind for 
 ever. This business was evidently the crisis 
 of. his life, but to explain fully how this 
 strange state of affairs came about, and to 
 show why Sir Robert reproached himself so 
 keenly, we must refer the reader to another 
 chapter.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII 
 
 A STRANGE PLOT. 
 
 " Evil ends peep out o' the tail of good purposes." 
 
 IT has not before been mentioned in the 
 plot of our story that the lady Gustine bore 
 Sir Robert a child, a lovely infant, and in all 
 of his jealous moods, the father seemed to 
 turn back in his heart to this offspring, in 
 whom he hoped to find one eventually who 
 should love him truly, and upon whose affec 
 tion there should be no blight. It grew with 
 the father to be the one engrossing wish and 
 hope of his life, and he looked forward to the 
 consummation of the picture of his fancy, 
 much as the weary mariner doth look forward 
 to the peace of his fire-side after a long and 
 tempestuous voyage. 
 
 The reader will remember that a spirit of 
 jealousy was Sir Robert's evil genius, that he 
 was often completely under its control, and 
 made most wretched by it. He seemed to 
 think that no one could respect or love him, 
 except from interested motives, and then they 
 would but assume these traits. This was at 
 first induced by his lameness, solely, but it 
 was also much augmented by the state in 
 which the small pox had left his face after his 
 sickness in India, and even to this date in our 
 story, he felt acutely the personal defects 
 which marred his manliness. While Sir 
 Robert was abroad, it will be remembered that 
 his wife died, leaving her child scarcely 
 more than an infant, much too young to have 
 
 any fixed idea of home, to the care of stran. 
 gers. 
 
 When Sir Robert heard of the mother's 
 death, he at once despatched his trusty com 
 panion and friend, Frederick Howard, to 
 manage his affairs in London and that por 
 tion of his instructions relating to the child, 
 were by no means of the least important 
 character. To this friend of his, it will be 
 remembered that Sir Robert had fully opened 
 his heart, and his companion knew his pa 
 tron's disposition far better and more correct 
 ly than did Sir Robert himself. His patron 
 had often expressed to him the fear that his 
 daughter would grow up to think of him as 
 her father, and therefore as one who must be 
 loved as such a relationship demanded, but as 
 to her loving him for himself alone, his jeal 
 ous disposition seemed too stubborn to admit 
 of such a possibility. Sir Robert would say : 
 
 " Every hour of our association will be 
 embittered by doubt, for am'I not most hide 
 ous to behold?" 
 
 "Indeed no, Sir Robert." 
 
 " Perhaps not to one who reasons and 
 thinks like you, but to one of the other sex, 
 it is quite different," Sir Robert would say ; 
 " the eye must be pleased, believe me, before 
 the heart is moved. 1 ' 
 
 "But sympathy and kindness will clothe
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 217 
 
 any form with beauty, so far as the eye of 
 those who are influenced is concerned ; defor 
 mity is robbed of its power by love." 
 
 " This is subtle reasoning, and rather un 
 like your usual creed," Sir Robert would say; 
 " for I have been more confirmed in my belief 
 of the sordid selfishness of the world since 
 we have been together, than ever before." 
 
 " Touching this matter of your daughter, 
 Sir Robert, I think you carry the principle too 
 far ties of blood are very strong, and we do 
 not often see them desecrated and entirely 
 disregarded." 
 
 " Perhaps not, nor do you often see such a 
 looking object as I am, to tempt a breach of 
 all principles of humanity and nature between 
 a child and its parent." 
 
 "Nay, Sir Robert," his friend would an 
 swer, " I assure you that your disposition has 
 gotten the better of your judgment, and your 
 fancy magnifies trifles into matters of grave 
 import." 
 
 " Ah, my friend, if you could rightly un 
 derstand me," said Sir Robert, " I think you 
 would not wonder at my feelings. For years 
 I have longed to be loved for myself alone. 
 In the lady Gustine I thought I had found a 
 being to love and cherish, but somehow the 
 foul fiend separated our hearts. Now there 
 seems to be a faint glimmering of hope in 
 my daughter, if she should live, but still my 
 foreboding soul tells me the result will be 
 disastrous to my peace and happiness. If we 
 were in a more humble sphere of life, if she 
 did not know herself born to a fortune, per 
 haps it would not be quite so certain that she 
 would love the world and not me." 
 
 " Feeling thus, Sir Robert, you can never 
 love her yourself as you should do. You 
 start with her at disadvantage, by being jeal 
 ous of her before she is capable of evincing 
 any great degree of love or dislike." 
 
 " I realize it all, and dread the inevitable 
 result. Ah f I would love her so dearly as 
 she grew up by my side, if only assured that 
 she loved me in return with such a love as 1 
 long to share." 
 
 "I must say, frankly, Sir Robert, that I 
 fear your jealousy of disposition is not suffi 
 ciently under control ; but if it is too power 
 ful for you to combat with reason, we must 
 accommodate ourselves to circumstances." 
 
 " We must hope for the best, and leave the 
 
 result to fortune," replied Sir Robert, thought 
 fully. 
 
 The reason why we wish to impress the 
 actuating motives of Sir Robert strongly upon 
 the minds of the reader is, because they 
 were the prime moving cause of the most 
 vivid scenes of his life, and the origin or 
 mainspring as it regards the plot of our sto 
 ry, which finds its rise in the jealousy of Sir 
 Robert's character. It will be seen ere the 
 close of the present chapter to what blind ex 
 tremes it led him on. 
 
 Frederick Howard, who was of a somewhat 
 misanthropic disposition, could fully appreci 
 ate and sympathize in his patron's feelings, 
 and of course this fact led Sir Robert to feel a 
 warm and constant interest in him through a 
 spirit of sympathy alone, though his com 
 panion's power of mind and natural good 
 taste caused Sir Robert to realize much satis 
 faction in his society. Indeed his patron had 
 given so many tokens of his confidence and 
 reliance in him, that his companion was em 
 boldened to ask of Sir Robert perhaps the 
 most peculiar and trying boon that he could 
 possibly have devised. It was relating to his 
 daughter, whom Mr. Howard was about to 
 visit in the character of a protector, until such 
 a time as Sir Robert should have arranged his 
 affairs and returned himself to England. 
 
 When his agent was about to leave him at 
 Calcutta, he asked for permission to take 
 charge of Sir Robert's child, and to direct 
 her taste and mind after his own judgment, 
 at least until he should himself return. He 
 argued with Sir Robert, that after having been 
 so long associated with him and so intimately 
 understanding the relative position of matters, 
 as well as knowing Sir Robert's one weak 
 point, that if permitted to adopt his own plan, 
 he could so direct and influence the child as 
 to obviate the possibility of every trouble that 
 his patron had anticipated might spring up to 
 mar his domestic happiness, and so direct and 
 instruct the child that she should love him, not 
 because it was her duty to do so only, but 
 truly for himself. 
 
 Being so intimately connected with his 
 agent, by so many reasons as we have shown, 
 Sir Robert was induced to give him one more 
 proof of his undiminished confidence by en 
 trusting his child to his care, and with few 
 qualifications, Sir Robert cheerfully consented
 
 213 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 to the plan proposed by his companion, and 
 Mr. Howard departed with a carte blanche 
 over Sir Robert's entire domestic concerns, as 
 well as to assume the control of his business 
 matters. Time brought him to London, 
 where by virtue of his authority, he assumed 
 immediate and sole control over the family 
 of Sir Robert's household, and prepared to 
 put into execution a plan which could only 
 have found birth in a misanthropic brain, 
 though its ultimate object and honest intent 
 was solely to aid his friend's future happiness 
 in relation to his child. 
 
 His first step was to pay off the servants 
 and dismiss them, then to change the nurse 
 who had so long had charge of the child, for 
 one better suited to his purpose. Having by 
 degrees arranged these and other matters of a 
 similar character to suit himself, he gave out 
 that the child was to be shipped to Sir Robert 
 at Calcutta, as he designed to stay for some 
 years in India. However strange might have 
 appeared to many the idea of sending so 
 young a child on such au errand, there were 
 none who felt authorized to dispute Mr. How 
 ard's unlimited authority, more especially as 
 he had taken very good care to establish its 
 legal character by means of the paper which 
 his patron had supplied him with, to guard 
 against contingencies. 
 
 The lady Gustine had few blood relations, 
 and those were far away on the banks of the 
 Rhine. Her father had died not long after 
 his daughter's marriage, and thus there were 
 few, if any, on her side, to feel any great in 
 terest in the child. As to Sir Robert's family, 
 we have already said that he had no near re 
 lations living, and thus situated, it was not 
 strange that Mr. Howard found few, if any, 
 to question his authority, even as it related to 
 Sir Robert's most private concerns, and more 
 particularly as it regarded the disposal of his 
 daughter on a voyage to India to meet her 
 father. 
 
 " I heard the child was goin' to sea, and I 
 cum to say good-by to her," said her late 
 nurse. " It's a shame, so it is, to make a little 
 thing like her go so long a voyage." 
 
 " O, but it is to meet her father , you know, 
 my good woman," was the reply. 
 
 " Yes, to be sure, its the only excuse in the 
 world, so it is, for such a thing." 
 
 "When she comes back a fine lady, she 
 will be so altered, you'll not know her." 
 
 " I'll be in my grave before that time but 
 good-by, my little pet ;" as she said this, the 
 woman kissed the child, and shed a flood of 
 honest tears at parting with her, after some 
 two years of constant attendance upon her 
 simplest wants. 
 
 The child cried, too, for a moment, but as 
 soon as the nurse was gone, it was laughing 
 again. 
 
 By a well concerted plan, it was made to 
 appear that the child was shipped from Liver 
 pool for Calcutta, with a hired nurse, but on 
 the next day after the departure was supposed 
 to have taken place, Frederick Howard placed 
 in charge of an elderly and very humble wo 
 man, who lived in the outskirts of the town, a 
 little girl of some three years of age, declaring 
 that it was an illegitimate offspring, and that 
 he desired her to take good care of it, allow 
 ing it to want for no necessity, for which she 
 should be regularly and fairly remunerated by 
 him. The instructions she received were of 
 the most minute character. The child was to be 
 treated with the utmost kindness, and to have 
 all necessary food, but to share everything 
 with the woman, who must pretend to be her 
 friend and sole protector. Above all things, 
 no luxury was to be provided for the child, 
 and the utmost secrecy was enjoined upon the 
 woman, for whom it was made an object to 
 keep most sacred the secret imparted to her. 
 
 Having arranged this matter with an inge 
 nuity and care that was worthy of a better 
 cause, so that all trace of the little child was 
 lost to her friends, save that she was presum 
 ed to have been shipped as represented to 
 meet her father abroad, Mr. Howard then 
 wrote to Sir Robert to explain to him in full 
 the plan which he had adopted for his child, 
 and which he felt the utmost confidence would 
 be attended with the happiest result. So well 
 did he depict this plan in his letter, and so 
 adroitly did he calculate the true manner in 
 which to operate upon Sir Robert, that al 
 though his patron was shocked at first by its 
 relation, yet after reading the letter again and 
 again, he became reconciled to, and even ap 
 proved of, the strange 4 plan. Sir Robert would 
 never have originated such a plan as his agent 
 had arranged, but now that it was once practi 
 cally adopted, the peculiar feeling to which
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 219 
 
 his agent had appealed in his letter, bade him 
 to acquiesce, though reluctantly. 
 
 "God grant that I do no unnatural, or un 
 just thing in my condfict to that child !" said 
 Sir Robert, as he sealed up the letter in which 
 he signified his approval of his agent's plan, 
 and dispatched it for England. 
 
 His agent had acted honestly on his part, 
 and had stated to him exactly the truth. He 
 told Sir Robert that the child was placed with 
 a very humble, but respectable woman, who 
 knew nothing of its origin, but believed it to 
 be an illegitimate child. That means had 
 been so taken and consummated that it was 
 impossible for her to ascertain aught concern 
 ing her charge, and that all his friends be 
 lieved the child to have been shipped to him 
 at Calcutta. That the woman who had charge 
 of her would be strictly observed by him, and 
 that she had been most carefully directed as to 
 her kind treatment of the little boarder, who 
 was to have every necessity and ordinary 
 comfort, but no luxuries lavished upon her. 
 
 So much related to the present condition of 
 the child, the future plan he laid down thus : 
 She was to remain for a period of years in this 
 condition of life, or at least until she should 
 become old enough to realize her situation, 
 when Sir Robert should manage, as if by ac 
 cident, to meet and befriend her, winning her 
 confidence and love by his kindness, which 
 the child, having no claim upon him for, would 
 the more highly prize. Having won its heart 
 thus, he should draw her still nearer to him 
 by adoption, and finally, when all doubt as to 
 her real regard for him should be removed, 
 and at a suitable period, the true relationship 
 should be acknowledged. But, on the con 
 trary, if it was found that she was likely to 
 
 realize those doubts and fears that Sir Robert's 
 jealousy had suggested, then let the secret re 
 main, and the child be treated as she deserv 
 ed. 
 
 As we have before said, none but a most 
 misanthropic soul could have originated such 
 a plan; but such power had Frederick Howard 
 gained over Sir Robert, and so shrewdly did 
 he manage his correspondence, that his patron 
 was nevertheless persuaded into its adoption, 
 though somewhat reluctantly. Several mat 
 ters seemed strangely enough in their relation 
 to the affair, to favor the purpose that had been 
 adopted, one of these being the fact that tlJe 
 vessel in which the child was supposed to 
 have sailed, was cast away at sea, and every 
 soul on board perished. Mr. Howard took 
 good care to have this fact properly trumpeted, 
 in order to add to the greater security of his 
 plan. This fact alone, well managed, was suf 
 ficient to guard against almost any contingen 
 cy as it regarded a discovery. 
 
 " The loss of that child must be a sad blow 
 to Sir Robert," said one of his friends to the 
 agent. 
 
 " Ay, most sad." 
 
 " It being the very last representative of his 
 long line of ancestors, and a most beautiful 
 child too." 
 
 " Nothing could be more unfortunate," re 
 plied the agent, with well affected sorrow ; 
 " but Sir Robert would not consent to be any 
 longer separated from it, and so, in accordance 
 with his instructions, the child was shipped 
 for Calcutta." 
 
 Let the progress of the story show the result 
 of all this intrigue, cunning and deception, re 
 lating to the child.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 THE RESULT OF THE SCHEME. 
 
 " And thou 0, them didst throw 
 That crushed affection back upon my heart." 
 
 SIR ROBERT BROMPTON, enjoying all the 
 regal comforts of East Indian life, was not al 
 together content as it regarded the situation of 
 matters at home. His busy fancy would 
 often draw before his mind's eye such pic 
 tures of his child as would render him exceed 
 ingly uncomfortable and discontented. He 
 often detected himself drawing comparisons 
 between the manner of life which he led him 
 self, and the probable way in which his child 
 was then living. It was such thoughts as 
 these that troubled him so much, and that 
 rendered him at times quite dissatisfied both 
 with Mr. Howard and himself. 
 
 More than once, Sir Robert had written to 
 his agent to see the child often, and to make 
 it his particular duty to see that she lacked no 
 comfort or care that was requisite to her health 
 and improvement, and indeed he had said 
 several times that he thought the plan had 
 much better be abandoned altogether. The 
 next letter from his agent, however, would 
 quiet his conscience and anxiety, and by its 
 well-managed and shrewdly-put arguments 
 over-persuade Sir Robert's mind and satisfy 
 him that all was right, and would ultimately 
 turn out for the best good of himself and the 
 child. 
 
 There can be no doubt that Mr. Howard 
 
 thought he was doing for the best ; indeed, af 
 ter time showed that he had administered the 
 trust that his friend had placed in his charge, 
 with the most scrupulous and honorable punc 
 tuality, but the truth was, he saw life through 
 a false phase, through a glass darkly, and 
 therefore, in his judgment, he was misled. 
 There could be no possible reason why he 
 should have proposed the plan which he had 
 put in practice, as it regarded Sir Robert's 
 child, except with a view to promote his 
 friend's happiness, and to test his system of 
 philosophy. In fact, he was a most conscien 
 tious man, and had done nothing that he had 
 not fully explained to his employer. 
 
 But a most unexpected result was to come 
 from all this scheme one that neither Sir 
 Robert nor the agent had anticipated. 
 
 Years rolled on, and the child remained in 
 its humble home, believing itself an orphan, 
 or little better than one, and Sir Robert still re 
 mained abroad, partly by his own will, and 
 partly by the singular vicissitudes of fortune 
 which had cast him and his fellow-voyagers 
 upon a lone island of the ocean. From thence 
 the reader has followed him through the 
 scenes we have related. On his arrival in 
 England, it will be remembered that he found 
 that Frederick Howard had been suddenly at-
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 221 
 
 tacked by sickness, and had died. Of course, 
 he had left no record of where the child might 
 have been found ; the idea had probably never 
 occurred to him, and had it done so, he would 
 have weighed the propriety of giving the se 
 cret into another's keeping well, before he 
 would have done so. The truth was, that the 
 necessity for secrecy had been most religious 
 ly observed by him, nor had he ever mention 
 ed aught to a human being that might lead to 
 the discovery of the plan adopted for the 
 child's support. Had his illness been less 
 sudden, no doubt, had his reason remained, 
 he would have left some paper for Sir Rob- 
 bert's information ; but this was not the case, 
 his attack was sudden, and affected the brain 
 almost immediately, nor did his reason return 
 again before his death. 
 
 Of course, this being the case, Sir Robert 
 Brompton's daughter, whom it had been pro 
 posed to lose for a while, as we have seen, 
 now became absolutely lost indeed ! 
 
 For Sir Robert to advertise her, or make his 
 bereavement public, would be to expose his 
 own weakness, and publish broadcast his shame 
 to the world. For the same reason he found 
 that he could employ no agents in the search 
 which he immediately instituted, but that he 
 must prosecute it alone and unaided. This, 
 however, he did with the utmost vigor, and 
 disguised as a member of the humble class of 
 citizens, and sometimes even as a beggar or 
 an abandoned character of some sort, he pene 
 trated, for many months, into the various 
 haunts of the lower classes of London. It was 
 while engaged in these arduous and often 
 dangerous excursions, that he so often re 
 mained absent from his home, as Walter used 
 to remark, and when he returned would be so 
 exhausted and depressed. This was the busi 
 ness that weighed so heavily upon his heart 
 at that time. 
 
 At last fortune smiled upon these efforts, 
 and he happened, as we have intimated before, 
 to meet Edith ; he was struck by her likeness 
 to his wife ; he eagerly inquired concerning 
 her, and fully satisfied himself by a train of 
 circumstances, that this poor forsaken but 
 beautiful child was indeed his own daughter. 
 Though impelled by the most impatient anxi 
 ety, he fully satisfied himself before he took 
 any decided steps towards adopting her. For 
 certain reasons that we need not refer to, he 
 
 found it by no means so easy to obtain pos 
 session of Edith, which was the name of the 
 child in her new sphere, and was therefore 
 forced to perfect the plan which was repre 
 sented in the opening chapter of our story. It 
 was an easy matter to invent a story of inter 
 est, relating to a girl he had chanced to meet 
 in the street, which Walter readily believed, 
 touching her resemblance to a young sister 
 which he had lost some years before. And 
 as the proposition to capture and bring her 
 away from the den where she was, partook of 
 an adventurous and chivalrous character, 
 Walter readily embarked in the enterprise. 
 
 At this stage of affairs, having committed 
 himself so far, Sir Robert Brompton thought 
 it best and indeed his only correct policy, still 
 to persist in keeping the secret that had al 
 ready gone so far in its effects. Having sac 
 rificed so much to test the plan that he had at 
 first reluctantly adopted, he thought it was but 
 fair to himself to give heed to it long enough 
 thoroughly to test its efficacy. In the truth 
 ful love and fondness of Edith, he thought 
 that he discovered the good effects of his 
 friend's plan. How grateful was that love to 
 his sensitive heart ; he was almost too happy, 
 for he loved his child with more than ordina 
 ry affection. The strange vicissitudes that 
 had connected themselves with her hereto 
 fore, heightened the natural interest that he 
 felt for her, while her singular beauty added a 
 charm to all that made Sir Robert dote upon 
 his regained treasure. 
 
 Every one observed this unusual fondness, 
 and even Walter, who at the time thought 
 more of Edith than of all things else, was so 
 much struck with it, that he said one day, 
 carelessly : 
 
 " Sir Robert, 1 sometimes think that were 
 Edith indeed your daughter, you certainly 
 could love her no better, and perhaps would 
 not love her quite so well." 
 
 "Do you think so, Walter?" he asked, 
 thoughtfully, and looking hard at him the 
 while, as though he wondered if his young 
 friend had even suspected for one moment the 
 true state of the relationship between them. 
 But Walter's expression was not of a charac 
 ter to heighten the fear if he realized it, and 
 his mind was quiet again, as his protege re 
 plied :
 
 222 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 " Why, yes, Sir Robert, she seems to be 
 the very sun of your existence." 
 
 " She is, Walter, the light of my eyes, and 
 the warmth of my heart." 
 
 But this occurred before Edith had been 
 yet a twelvemonth in Sir Robert's household. 
 
 Of course, he realized fully that the time 
 must come, eventually, which would call"for a 
 revelation of the secret, both for his own sake 
 and Edith's ; but Sir Robert had placed that 
 period of time at a very remote distance ; in 
 deed he did not permit himself to dwell upon 
 that theme at all it was too unpleasant to 
 contemplate. He realized that Edith loved 
 him devotedly, ay, even beyond a doubt, and 
 he was content. He had arrived at this hap 
 py degree of confidence when he was a second 
 time made miserable on account of his child. 
 
 When she was stolen away from him, it 
 very nearly broke his heart. Again he dared 
 not make his loss public, or advertise her, for 
 that would make his private affairs so public 
 as to lead to strange suspicions and conjec 
 tures in the public mind, and even Walter 
 wondered at this desire for secrecy, this dread 
 of publicity, when there seemed to him to be 
 so much at stake. But Sir Robert paid away 
 his money freely in private efforts to gain 
 intelligence, besides which, himself and Wal 
 ter wrought almost day and night for nearly a 
 whole year, though all in vain as the reader 
 will remember, until at last Edith once more 
 returned with Clara. 
 
 A reviewal of these events brings us once 
 more to the present bearing of our story, and 
 the present situation of Edith and others of 
 the household of Sir Robert. 
 
 When the reader realizes how much his af 
 fection for Edith had taken hold upon the 
 heart of Sir Robert Brompton, how complete 
 ly bound up he was in this regard for his 
 child, how many vicissitudes she had encoun 
 tered, each one endearing her still more to 
 him, when we realize that Sir Robert had no 
 one else to love but her, and that she was the 
 only child of one whom he had loved most 
 dearly, we say when all these matters were 
 realized, it will not be wondered at that Sir 
 Robert seemed so completely miserable and 
 broken-down, when, after revealing to Edith 
 that which he thought would but increase her 
 wealth of affection for him, he found her turn 
 coldly away, without one gentle word, one 
 
 single kiss, to assure him of her duty and re 
 gard. 
 
 The plan which had cost him so much anx 
 iety, and which he had been years in consum 
 mating, which had given the best promise of 
 complete success even to the very last, had in 
 the denouement signally failed. The hope of 
 so many years had fallen to the ground, and Sir 
 Robert felt crushed in the ruin it left. As he 
 thought upon the matter now, Edith's aberra 
 tion of mind seemed to him to be almost a 
 relief to him, dreadful as it was to contem 
 plate, for had she conducted this in a calm 
 and cool manner, he could hardly have borne 
 up under his shame and chagrin. 
 
 With all these particulars in mind, the read 
 er will comprehend more fully than might be 
 otherwise done, many of the earlier scenes 
 and events of our story. 
 
 In this dilemma and the agony of grief in 
 duced by the present state of affairs, Sir Rob 
 ert turned to Clara, and strange enough, un 
 der the circumstances, found most effectual 
 balm and solace in her gentle condolence. 
 Indeed so did she win upon his confidence 
 and love, that he told her the circumstances 
 which we have related, and even the motive 
 that had led him to consent to Edith's first re 
 moval from her home. He secreted no mat 
 ter from Clara, and opened to her now more 
 fully than he had ever done to any one, the 
 secret promptings of his heart. There was a 
 vein and resource in Clara's conversation, that 
 Sir Robert had never observed before. Per 
 haps her untiring tenderness and gentle assi 
 duity to Edith first aroused his love more 
 strongly, and afterwards ripened it to full 
 force, for certain it was that he sought her so 
 ciety frequently now, and seemed to rely up 
 on her for aid and comfort. To one who 
 paused to notice their relative position but a 
 comparatively short period before, this would 
 have seemed strange. 
 
 Lord Amidown came often to Sir Robert's 
 house, but he came only to weep and sorrow 
 over her he loved, for Edith, like Ophelia, was 
 only fit to strew flowers now ; her mind seem 
 ed quite gone forever. 
 
 " Seems she still as listless and unheeding 
 as ever, my kind girl ?" asked Sir Robert, of 
 Clara. "Are there no tokens of returning 
 reason, in her words or actions?" 
 
 " She is still as vacant as ever, Sir Robert,"
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 223 
 
 Clara replied, " and does nothing but dream 
 while she wakes all the day long. She sang 
 so sweetly yesterday." 
 
 " Did she ?" said Sir .Robert, turning away 
 to hide a tear as he thought of her. 
 
 " I think she talks less of late, and not so 
 frequently alluding to herself and you." 
 
 " And what says her physician to that, 
 Clara ?" asked Sir Robert. 
 
 "He thought it a favorable sign, but he 
 looked anything but encouraging to-day, when 
 he went away." 
 
 " Alas ! Clara," said Sir Robert, taking her 
 hand, "in this severe affliction, I feel that I 
 should be quite unmanned, but for your kind 
 sympathy. It is my only prop now." 
 
 " O, sir," said Clara, her bright eyes spark 
 ling with real satisfaction as she spoke, " I 
 owe you so much, and am so deeply indebted to 
 you for everything, that it rejoices me much 
 to have you speak thus to me." 
 
 " I see, Clara, that we have not been so in 
 timate as we should have been, heretofore, 
 though I have ever felt a tender sympathy for 
 you from the time of our first meeting." 
 
 " I know you have, Sir Robert ; all your 
 conduct has evinced it ; but you have been 
 more wholly occupied with Edith, poor dear 
 girl, who richly deserves all your love." 
 
 "This may be so, but henceforth, Clara, 
 you will share my heart with Edith, dearly as 
 
 I love her, for I have tried you well, and feel 
 warmly drawn towards you:" 
 
 " I need not say how much I thank you, 
 Sir Robert, for speaking thus." 
 
 " It was a strange, but kind Providence, 
 that brought you here, Clara," he continued, 
 " and many a time have I thought of the sin 
 gular chance in amazement." 
 
 " It was a blessed dispensation fjr me, dear 
 Sir Robert, for new when I look back upon 
 the life I lead, I tremble to see how lonely, 
 deserted, and unprotected I was." 
 
 Sir Robert had always treated Clara with 
 the utmost kindness and consideration, first 
 for Edith's sake, and then, as he came to know 
 her better, for herself alone. He had felt, as 
 we have said, drawn towards her by certain 
 traits of character and disposition that were 
 constantly displaying themselves, and now in 
 the present emergency, as he told her, he felt 
 that he should have been quite unmanned, but 
 for her kind sympathy. All this most sensibly 
 affected Clara's feelings, who, although she 
 might not heretofore have given any remark 
 able external signs of tenderness of heart, was 
 in reality no less true and affectionate at 
 heart, than Edith herself. 
 
 When Sir Robert kissed her now, and told 
 her that she should ever share his heart and 
 fortune with Edith and Walter, he did not see 
 the quivering lips, nor the big tears that wet 
 that lone child's cheek !
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 THE GAMING TABLE. 
 
 
 " Upon her face there was the tint of grief, 
 The settled shadow of an inward strife, 
 And an unquiet drooping of the eye, 
 As if its lid were charged with unshed tears." 
 
 LORD AMIDOWN was at just that age and tem 
 perament at which despair would easily drive 
 him to seek forgetfulness in the excitement of 
 the wine cup or the gaming table, and it was 
 not many weeks after the unhappy mental be 
 reavement that Edith had experienced, before 
 he might be seen almost nightly at the gam 
 ing table, often risking largely and losing with , 
 little apparent regret. It was a desperate re 
 sort at first, but soon grew to be with him, as 
 with all others who indulge in the hazard of 
 gaming, a passion beyond control, and beyond 
 the reach of reason, only comparable to its 
 sister habit and sin, drunkenness. 
 
 Only too much delighted to have gotten 
 hold of so profitable a subject as Lord Ami- 
 down proved to be, the frequenters of the es 
 tablishment where he resorted seemed to have 
 a perfect understanding with each other that 
 everything should be done within their power 
 to render the game enticing to him, and thus 
 he was often permitted to go away a heavy 
 winner for a time, but on the following night 
 he would not only lose, most likely all the 
 money he had gained on the previous night, 
 but perhaps as much more into the bargain. 
 The desire of winning it back again would 
 
 attract him to the tables once more, but only 
 to lose largely. 
 
 His visits to Edith were of course discon 
 tinued now. It was too melancholy a sight 
 for him to witness the state in which he al 
 ways found her ; she did not even know him 
 the last time they met, a fact that seemed to 
 touch him more nearly than anything before ; 
 and he told Walter then that he could not 
 bear to meet her again in that state, that it 
 harrowed up his feelings almost to a state of 
 desperation to see so much beauty, gentleness 
 and intellect, wrecked and ruined before him. 
 From that day he seemed to give himself up 
 more fully to the vice that was wearing upon 
 him, and he became more reckless than 
 ever. 
 
 Hearing of the course that Lord Amidown 
 was pursuing, Sir Robert sought him more 
 than once, and strove, by good advice, to per 
 suade him to leave it off' while he could yet 
 do so without ruin ; but he saw at once that 
 the demon of play had already fascinated and 
 bewildered the brain of his young and noble 
 friend, and that he would not be content until 
 he had lost everything left to him by his proud 
 and rich old parent the Earl of Amidown. 
 
 The next number of this work will be issued, on Saturday, June 8th.
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. [CONTINUED.] 
 
 To Sir Robert's consternation, Lord 
 Amidovvn came to him one night, not long 
 after the period referred to, in order to borrow 
 five hundred pounds, declaring honestly that 
 the fickle goddess had seemed of late to have 
 completely deserted him, but that he should 
 be in luck again shortly, when he would re 
 turn the sum. Of course Sir Robert let him 
 have the money, but not without a sigh for 
 his friend. 
 
 " Ah, my lord, I take pleasure in rendering 
 you so trifling a favor, but if I could only 
 persuade you to leave this evil and insidious 
 habit, it would make me most rejoiced." 
 
 " I appreciate your kindness, Sir Robert," 
 he said, after musing for a moment, thought 
 fully ; " but why would you have me cease to 
 play ? I am injuring no one but myself, and 
 what have I left to care for ?" 
 
 The tones of his voice were so deep and 
 truthful as he said this, that Sir Robert almost 
 shuddered as he realized the circumstances 
 that had brought all this misery about. The 
 guilt seemed alone upon his own head, and he 
 said to himself as his young friend departed, 
 " if any one has cause for wretchedness, surely 
 that, one is myself." And it did seem strange 
 
 that, with so much unhappiness at heart, he 
 was enabled to bear up so well as he did. 
 
 Perhaps no one in Sir Robert's household 
 was so deeply grieved, if we except himself, 
 as the good Mrs. Marlow, at Edith's singular 
 and unhappy condition. She scarcely left her 
 charge for one moment, day or night, and by 
 the most tender solicitude and the most gentle 
 and endearing manners, seemed by degrees to 
 heal the wound that had so shocked her brain, 
 and gradually to win her back to reason and 
 a slight consciousness of things about her. 
 
 One day Mrs. Marlow had finished combing 
 Edith's soft and luxuriant hair, and as she did 
 so she sat down by her side and took her hand 
 within . her own. She thought that the gen 
 tle girl seemed to look more kindly and con 
 sciously upon her than usual ; seizing with 
 avidity upon the happy thought, Mrs. Marlow 
 kissed her tenderly, and as she did so, dropped 
 a tear upon Edith's hand which she held 
 within her own. That token of feeling seem 
 ed to awaken her spirit ; she gazed upon her 
 hand, and then at her kind friend, and burst 
 into a flood of tears ! 
 
 " One touch of nature makes the whole world kin."
 
 228 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 It was the first tear she had shed for months, 
 the first relief her pent-up soul had found 
 since the almost fatal hour of that strange 
 revelation. With those purging tears, reason 
 had come again ! 
 
 " Sir Robert," said Mrs. Marlow, in a whis 
 per, as she sought him alone in his study. 
 "Ah! Sir Robert." 
 
 " Well, Mrs. Marlow, why do you seek me 
 here, and look so full of some matter of im 
 portance ?" 
 
 " O, Sir Robert, I have such good news to 
 tell you," said the happy housekeeper, dashing 
 her hand across her eyes to clear them of 
 tears. 
 
 " Of whom ?" 
 
 " Edith, Sir Robert." 
 
 " Of Edith. What is it ?" he asked, eager 
 ly, now that her name had been mentioned. 
 " What about her ? Does the doctor think 
 that she is any better ?" 
 
 " Better, Sir Robert ! why she has been 
 weeping like a child," said the excited house 
 keeper. 
 
 " Tears, do you say ?" asked her master, 
 rising quickly to his feet. 
 
 " Ay, she has been sheding tears, and pro 
 fusely, too, Sir Robert." 
 
 "Then there is hope, indeed," he said. 
 " Has she spoken since ?" 
 
 " Not yet." 
 
 " How long since was this, Mrs. Marlow ?" 
 asked Sir Robert, musing. 
 
 " Nearly an hour, but I wanted to let her 
 get a little composed before I came away to 
 tell you, sir." 
 
 " That was very proper," he replied ; " but 
 let us go to her now." 
 
 " You will be very cautious, Sir Robert ?" 
 suggested the housekeeper, respectfully. 
 
 " 0, yes, Mrs. Marlow ; I have had one 
 fearful lesson, and shall hardly be abrupt 
 again very soon." 
 
 Sir Robert found that Edith was indeed 
 changed, that the fearful look of imbecility 
 was gone, and the former beauty and intelli 
 gence of her eyes again beamed forth from 
 her sweet face. 
 
 "Edith, my child!" he almost whispered, 
 as he approached her. 
 
 " Fatfier !" she murmured low. 0, how 
 th? wor.1 thrilled and echoed through his heart, 
 
 as Edith threw her arms fondly about his 
 neck, and kissed him. 
 
 She remembered all that had transpired at 
 the time when the singular revelation had 
 been made to her but from the moment when 
 she fully realized the import of Sir Robert's 
 words, all was to her as a blank ; she could 
 recall nothing. With the utmost caution and 
 consideration, matters were broken to her with, 
 judgment, and she was gradually informed of 
 all that it would interest her to know, not even 
 excepting the circumstances relating to Lord 
 Amidown's unhappy propensity. It was ac 
 knowledged to her by Walter that her serious 
 illness had doubtless led him to take the first 
 step towards a sin that he afterwards followed 
 for excitement and forgetfulness, until finally 
 it had become a settled passion with him. 
 
 Edith of course felt keenly this misfortune 
 to Lord Amidown, more particularly because 
 she realized that she was herself the innocent 
 cause. Walter conversed with her freely 
 upon the subject, and informed her without 
 reserve, of Lord Amidown's exact condition. 
 To her appeals and excuses, Walter answered 
 frankly that he considered him too absolutely 
 affected by the fiendish passion ever again to 
 reform, and that any farther effort on his or 
 Sir Robert's part, would be wholly useless, in 
 asmuch as both had exerted all their influence 
 in this behalf already, to no purpose. But 
 Edith, in her trusting and confident love, in 
 her woman heart, thought differently; she 
 believed that, though others had failed, yet 
 she might perhaps influence and save him. 
 She felt freer now than ever to act for him. 
 She felt at liberty to do that for him now that 
 she might not have done befoie, or ven more, 
 were he still blessed with friends and fortune. 
 
 As the forsaken, unknown orphan, the de 
 pendent on charity, Edith felt that she would 
 have been comparatively powerless; under 
 such circumstances she would not have pre 
 sumed to seek Lord Amidown on any errand. 
 But now, with a name and position, with un 
 limited means at her disposal, and while he 
 too was almost a beggar, she felt a strange 
 power and incentive within her to act inde 
 pendently and alone in his behalf. She real 
 ized a secret prompting at her heart, as though 
 the purity of her love and devotion would 
 conduct them both safely through this series 
 of trhl.
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 229 
 
 Thus animated and resolved, she showed 
 outwardly even less regret and anguish con 
 cerning Lord Amidown than Sir Robert and 
 Walter had expected to witness ou her part. 
 She had formed a resolution within her own 
 breast to rescue him, and it gave her a bright 
 and animated expression that her face had 
 never worn until then. This they all noticed 
 with no little surprise, and Clara said to Wal 
 ter, one side, that Edith was handsome before, 
 but now she was beautiful. 
 
 Walter had taken some pains to seek out 
 Lord Amidown soon after Edith's recovery of 
 her mental faculties, and to tell him of it. At 
 first it quite unmanned him he was like a 
 child. He knew not what to say, or what to 
 do, and Walter thought that perhaps he would 
 return at once to seek the gentle and happy 
 influence that he had so prized only a short 
 time before. But he did not read the heart of 
 the unhappy man aright ; he could not see the 
 contending emotions that actuated his breast 
 at that moment, when he heard for the first 
 time that Edith, whom he had so truly and 
 tenderly loved, was once more in possession of 
 her full power of intelligence. 
 
 His first impulse was to fly to her presence, 
 but in an instant the fact of his present situa 
 tion rose up before him he was a beggar ! 
 What right had he to think of love ? could he 
 support a wife ? where were his means ? alas, 
 she could only scorn me now, he thought ; 
 every one has forsaken me, and perhaps justly 
 enough. My old friends cut me in the street, 
 because they fear I shall stop them to borrow 
 money of them. Lord Amidown sighed 
 heavily as his heart drew the truthful picture. 
 But, he thought, "I'll be more cautious. I will 
 retire the moment I have won enough to 
 honorably pay what I owe, and will strive to 
 purify myself, that I may again become worthy 
 of her dear love. O, no, no, I could not look 
 upon her now, my eyes would fail me." 
 
 The truth was, that even the few months 
 that Lord Amidown had indulged in gaming 
 had been sufficient to quite exhaust his 
 resources, and in his madness for play, he 
 had mortgaged the very home of his ances- 
 ters, besides having thrown away as much 
 gold as he could borrow from his friends and 
 relations, all the while vainly hoping that 
 fortune would turn by-and-by, and that he 
 would regain all that he had so foolishly lost. 
 
 In this plight, as he acknowledged to himself, 
 his former friends began to avoid him, and he 
 literally became a wanderer, not knowing 
 where to lay his head, or even at times where 
 he might obtain his next meal. 
 
 " His household gods were broken he had no 
 home." 
 
 So sudden a change from affluence to pov 
 erty was almost unprecedented, and some of 
 his relations had hoped that when he had 
 reached the bottom of the hill he would re 
 form, and strive once more to ascend it ; but 
 all their earnest intercessions failed of produc 
 ing any effect, except may-be, good resolutions, 
 which his lordship was unable to keep. 
 
 Matters were in this melancholy condition 
 when Edith and Walter sat one afternoon 
 together in the drawing-room. They had 
 been silent for some time, when at last she 
 asked : 
 
 'Walter, can you tell me where I can see 
 Lord Amidown ?" 
 
 " I cannot at present tell you, Edith ; he 
 has left his former home, you know, and even 
 his sister has removed to the house of some 
 branch of the family." 
 
 " I know that, Walter, but is there not some 
 place where I could see and speak with him 
 for a few moments alone ?" 
 
 " No, I think not, Edith ; but you know how 
 much pleasure it would give me to bear any 
 message to him from you, and also to bring 
 you back an answer." 
 
 " How can you communicate with him, 
 Walter, if, as you say, he has no fixed resi 
 dence, or spot where he may be found at cer 
 tain periods ?" 
 
 " I mean such a place as you could visit 
 with propriety. It is different with me. I 
 should take any message you entrusted to me 
 directly to the gaming house in St. James 
 street." 
 
 " Is that the one he frequents ?" 
 
 " The only one I have ever heard of his 
 visiting regularly," replied Walter. 
 
 " Is he always there at night ?" 
 
 " Almost invariably, or at least I have al 
 ways found him there when I desired to meet 
 him." 
 
 " At what hour ?" 
 
 " From ten till long past midnight, or most 
 any hour before day break in the morning.
 
 230 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 He will be sure to be there to-night, I know," 
 said Walter. 
 
 " How do you know ?" 
 
 "I have loaned him a hundred pounds-r-he 
 promised me it should be the last he would 
 ask for, and he said he wanted to try his luck 
 only once more." 
 
 Once more, alas ! it is ever thus," said 
 Edith, musing to herself, "and still once 
 more." 
 
 " It is indeed ever thus," said Walter, 
 " and I grieve for the loss of one like Lord 
 Amidown." 
 
 Not lost, Walter, he has only strayed ; 
 as yet it is night, but the day shall bring light 
 with it." 
 
 "Heaven grant that you may be right, 
 Edith; but I have seen all endeavors prove so 
 useless upon him, that I cannot cherish the 
 least hope. Why, Edith, did he not come to 
 you at once after your illness ?" 
 
 A slight flush overspread her face at this 
 remark, but she answered promptly : 
 
 "There may be reasons for his conduct 
 that neither you nor I can at present under 
 stand, Walter." 
 
 Walter had incontinently touched upon a 
 tender subject in his last remark, one that had 
 cost Edith more thought, perhaps, than any 
 other portion of Lord Amidown's conduct. 
 It did seem to her as though if he had loved 
 her as she felt that she loved him, that he 
 would have come to her at all hazards, and 
 yet in her kindness and consideration she 
 could imagine many reasons why in his sen 
 sitiveness he could not bring himself to come 
 to Sir Robert's house. She could not blame 
 him as others did, she remembered him too 
 well as he had been, not as he was at that 
 moment. In fact, Edith had realized the truth 
 of the case just as Lord Amidown had been 
 affected, and she at last no longer thought 
 strange of him on this point. 
 
 Turning from Walter, she sought Mrs. 
 Marlow, and was long closeted with the kind 
 housekeeper. 
 
 The reader must come with us now from 
 Sir Robert Brompton's house to a very differ 
 ent establishment. 
 
 Ij is again night in the great city. The 
 masses have lain them down to sleep, but the 
 restless tide of dissipation rushes on as swiftly 
 as ever. Indeed it is high noon with the 
 
 gambling hells at midnight. Night is turned 
 into day with them, and day into Vight, and 
 well chosen is their time, for dark deeds should 
 be consummated in dark hours. What house 
 is this that seems to rival all its neighbors for 
 brilliancy even in elegant St. James street ? 
 Look well at the glitter and tinsel of its be 
 longings ; observe the character of those that 
 wait, and listen to the sounds within. They 
 are not boisterous, but significant. This is 
 one of the famed hells of London, so ap 
 propriately named. 
 
 Pause for a moment, and observe the person 
 of this young man just entering this den of 
 vice; there is a shabby gentility about his 
 thread-bare coat a forlorn air. He seems 
 sad and dejected, his cheek is pale, and his eyes 
 are dilated like one under the influence of 
 spirituous liquors ; but his step is too steady 
 for that, his excitement is of a mental, not a 
 physical character. As he paid his entrance 
 fee, and stepped into the gorgeously lighted 
 rooms,where his features became more distinct 
 ly visible, the observer would have recognized 
 him as Lord Amidown. He mused for some 
 moments to himself, and walked busily among 
 the tables without participating in the games 
 of hazard that were going on, nor the invita 
 tions that were offered to him on all sides. At 
 last, however, he met with a tall, dark man, 
 whom he seemed at once to recognize, and to 
 greet as though he had been seeking him on 
 an appointment. 
 
 " Good evening, my lord," said he in black, 
 extending a hand, as he greeted him. 
 
 " Good evening, sir," said Lord, Amidown, 
 carelessly, and with a vacant air. 
 
 "I see you are quite prompt, my lord, to 
 your appointment." 
 
 " Yes," he answered, rousing himself a 
 little. " I have come to get my revenge upon 
 you to-night. Your luck has been all one 
 way, but fortune must change at last, or I sadly 
 mistake." 
 
 "She's a fickle goddess," said the other, 
 truthfully, and yet with an expression of sar 
 casm upon his face, " and you should place 
 little reliance or confidence in her; but after 
 all, it is very true, as you say, that she must 
 change now and then, or else she would not 
 merit her title of fickleness : so perhaps it 
 may be your turn to-night." 
 
 " I have need enough of her smiles, and if
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 231 
 
 she ever is to dispense them to me, it should 
 be this night," said Lord Amidown, with a 
 sad expression of countenance. 
 
 " How much have you got, my lord ?" 
 asked his companion, coolly. 
 
 " How much have I got ?" interrupted his 
 lordship, in surprise. 
 
 " Excuse me, 1 meant to ask," said he in 
 black, "at what figure you would commence ?" 
 
 "Fifty will do to start with," said Lord 
 Amidown, carelessly sitting down to the table 
 opposite his companion. 
 
 " Fifty pounds, fifty pounds," repeated he 
 in black, " rather a small figure, but as you 
 say, my lord, it will do, perhaps, to commence 
 with." As he said this, he laid a pile of bank 
 notes by his own side from which he drew his 
 stakes. 
 
 It was nearly midnight when they com 
 menced to play. Lord Amidown of course 
 did not wish to let his antagonist know the 
 limited character of his resources, nor was he 
 willing to stake all on a single game, though 
 he commenced at a low figure, hoping gradual 
 ly to win a handsome sum. He in black 
 managed with the coolness and adroitness of 
 a practised gamester ; he lost at first at almost 
 every stake, winning once in a while, just 
 enough to keep up an apparent interest in the 
 game. An observant witness would have 
 marked with surprise the game he played: in 
 deed he seemed to win or lose, just as he 
 pleased. It was very plain, also, to any one 
 not so much interested as Lord Amidown 
 himself was in the game, that his antagonist 
 was permitting him to win largely only as a 
 decoy, and to tempt him in the end to greater 
 losses than he might otherwise risk. 
 
 " My lord, you have extraordinary luck to 
 night, and are punishing me severely." 
 
 " It would take a month of such luck as 
 this to refund to me my losses," he replied. 
 
 " You are in a fair way to make them up 
 now, I should judge." 
 
 " Think you so ?" said his lordship, smiling, 
 as he drew another winning to his side. 
 
 " To be sure there you are again : a thous 
 and more. This is extraordinary," continued 
 his antagonist, with well affected surprise, as 
 he prepared to set another thousand. 
 
 The fact was, that Lord Amidown played 
 honestly, while those who understand these 
 matters know very well that the regular 
 
 gambler cheats either sooner or later, making 
 sure in that way to come off winner at the 
 last. But he who played with Lord Amidown 
 was no common man. He played and lost 
 like a philosopher, and all the time with a 
 sneer upon his lip, as though he scorned the 
 employment in which he was engaged. And 
 yet his design upon his companion was per 
 fectly apparent, and now and then he seasoned 
 the game with well-timed remarks, that only 
 seemed more keenly to incite Lord Amidown 
 to a deeper interest in the game before them. 
 They had played now for some time in this 
 manner, until his lordship had by an extraor 
 dinary run of luck won with the small amount 
 with which he commenced, ten thousand 
 pounds, and still they played on, a thousand at 
 each stake. Of course it would have been 
 next to impossible for hinxto have won to this 
 extent, had not his antagonist purposely lost 
 now and then for his own object. 
 
 " There is little use in this it is no game 
 at all. I have lost enough." 
 
 " You promised me my revenge," said his 
 lordship, " and must play on." 
 
 " 0, if you insist, of course I must go to 
 the extent that I have about me," continued 
 the other, with well affected complacency, 
 and as though he still remained against his 
 will. 
 
 " You will play, then ?" 
 
 " 0, yes," said the other. 
 
 A small crowd had now gathered about the 
 table, as is the custom whenever the stakes 
 played for are of a heavy amount, and some 
 of Amidown's former friends, who stood near 
 to him, did not hesitate to advise him to with 
 draw from the game with so snug a sum, and 
 not risk it all again. 
 
 " Such luck can't follow you, Amidown, 
 long," said one." 
 
 " Quit while your pocket is full," said 
 another, in his ear. 
 
 "I'm in luck to-night," he said, smiling; 
 " don't interrupt me now." 
 
 His singular partner was in no way discon 
 certed by the good luck that seemed to attach 
 to his antagonist's play, but sat perfectly 
 calm and self-possessed in his seat. He over 
 heard the remarks addressed to his lordship, 
 but made no answering reply, though a scorn 
 ful expression wreathed itself about his ex 
 pressive mouth. But he seemed evidently to
 
 232 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 tire of the present state of things, and finally 
 said: 
 
 " Come, my lord, this is quite an unpromis 
 ing game ; let us make a round stake of it, 
 and close. Place ten thousand on the mark, 
 and I will cover it for one game." 
 
 " Say five," said Lord Amidown, a little 
 cautious, for he could not bear the idea of 
 losing all he had won at one single chance, 
 and it seemed to him that luck would change 
 with him soon. 
 
 " No, ten is my game ; you have won 
 largely, and it is a fair offer." 
 
 "Very well," said Lord Amidown, over 
 come by the tempting hope that he might 
 possibly double his winnings. 
 
 " Are you ready ?" asked he in black. 
 
 " Yes," answered his lordship. 
 
 "It is your turn to throw first," he continu 
 ed. " Go on, if you please." 
 
 Lord Amidown threw the dice and scored a 
 high number, but not an unusual one, when 
 his antagonist declared it, and prepared to 
 play himself. The crowd gathered close 
 about them, and seemed intent upon the 
 chance that was about to be decided, and 
 which related to the possession of so large a 
 sum of money. 
 
 The dice rattled aloft and descended upon the 
 table, showing the highest number that one 
 cast of the instruments could score. But at the 
 same moment a gloved hand from the crowd 
 was laid upon the dice, and a voice said, in a 
 low, but distinct and thrilling tone : 
 
 " These dice are loaded, my lord, and if I 
 understand this game aright, he who is detect 
 ed in cheating, and particularly in using loaded 
 dice, forfeits the game. The money is there 
 fore yours." 
 
 A dozen voices pronounced the dice to be 
 loaded, as they were now passed from hand to 
 hand, and also unhesitatingly declared that 
 the money belonged to Lord Amidown by the 
 rules of the game and the place. In the con 
 fusion that ensued, the money was pressed 
 upon Lord Amidown by those about him, and 
 he received it, though he felt half unwilling 
 to do so, while his companion, with a face 
 burning with passion, yet overcome by the 
 sudden and indisputable evidence brought 
 against him, frowned coolly upon them all. 
 
 " And who are you, who set up for um 
 pire here ?" he asked, turning angrily to him 
 
 who had so fearlessly interfered in the game, 
 and exposed his duplicity. 
 
 The person thus addressed was apparently 
 a very young man, who had been so interested 
 in observing the progress of the game, that 
 he had not before looked him who now spoke 
 in the face. He was dressed in a slouched 
 cap and heavy cloak, and seemed by his man 
 ner to be a novice there ; but thus addressed, 
 he turned calmly towards the speaker, who 
 exclaimed, as their glances met : 
 
 " Gracious God, do those eyes come from 
 the grave to haunt me !" 
 
 As he spoke thus, he staggered back from 
 the table where he had been at play, with 
 averted face and trembling body. He was a 
 man of rather more than ordinary stature, and 
 perhaps a little past his prime, yet his figure 
 showed that it had once been the seat of 
 strength and manly grace. But now he was 
 trembling before the presence of one who was, 
 as compared to him, a mere stripling, and who 
 seemed at this moment to be quite as ill at 
 ease, though not so visibly affected, as himself. 
 The exclamation which he had uttered so 
 loud, startled nearly the whole company, who 
 hastened to the spot to solve the mystery. It 
 was no unusual thing for one to lay violent 
 hands upon another, in the excitement induced 
 by the character and occupation of those who 
 frequented the gaming room ; oftentimes dead 
 ly weapons were produced, and, sad to say, 
 sometimes for the purpose of self-destruction, 
 when some sanguine and deluded being lost 
 his all. Those who now hurried to the spot 
 where the scene we have described had oc 
 curred, looked to witness some such matter or 
 casualty as those we have named, and crowd 
 ed upon the gambler in black, until the physi 
 cal effort to retain his feet seemed to arouse 
 him, and also to awaken whatever there was 
 of spirit left in his nature. He threw up his 
 hand in a moment, when he realized the de 
 mand made upon him for physical effort, and 
 throwing back his head, braced himself for 
 the occasion. 
 
 " What's the matter now?" exclaimed a 
 half dozen voices from the by-standers, who 
 had noticed this surprise. 
 
 " Stand back room, room, I say," exclaim 
 ed he in black, looking upon those about him 
 with an eye in which the most desperate and 
 daring will was expressed.
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 233 
 
 The young man to whom we have referred, 
 also seemed strongly moved, but turning to 
 Lord Amidown, whom he had just so oppor 
 tunely befriended, he whispered something in 
 his ear that caused his lordship to be scarcely 
 less affected than his antagonist had been, and 
 to hurry with his new companion at once 
 towards the door, from whence the man in 
 black had just made his escape. 
 
 " You are not going so quickly, are you, 
 Amidown?" asked two or three, calling after 
 him. 
 
 " Stay a while, Amidown," said another, 
 " if only to introduce your friend." 
 
 " Hold on a bit, and let's have a time after 
 this fun." 
 
 " Are you frightened, Amidown, that you 
 cut so ?" asked another, half-laughing as he 
 said so. 
 
 " No, no, gentlemen, but " 
 
 " 0, hang your buts, we want you ; so hold 
 on, old boy." 
 
 "Another time," he said, evidently much 
 embarrassed. 
 
 '"Twont do, now or never," said two or 
 three, catching at his arms, and half-turning 
 him round as they did so. 
 
 " Come, neighbor," said one, addressing 
 Lord Amidown's companion, " join us in in 
 ducing his lordship to stop and explain." 
 
 But the young man thus addressed made 
 
 no reply, while Amidown, half out of patience 
 at the annoyance, seemed struggling to keep 
 control of his temper. 
 
 " Excuse me, gentlemen, excuse me now," 
 he said hurriedly, as he passed on with his 
 companion a few steps in advance of those 
 who were addressing him. 
 
 A few curious persons followed them even 
 into the street on their way out, and saw them 
 both enter a private carriage, in which they 
 were driven rapidly away. But as the door 
 was closed upon them, those nearest to the 
 vehicle could distinctly notice upon its panels 
 the Brompton coat of arms ! 
 
 " That is Sir Robert Brompton's coach, 
 
 Square," said one." 
 
 " I know," said another, " the rich old fellow 
 with the handsome daughters." 
 
 Some now called to mind the singular inter 
 est evinced in the game by the person who 
 had afterwards shown so much influence over 
 Lord Amidown, and the remarkable interfer 
 ence that had saved him such a heavy sum of 
 money. Others alluded to the amazement of 
 the stranger in black, when his eyes met those 
 of his lordship's young friend. But no one at 
 tempted to explain any of these extraordinary 
 circumstances in relation to the singular scene 
 which had just occurred. All was clouded in 
 mystery.
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN 
 
 Then gently scan your brother man, 
 
 Still gentler sister woman, 
 Though they may gang a kenning wrang, 
 
 To step aside is human. 
 
 BURNS. 
 
 IN the meantime, the relationship between 
 Walter and Clara had assumed no material 
 change. She was still like a tender and lov 
 ing sister to him, while Walter on his part 
 was a most devoted lover to her, though his 
 feelings were perhaps under considerable re 
 straint. He remembered the promise he had 
 made, and therefore did not again open 
 ly refer to the matter of his regard for her. 
 But it was not in reason that such a state of 
 affairs should long continue ; though Walter 
 was withheld by his promise from making any 
 decided advances, yet he might now and then 
 gently hint or refer to the subject of his love 
 for her, but however gently this was done, he 
 was so pleasantly, yet adroitly, parried in his 
 advance, that at last he began to realize the 
 too frequent recoil of his own tenderness, and 
 yet it was impossible for him to feel vexed at 
 the treatment which he received from the 
 kind-hearted and beautiful girl. Some per 
 sons can say us nay, and leave a fairer im 
 pression and better satisfaction than another 
 who may grudgingly assent to our demands. 
 
 Having once shown Walter how much in 
 earnest she was concerning the affection that 
 he had professed for her, and the relationship 
 that he had seriously proposed, Clara no long 
 er gave way to tears or regrets, for there 
 
 seemed to be a native philosophy of character 
 about her that taught her to strive to be cheer 
 ful, let what might betide her, and let her 
 feelings dictate what they could. Thus it 
 was that even when her soul was the saddest 
 within, still she dealt in 
 
 " Quilps and cranks, and wreathed smiles." 
 
 The poor girl felt that she had no claim up 
 on the position that she held in Sir Robert's 
 household, and that she had her own welcome 
 to make and to sustain in that home, which 
 chance had so kindly provided. Reasoning 
 thus, she felt that it was her only true policy 
 to make herself agreeable, not to cast a cloud 
 all about her by her own melancholy and sor 
 row. Now that Edith had been acknowledg 
 ed as the daughter of Sir Robert, and a plaus 
 ible story given out to cover up the cause of 
 her long estrangement, Clara felt more than 
 ever the loneliness of her situation. True, 
 Edith was, if possible, more kind and thought 
 ful of her than ever, but nothing could make 
 her forget that she was there by charity and 
 on sufferance ; nothing could supply to her the 
 want of the quiet confidence of birth and right. 
 
 " Dear Clara, you surely do not love me 
 any the less because of the change that has 
 come over my position, in relation to Sir Rob 
 ert and this house, do you ?"
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 235 
 
 
 " No, Edith," replied her companion, " I 
 love you none the less ; indeed I rejoice at 
 your good fortune." 
 
 " But, Clara, I fear that you do not 
 love me quite so well I am jealous of your 
 regard, because I have loved you ever since 
 we have known each other, so dearly and tru 
 ly." 
 
 " I know you have, Edith I know you have, 
 and you deserve all the good fortune that has 
 fallen to your share," answered her compan 
 ion, throwing her arms about Edith's neck and 
 kissing her. 
 
 " You shall ever be my dear, dear sister, 
 let what may happen," said Edith, returning 
 her caresses. 
 
 In this state of affairs, Clara was still the 
 star of Sir Robert's drawing-rooms, or rather 
 she was the comet, while Edith was the star. 
 For hers was that brilliant meteor-like genius 
 and beauty, that startles and challenges as 
 tonishment as well as admiration, while 
 Edith's charms, which most unquestionably 
 exceeded those of Clara in fact, when balanced 
 in the scale of true beauty and loveliness, 
 were of the milder and star-like serenity that 
 burneth steadily and gently in its sphere. 
 Clara was still the centre of attraction, and as 
 pleasant as ever, while many a titled head 
 bent low in homage to the power of her clear, 
 witching eye, and the wit of her keenly tem 
 pered tongue. 
 
 When Walter Manning had first seen Edith 
 as she stood in Sir Robert's house, on the 
 night when they had rescued her from the 
 fearful haunt in St. Giles, he thought he had 
 never seen so sweet a face before ; indeed he 
 loved Edith, though she was then a child, as 
 it were instinctively, and from day to day 
 that love grew upon him, until the period 
 when he became acquainted with Clara. 
 Edith's full reliance upon him, her sweetness 
 of disposition, her beauty, and the mystery 
 that enveloped her at that time, all had their 
 weight, no doubt, in bringing about this result, 
 and though Walter never told her, so, yet he 
 loved her, or thought that he did, better than 
 he could ever love again. 
 
 But no sooner was Clara fairly introduced 
 into Sir Robert's household, than she quietly 
 and quite unintentionally supplanted Edith 
 altogether in his heart, and assumed the 
 throne of his affections in her own person. 
 
 Walter gradually confessed this rule, and he 
 thought most truly now that he loved her, and 
 perhaps he did, though he had felt the same 
 before towards Edith. But the sequel of the 
 story must show how his heart was finally af 
 fected. 
 
 Perhaps Walter was incited in no small de 
 gree in his devotion to Clara, by the extraor 
 dinary and universal homage that he saw her 
 constantly receiving, for there is emulation 
 even in love. Walter felt, too, some pride in 
 sharing the confidence or intimacy of one at 
 whose shrine so many, high in the aristocratic 
 circles of the town, bent submissively. He 
 felt, laying aside their titles, that he could 
 otherwise show quite as good a claim to her 
 hand as the best of them all, whether in the 
 matter of intelligence or that of manly 
 beauty, and it was a fact, that few persons vis 
 ited Sir Robert's who could compare with our 
 young East Indian in personal appearance. 
 
 But to Clara they were all alike ; she 
 treated them each with the same courtesy, 
 having a kind word for this one, a sparkling 
 repartee for another, a smile for a third, and 
 perhaps a playful flirtation with a fourth, but 
 encouragement as to the matter of regard, 
 she gave to none. With her powers of dis 
 cernment, she was quick to understand what 
 strain of conversation and what spirit was 
 best suited to this one or that, and she treated 
 them accordingly. Thus cheerful and beau 
 tiful, still she seemed to the frequenters of Sir 
 Robert's house either to have no heart at all 
 to love, or else to have irrevocably made up 
 her mind to share its tenderness with no one. 
 
 Colonel Freeman, of the Royal Hussars, 
 was one of Clara's warmest admirers, and 
 as he stood now a little removed from her 
 side, while she chatted in her ever captivat 
 ing yet unaffected manner with old Sir 
 George Ramsay, the colonel turned to a 
 friend by his side, and remarked, after a mo 
 ment's pause : 
 
 " Hang me, Capt. Sidney, if that girl is not 
 a perfect riddle to solve. Just observe how 
 in earnest she is with that old fellow, Sir 
 George Ramsay, while you and I stand here 
 quite neglected." 
 
 " A riddle did you say ? that's nothing odd ; 
 all women are riddles, colonel. ' 
 
 " Yes, that may be true enough, but, zounds 
 she is a perfect witch, and keeps up a running
 
 236 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 fire here upon our hearts from one end of the 
 line to the other, and yet shows not a single 
 feather of a coquette." 
 
 " No," said the other, honestly, and some 
 what thoughtfully, for he too was a warm ad 
 mirer of Clara. " No, no, the girl is no 
 coquette, that is certain." 
 
 " Do you think that she is in love ?" asked 
 the soldier, still regarding her. 
 
 " With whom, colonel ?" 
 
 " Why, with any one." 
 
 " I have never seen any sign of it," said he, 
 quizzing Clara as she still stood talking to Sir 
 George Ramsay, opposite. 
 
 " This young Mr. Manning seems to be 
 wheeling his columns after doing escort duty 
 to no purpose for considerable time past," said 
 the colonel. 
 
 " Yes, he's tacked ship sure enough, and is 
 standing on some other course now. They 
 say he had Miss Edith in chase for a while, 
 till Lord Amidown cut him out." 
 
 " One would think," continued the colonel, 
 " if personal looks weighed anything with a 
 woman, he ought to have succeeded with 
 Clara or Edith either. Egad, how finely that 
 fellow would look well mounted and in full 
 charge," added the soldier, with a bit of pro 
 fessional pride animating his features. 
 
 " Ay, ay, he's a clean craft, well trimmed 
 and everything taut. Do you know, colo 
 nel, that once or twice 1 thought I detected a 
 look of the quarter deck about him ?" 
 
 " Hang the fellow, it's the girl that puzzles 
 me," continued the other. " If the young 
 East Indian made out so poorly, what hope is 
 there for any of us ?" 
 
 " True enough, if he couldn't succeed, who 
 among us may hope to fare any better? That 
 chap is far to windward of us, living here in 
 the very house, and being able to take advan- 
 age of every cap full of wind that blows." 
 
 " And yet I think the girl loves him," mus 
 ed the colonel, half to himself. " Why, cap 
 tain, I have detected before now, glances from 
 her blue eyes, that he did not see, and expres 
 sions upon her face while his was averted, 
 that I would give my commission to be able 
 to call up from the depths of her young heart." 
 
 " Why look ye, colonel, you'd better haul 
 your wind, you are getting among the break 
 ers here, and are shoaling your water fast. 
 
 Your only safety, man, lies in throwing every 
 thing aback at once." 
 
 "O, hang it, captain, I'm not ashamed to 
 own it I love the girl most desperately, there 
 is no use in disguising it. I only wish she 
 would give me a chance to declare myself." 
 
 "Good," said the captain, "I like that; 
 show your colors and stick to them. Lay her 
 alongside, colonel, and open your batteries ; a 
 chance shot may do the business who 
 knows ?" 
 
 How long these two officers would have 
 gone on thus talking upon this same subject, 
 each after the style of his own profession, it is 
 impossible to say, had not the subject of their 
 remark herself approached them, and by a few 
 happily conceived remarks, placed both of 
 them at once in the very best and most cheer 
 ful of humors. Her quick ear had overheard 
 some carelessly uttered remark between them, 
 and having this cue, she easily guessed the 
 rest of the matter. Of course, neither the 
 soldier nor the sailor guessed this, but cheer 
 fully acquiesced in the disposition of them 
 selves by Clara, which placed them at differ 
 ent card tables in opposite parts of the room, 
 where they took their seats, satisfied to help 
 make up the several parties at whist, and in 
 the interest of the game to forget all about 
 love. 
 
 Having accomplished this little bit of gen 
 eralship, as Colonel Freeman would have call 
 ed it, or this capital bit of seamanship, as Cap 
 tain Sidney would have expressed it, Clara 
 went and seated herself opposite to Sir Robert 
 Brompton as his partner, at which Sir Robert 
 welcomed her with an honest smile of affec 
 tion, and whispered to his next neighbor, 
 Lord Hasgrove, that Clara was a dear good 
 girl the charm of his life. 
 
 Suddenly Sir Robert looked uneasily about 
 him, and catching Clara's eye, asked her anx 
 iously : 
 
 "Where is Edith?" 
 
 "Stepped up stairs for a moment, Sir Rob 
 ert; she is not fond of cards, you know.". 
 
 " Very true, I forgot," said Sir Robert, soon 
 becoming interested in the game. 
 
 It might have been eleven o'clock, when 
 Sir Robert asked this question, but as we 
 have said, he was satisfied by Clara's remark, 
 and it was after twelve before he again thought 
 of the matter. When he did so, he seemed
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 237 
 
 a little puzzled, but thinking perhaps Edith 
 was over fatigued and had lain down, if in 
 deed she had not retired altogether, he said 
 no more, though Clara saw that a shade of 
 disappointment remained on his face until 
 the company broke up. 
 
 As the company were leaving Sir Robert's 
 house that night, a part of them met three 
 persons just entering; this they would not have 
 noted but for the oddity of persons arriving at 
 so late an hour. They passed up and enter 
 ed Sir Robert's library, when a servant was at 
 once summoned and sent for Walter. As he 
 entered, the utmost consternation was depict 
 ed in his countenance. There stood Lord 
 Amidovvn, and his friend, who had now 
 thrown off the slouched cap, showing the face 
 of Edith ! Behind her, stood good Mrs. Mar- 
 low, who had been her companion, and who 
 awaited her in the carriage, while she per 
 formed her errand in the gaming house. 
 
 " Edith !" he exclaimed, in surprise, " what 
 does this mean ? My lord, you here ?" 
 
 " Walter, it means simply this that our 
 mutual friend is without a home ; will you be 
 to him as you have so long been to me, a 
 brother?" 
 
 " Edith, I understand you. My lord, there 
 is my hand." 
 
 " A thousand thanks, Walter," said Edith, 
 " and now his lordship will tell you anything 
 that it is necessary for you to know. Sir 
 Robert must not see me thus ; indeed I blush 
 to have been so bold even with you, Walter. 
 But you understand me I know you do." 
 
 " Hasten to your chamber, Edith, I hear 
 Sir Robert coming; I will heed your wishes. 
 Mrs. Marlow, let Edith pass out, and do you 
 stand between her and the stairs as Sir Robert 
 passes in." 
 
 The housekeeper did as desired, and in a 
 moment after, Sir Robert came into the room, 
 as much amazed at seeing Lord Amidown 
 there as Walter had been. 
 
 "My lord!" 
 
 "Sir Robert!" 
 
 Were the greetings that passed between 
 them, when a pause ensued, during which Sir 
 Robert had an opportunity to examine, his 
 lordship, who presented a sad picture indeed. 
 
 In the short period of time during which he 
 had been completely desperate, and utterly 
 heedless of his fate, he had suffered severely, 
 
 as well physically as mentally, and he sat 
 there now with a pale and sunken cheek, 
 with eyes bent upon the floor, and an humble 
 mien altogether. Something very like a re 
 proach was upon Sir Robert's tongue, but the 
 picture of forlorn misery that he looked upon, 
 completely disarmed him. He gazed upon 
 him there but for a single moment, his heart 
 was touchedjandhe said kindly but sorrowfully: 
 
 " My lord, you are sadly changed since you 
 were last in this house." 
 
 "Indeed, indeed, I fear so," said Lord Ami- 
 down, raising his eyes and gathering courage 
 by the kindness of Sir Robert's tone of voice. 
 " But, ah ! sir, perhaps repentance has not 
 come too late." 
 
 " It is never too late to reform" said Sir 
 Robert, with animation, and a change coming 
 over his entire manner. ft Excuse me, my 
 lord, but I thought some other purpose had 
 brought you here." 
 
 " To borrow money? Well, it is not singu 
 lar that you should have thought so ; but I 
 trust a better purpose and a higher aim are 
 the cause, my dear sir." 
 
 " If you are resolved to quit the gaming ta 
 ble and to respect yourself," said Sir Robert, 
 warmly, " no one will offer you the hand of 
 friendship sooner than myself." 
 
 " I do not deserve, this kindness," said Lord 
 Amidown, pressing the hand warmly that Sir 
 Robert extended to him , " it but shows me 
 the plainer my own folly." 
 
 " No more of this, no more of this," said 
 Sir Robert. " What is that, Walter, that the 
 good book says ? ' There is more joy over 
 one sinner that repenteth, than over ' what 
 is it ?" 
 
 " ' Ninety and nine just persons that need 
 no repentance,' " said Walter, helping his pa 
 tron to the text. 
 
 " Very good, that is it. But here order 
 wine and refreshments for his lordship ; why 
 he looks half famished," said Sir Robert, ring 
 ing the bell lustily as he spoke. 
 
 " You overpower me with your kindness, 
 Sir Robert," said Lord Amidovvn, touched to 
 the very heart. 
 
 It was not long before a partial explanation 
 took place between Sir Robert and his lord 
 ship, who not being able to reveal how he had 
 been induced to make this sudden and deter 
 mined resolve, pretended to have been sum-
 
 233 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 moned by Edith of course, Sir Kobert sup 
 posing this was done by a note. Having no 
 home, no place to go to, he had presumed up 
 on his old friend's hospitality, where he should 
 be away from all temptation and among those 
 he loved. 
 
 This was all very satisfactory to Sir Robert, 
 who soon after left Walter and his lordship 
 over a bottle of Madeira, in the supper room. 
 
 " Walter," said his lordship, " I have one 
 favor to ask of you." 
 
 Well, my lord." 
 
 " I have a sister, a dear forsaken, unhappy 
 sister, who has used every means to reclaim 
 me, until, guilty and debased as I have been, 
 I dared no longer to see her. And at last, I 
 have even feared in her contempt for my hab 
 its, she would refuse to see me. But if Edith 
 will see me (how little I thought such a thing 
 possible as for her to receive me), why should 
 not my sister, bound to me by ties of blood ?" 
 
 " She will forgive all, my lord, when she 
 is once convinced of your reform." 
 
 " I hope so, Walter. Will you go to her 
 and plead for me ?" 
 
 " With all my heart." 
 
 " Immediately ?" 
 
 " Ay, with to-morrow's sun." 
 
 " O, I thank you a thousand times for this 
 kindness," he replied. 
 
 " You may tell her the truth, Walter, how 
 
 very, very unhappy I was at the outset, and 
 that, once steeped in crime, for I acknowledge 
 it deserves the name, I had not the courage 
 to turn back again and seek the path from 
 which I had so widely strayed. But I will 
 not dictate to you ; use all your own judg 
 ment in my behalf, Walter, and though she 
 may be offended and justly too, I trust you 
 will make my peace for me." 
 
 " I will use my best endeavors to do so, my 
 lord," said Walter. 
 
 " Once more, Walter, I thank you with all 
 my heart," said his friend. 
 
 Neither Edith nor Lord Amidown could 
 have slept that night without a mutual expla 
 nation having taken place, and by the man 
 agement of Mrs. Marlow, Edith, having as 
 sumed her proper attire, met his lordship in 
 the drawing-room. We need not draw a pic 
 ture here of that scene that reviewed all of the 
 past ; we need not explain how contrite, how 
 penitent and grateful his lordship was, nor how 
 forgiving and gentle Edith was. No, no, it is 
 better that we draw the veil over that meeting, 
 and let the reader picture it in his own heart. 
 Enough that they were happy. 
 
 When Edith knelt at last that night by her 
 bed-side, how different was the tide that flow 
 ed through her heart, from that Avhich had af 
 fected her when Clara, a few months before, 
 had surprised her in prayer !
 
 CHAPTER XLI1. 
 
 THE THIRD CHOICE. 
 
 Alas ! our young affections run to waste, 
 Or water but the desert. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD. 
 
 ACCORDING to his promise, Walter Manning 
 on the following day sought Lord Amidown's 
 sister at the residence of a noble relative, for 
 she had now, alas, by her brother's improvi 
 dence, no house of her own. In his madness 
 for play, her brother had not only sacrificed 
 his own fortune, but also hers, of which he 
 had been left the guardian by their deceased 
 parent. This was very hard it was most 
 cruel, but yet Lady Josephine Amidown had 
 never complained in a single word of her 
 brother's treatment of her, though her pride 
 was sorely wounded by the reverse that it had 
 in this way caused to her. She had too much 
 heart in such a dilemma, to grieve for anything 
 else but for her brother, who had become, as 
 it were, a monomaniac upon the subject of 
 gaming, and was bringing shame upon himself 
 and upon his father's honored name. 
 
 Her reproaches had been addressed to him 
 during the earlier period of his extravagance 
 and dissipation, in such gentleness as to have 
 nearly broken his heart ; but still he had play 
 ed on, sadly hoping to win back at last what 
 he had lost. Latterly her brother had become 
 so poverty-stricken, so debased and humbled 
 in his own estimation, and so loaded with re 
 
 proach by every one, that he had even avoided 
 her, his only remaining near relative. Indeed 
 so isolated had he been as it regarded his 
 friends, that she did not even know where she 
 might find him, and there were always busy- 
 bodies enough at hand to falsify her, and make 
 him believe that she had disclaimed all rela 
 tionship with him. 
 
 Without blaming her in the least for this, 
 Lord Amidown could yet hardly believe these 
 stories of her disowning him altogether, and 
 yet when he reviewed his late conduct, he felt 
 so debased and degraded that he hardly dared 
 to meet her, surrounded, as he knew she must 
 be, by those who were ready to heap reproaches 
 upon him for his late dissolute and reckless 
 habits. He realized only too bitterly the un 
 faithful manner in which he had discharged 
 the trust as to her property, and that he had 
 been little better than a thief in the manner 
 in which he had taken it from her. Therefore 
 it was that he desired to send Walter, as we 
 have seen, to explain and intercede for him. 
 
 What was Walter's surprise, on meeting the 
 lady, to recognize in her one to whom he had 
 done a most important service but a few years 
 before, in the park. It was at a time when
 
 240 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 Lady Josephine, then almost a child, was 
 driving with her mother in Hyde Park the 
 horses, startled at some accidental noise, 
 sprang forward, tossing off the driver from his 
 seat, and dashing off at a fearful speed with 
 the mother and daughter, seated alone in the 
 open barouche. By a most fortunate and 
 energetic effort, Walter had succeeded, at the 
 imminent risk of his life, in stopping^he vehi 
 cle and helping the ladies out in safety, for 
 which services he received the grateful thanks 
 of both mother and daughter. That daugh 
 ter was the Lady Josephine. 
 
 " I think we have met before," said the 
 lady, as he introduced himself to her. 
 
 " We have, lady, but where, I cannot say ; 
 it was in England, of course ?" 
 
 " Yes, in the park, some years since, when 
 you stopped our horses, as they were running 
 away with my mother and myself. We never 
 knew who you were, or we should have ten 
 dered you more formal thanks." 
 
 "I remember well the occasion, now you 
 refer to it," replied Walter. " I knew not the 
 names of those I had the good fortune to assist 
 at the time, but rejoice that it should happen 
 to be the sister of my friend." 
 
 " Do you mean my brother ?" asked Lady 
 Josephine, with a sad voice. 
 " Yes, lady." 
 
 " Ah, sir, he is very unhappy now ; if you 
 know him, I need not say any more." 
 
 " I come to bring you news of him," said 
 Walter, " most cheering news." 
 
 " Indeed ; it is a long time since I have seen 
 or heard directly from him. I pray you will 
 proceed." 
 
 Then Walter, after a few preliminary re 
 marks, told her how her brother had loved the 
 beautiful Edith Brompton, and explained to 
 her the check that a strange misfortune had 
 given to that affection, in the delirium that 
 had afflicted Edith for months, and which, it 
 was thought at the time, would never leave 
 her. He showed her how naturally such a 
 state of things had at last driven her brother 
 to seek for excitement and forgetfulness in 
 play, and, that once deluded and seduced by 
 the winning game of chance, he had gone on, 
 from step to step, unwittingly, until it was too 
 late to turn back, all the while being impelled 
 by the hope of once more winning back the 
 heavy amount that he had lost. Walter was 
 
 eloquent, for he deeply realized his subject, 
 and the lady followed him with a most absorb 
 ed interest, as he finally related to her how 
 quickly he had responded to the call of love 
 and duty, urged in person by the devoted 
 Edith. 
 
 All this was news to Lady Josephine she 
 had never until this moment heard one word 
 of her brother's love, or disappointment. His 
 sensitive mind was of such a character that 
 he could not have revealed his feelings re 
 garding the object of his affection even to his 
 sister ; besides which, she did not move in a 
 circle of society that brought her where she 
 would be likely to hear the gossip that the 
 world promulgated concerning her brother and 
 Edith. She told Walter that had she known 
 all this, much astonishment and even a degree 
 of regret would have been spared to her own 
 breast for she would then have seen that her 
 brother was rather forced by circumstances 
 into his unfortunate career, and that he had 
 not assumed it a willing victim, from any 
 natural depravity or love of such practices. 
 
 " Henry should have told me of these 
 things," she said, thoughtfully, " and I could 
 have offered him consolation, at least he 
 surely might have let me known of his wound 
 ed spirits." 
 
 " And yet, lady," said Walter, looking into 
 her spirited black eyes, "you can easily make 
 allowance for the delicacy that caused him to 
 withhold these matters even from you." 
 
 "True, Mr. Manning," she answered, 
 quickly. "I know my brother's sensitive dis 
 position,, and you speak like one who knows 
 him also, in thus excusing him on such 
 grounds." 
 
 " For two years past," said Walter, " we 
 have been frequently together." 
 
 " Did I understand you, that you reside in 
 the same house with the Bromptons ?" asked 
 Lady Josephine. 
 
 "That is my home." 
 
 "And consequently you must know the 
 lady whom Henry loves, as well as he does 
 himself?" 
 
 " I know her, lady, as though she were my 
 own sister," said Walter. 
 
 "I trust you will not consider me inquisi 
 tive," said the Lady Josephine. 
 
 "By no means." 
 
 " May I ask you, then, the general disposi-
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 241 
 
 tion and character of one who has gained such 
 influence over my brother ?" asked the lady, 
 with a heightened color, at the liberty which 
 she took. 
 
 " Most certainly," replied Walter, frankly; 
 " and it will afford me pleasure to answer you 
 honestly." 
 
 Walter then spoke of Edith Brompton as 
 one only could who knew her as well as him 
 self. He did not dwell upon her beauty, 
 though his feelings prompted him to do it am 
 ple justice ; but her sweetness of disposition, 
 her retiring grace and loveliness of deport 
 ment, the native delicacy of her mind, her 
 intellect, cultivation, and taste all these he 
 depicted in most eloquent terms to Lord Ami- 
 down's sister. He was incited to speak the 
 more minutely and fully, as he observed the 
 marked interest that the Lady Josephine 
 evinced in all that related to Edith. 
 
 "Why, Mr. Manning," said she, as he 
 closed, " you eulogize the lady in such flatter 
 ing terms that one would count you the lover, 
 rather than my brother Henry." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, lady, if I have appear 
 ed prejudiced too strongly in her favor; but 
 one cannot speak with indifference of such a 
 person as we have referred to. You will 
 find Edith to be all I have described." 
 
 " You rejoice me much, Mr. Manning, by 
 the picture that you have drawn," she replied, 
 sincerely, "and it delights me to know that my 
 brother's choice has fallen upon so worthy 
 and pleasing an object." 
 
 " I am sure you will love her as soon 
 as you meet," answered Walter. 
 
 " Mr. Manning, I trust you will excuse me 
 still farther, if" 
 
 The lady hesitated, as though she had been 
 led to ask a question that had suggested itself 
 without sufficient thought as to its propriety, 
 and after it was half put, checked herself as 
 she realized its character. 
 
 " I will thank you, madam, to lay aside all 
 ceremony with me," said Walter, observing 
 her embarrassment, "and consider the fact 
 that I come from your brother to be a suffi 
 cient guarantee of my respectful duty." 
 
 " I was about to ask you, Mr. Manning, in 
 my natural interest for a family in which my 
 brother is, and has been so intimate, what re 
 lationship you bear to Sir Robert Bromp 
 ton ?" 
 
 16 
 
 " None at all, by blood, lady ; and yet very 
 nearly allied by the warmest ties of friendship. 
 We met in the East Indies, where it was in 
 my power to serve Sir Robert professionally. 
 We were cast away together at sea, and 
 amidst a singular combination of vicissitudes 
 we became friends. With a princely fortune, 
 Sir Robert couples a spirit of unbounded gen 
 erosity, and as I was an orphan, and striving for 
 a position in life, he generously adopted me, 
 and has ever treated me through my collegi 
 ate studies and pursuit of the law, as though 
 I were indeed and truly his own son. You 
 would like Sir Robert, too, lady, for under a 
 rough exterior, he hides a heart so kind, a 
 spirit so generous, and a character so truly no 
 ble, that he must be known to be appre 
 ciated." 
 
 "Your history is a remarkable one, Mr. 
 Manning," said the lady. " Did your parents 
 die abroad ?" 
 
 "My father was governor of the eastern 
 division of India, at the time when a singular 
 accident befell him one which deprived both 
 him and my mother of life," answered Wal 
 ter. 
 
 " By violence, Mr. Manning ?" asked the 
 lady, evidently much interested in anything 
 relating to him before her. 
 
 " Yes, lady, by the attack of an anaconda, 
 in the jungle," he answered. 
 
 " An anaconda !" repeated the lady Jose 
 phine, in amazement. 
 
 " A story which I will relate to you at some 
 future time, if you desire it," said Walter, 
 throwing out a hint that might serve for a 
 continuance of their acquaintance, so auspici 
 ously begun. 
 
 " Nothing could interest me more than to 
 have you do so," said the lady. " You seem 
 to have passed a very eventful life for one so 
 young as you are, Mr. Manning." 
 f " Somewhat so," replied Walter. 
 
 After a few moments' pause, he rose to go, 
 and as he did so, said : 
 
 " I am the happy bearer, 1 believe, of your 
 forgiveness to his lordship, your brother." 
 
 " Certainly. Tell him, if you please, Mr. 
 Manning, that I shall await him impatiently, 
 and that he is the same to me as ever. There 
 are but two of us left, and surely we should be 
 all that brother and sister can be to each oth 
 
 er.'
 
 242 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 Walter bowed low, and was about to turn 
 from the apartment. 
 
 " It will give me pleasure to meet you at 
 any time, Mr. Manning," said the lady, frank 
 ly, "and to fully acknowledge the indebted 
 ness I am under to you in my brother's be 
 half." 
 
 " Thank you, lady, I shall do myself the 
 honor to call," said Walter, with a pleasure 
 expressed in his countenance that the lady 
 could hardly have mistaken. 
 
 The fact was that Walter was at once smit 
 ten with the person and engaging manner of 
 Lord Amidown's sister. It was not her per 
 sonal beauty, thojgh that was by no means of 
 an ordinary character, but it was the peculiar 
 manner, distingue in every respect, and the 
 polished air of the high-bred lady, that capti 
 vated him. The confidence and dignified 
 self-possession that birth and rank impart, 
 were most conspicuous in Josephine Ami- 
 down, mingled with a soft and lady-like ex 
 pression and bearing, that struck the observer 
 at once. 
 
 Walter had been but little accustomed to 
 female society. Indeed the extent of his cir 
 cle was scarcely beyond Edith and Clara's so 
 ciety, with a few of their more intimate 
 friends. True, both Edith and Clara lacked 
 the high-bred manner that was so natural and 
 conspicuous in Lord Amidown's sister, but yet 
 after all, they evinced an unassuming modesty 
 of deportment, scarcely less striking even with 
 Walter. He made this very comparison in 
 his own mind, but he had already lost his 
 heart. 
 
 Clara's apparent coldness had effectually 
 weaned him from her side, at least as far as 
 love was concerned, but never was a brother 
 more assiduous in his attention and regard, 
 than was Walter still to both Edith and Cla 
 ra. Maybe it was ficklness in Walter Man 
 ning, thus to transfer his regard ; still, if^ he 
 was sincere, it was none the less true and hon 
 est for its impromptu character. A man rare 
 ly marries his first choice ; he gains experi 
 ence by the very intercourse thus induced, 
 and chooses at last, as a matter of course, with 
 more circumspection, and perhaps with better 
 prospect of after happiness. 
 
 On the part of the lady it must be admitted 
 that, in the first place, the very agreeable busi 
 ness on which he had come to her, that of an 
 
 nouncing her brother's reform, had gone far 
 towards creating a warm interest in Walter at 
 the outset. Then there was the memory of 
 his important service rendered years before in 
 the Park, added to which were the influence 
 of his remarkable beauty of form and feature, 
 his easy, gentlemanly address,and the romance 
 that at once attached itself to his character af 
 ter the conversation that Lady Josephine had 
 enjoyed with him ; all combined, served to 
 render the gentle lady warmly interested in 
 him at once. 
 
 Walter was a shrewd observer of human 
 nature, and could read the face as well as 
 many an older physiognomist, and he realized 
 fully, to say the least of it, that he had created 
 a sensation in the lady's breast. Not that he 
 plumed himself at all upon this, but that it 
 made him most happy to realize the fact. 
 When he had returned home and told the re 
 sult of his visit to Lord Amidown, he thought 
 that Edith would be the first one to ask him 
 concerning the lady, whom they knew he had 
 just been to visit in his lordship's behalf. But 
 Walter was mistaken ; it was not Edith who 
 asked him of the result of the visit, but Clara 
 herself. 
 
 " Did you see Lord Amidown's sister this 
 morning, Walter ?" 
 
 " I did, Clara," he said, while his face ex 
 pressed the joy that he had realized there. 
 
 " And what kind of a lady is she, Walter 
 How did she impress you ?" 
 
 " Clara, she is most lovely,'' said Walter, 
 honestly. 
 
 " Did she receive you kindly ?" continued 
 the fair girl. 
 
 " Most kindly, Clara, and bade me come 
 again," he replied. 
 
 " I am glad of that," said Clara, thoughtful 
 ly; "you will go of course, Walter, wont 
 you?" 
 
 " Why, yes, I presume so," replied Walter, 
 smiling at her earnestness. 
 
 " Did Walter lose his heart this morning ?'> 
 asked Edith. 
 
 " Yes," said Clara, " I believe he does plead 
 guilty." 
 
 " Not a bit of it. I haven't said one word, 
 I assure you, Edith." 
 
 The quick witted Clara saw by the expres 
 sion of his face, that Walter had been strong 
 ly impressed with the lady, and so she said
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 243 
 
 she was glad of it, but only for his sake, not 
 for her own. But Walter did not understand 
 the working of her heart ; he took her at her 
 word, and really believed that she was glad, 
 without a qualification, and that perhaps she 
 was pleased to be rid entirely of the impor 
 tunities that he had pressed upon her. Ah ! 
 Walter, you never knew the full wealth of 
 Clara's heart, or the devoted tenderness that 
 dwelt there. That heart was really yours al 
 ready, and had it been one iota less true to 
 itself and its love, it would have been yours in 
 all respects ! But, as it was, even in her love 
 for Walter, she rejoiced to see him thus affect 
 ed towards such a person as the lady Jose 
 phine, for she loved Walter too well and too 
 sincerely to be selfish in her affection. Her 
 own delicacy and truth would not permit her 
 to indulge her love for him openly, and she 
 had religiously adopted such a line of conduct as 
 should cool his ardor for her, and which had 
 succeeded exactly as she had wished to have 
 it. And yet all the while she was sacrificing 
 her own heart. 
 
 She showed none of the inward grief that 
 she experienced, either to Walter or to any 
 one else, but suppressed all outward token of 
 this as she had done of her love for him. 
 Outwardly she was just as merry and cheer 
 ful as before, striving to contribute to his plea 
 
 sure and the happiness of every one about 
 her, while her midnight pillow, alas ! was 
 often wet with tears, sad scalding tears, in re 
 pentance for h,er youthful indiscretion ! 
 
 " Walter, you saw Josephine ?" asked Lord 
 Amidown, eagerly. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And explained for me ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " What did she say, Walter ? I know by 
 your countenance what she said ; I need not 
 ask you," said his lordship. 
 
 " She told me to bear her forgiveness to 
 you, and tell you that she should await your 
 coming impatiently." 
 
 " And forgive me all ?" 
 
 "Ay, everything." 
 
 Lorn Amidown heard Walter's report, and 
 was within the next hour in his sister's arms. 
 After a full and happy explanation upon other 
 matters, she learned from him who Walter 
 was, and many particulars about him and Sir 
 Robert's household. To be sure, Lord Ami- 
 down drew Walter's picture with a partial 
 hand, but the lady saw it through eyes that 
 were equally prepossessed in his favor, and 
 Walter Manning, had he exactly understood 
 the case, could hardly have desired to stand 
 better than he already did in the estimation of 
 the beautiful lady Josephine Amidown.
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 THE BLOODLESS MURDER. 
 
 If it were done, when 'tis done, then 'twere well 
 It were done quickly. 
 
 MACBETH. 
 
 IF any one had followed the man in black 
 who had been playing with Lord Amidown at 
 the time when he was so signally rescued 
 from the fraud that was attempted upon him, 
 he would have found, that, after threading the 
 many streets and lanes that intervened be 
 tween St. James street and the quarters of the 
 famed fortune-teller, Madame Duval, he enter 
 ed the door of the building with the air of one 
 who was quite at home, and that he breathed 
 more freely, as though he had feared all the 
 while that he might have been pursued, or 
 watched by some curious witness of the late 
 scene. 
 
 Passing in through the outer hall and ante 
 room, he walked at once into the apartment 
 where Sir Robert Brompton and his party had 
 consulted the presiding genius of the place. 
 The room was dimly lighted now, and looked 
 if possible more gloomy and dismal than it 
 had done when the reader was here before. 
 Throwing himself upon a side couch, he cast 
 off the hat he wore, and brushed back the 
 hair from his throbbing temples, discovering 
 the face of Karl Blasius ! The robber, the 
 pirate, the house-breaker, the gambler, and the 
 fortune-teller for all these he had personated 
 in our varied plot, though as yet all knew him 
 not in these combined characters. 
 
 Edith knew him when he turned his face 
 
 upon her as she seized the dice, though he did 
 not penetrate her singular disguise ; she re 
 cognized him in a moment as Bill the Bold. 
 Sir Robert had known him, as we have seen, 
 as robber, pirate, and gambler, but he suspect 
 ed not the fortune-teller, who knew so much 
 of his private business, to be he whom he had 
 first met as a traveller at the little inn of 
 Mornentz, in the valley of the Rhine. But 
 thus it was, and there now sat with wrinkled 
 face and frowning brow, the deep-dyed villain 
 who has acted so prominent a part in the 
 thread of our story, one to whom vice had 
 become a second nature. 
 
 " How strange it was," mused he, aloud, 
 " that interference, and by a mere stripling, 
 too ! I doubt much but I should have felled 
 him on the spot, but for those eyes ! ah ! 
 those eyes ! how strange that I cannot shake 
 off their influence. Never, save in Edith and 
 Clara, have I met them since I parted with 
 her." As the robber spoke thus, he covered 
 his face within his hands, and seemed lost in 
 the past. 
 
 At last he seemed to arouse himself from 
 the thoughts that absorbed him. 
 
 " But this young Lord Amidown I'll re 
 member him, and have my revenge yet. He 
 has paid me well, however, and I count two- 
 thirds of his estate already, in bags of gold.
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 245 
 
 He will be back, if only for an explanation, 
 when I can easily pacify him. The love of 
 play is too deeply rooted in him to be easily 
 overcome. But who could the owner of those 
 eyes be ?" That was strange, very, very 
 strange. I should know them were I on the 
 rack." 
 
 It was quite late now, and no noise gave 
 token of any one being near ; he turned the key 
 of the door, and approaching a panel in the 
 wall, nearly behind the spot where the chair 
 stood which he occupied in the character of 
 the fortune-teller, he pushed aside the panel 
 and unlocked a door that opened into an 
 oven-shaped cavity, packed as full of leathern 
 and cloth bags of some ten inches high, by 
 four to six wide, as it could hold. These he 
 removed from the hole one by one, and took 
 account of the labelled value on each. The 
 amount must have been very great. 
 
 At last, when he had finished, and added up 
 the sums into one grand total, he looked from 
 his paper to the bags, and from the bags back 
 again, ,and throwing himself back into a seat, 
 surveyed the collected treasure. There seem 
 ed to be a struggle of feelings in his heart ; at 
 one moment his countenance would express 
 the miser's glow of satisfaction at beholding 
 his secret treasure, and in the next a contemp 
 tuous curl of the lip seemed to say, " what do I 
 care for all this ? what good can it do me, with 
 my feelings, and my taste ?" and this was in 
 deed the thought that moved him now. All 
 this golden treasure that had been gained by 
 such outlay of mental and physical labor, by 
 the cunning trade which he had adopted and 
 so successfully carried on, and by the wily 
 tricks of the gamester ; what did it all amount 
 to, now that he possessed it ? Why, the pa 
 per in his hand told the story ; it amounted to 
 figures, to a given amount nothing more. 
 He could reap no benefit from it; it could do 
 him no good. All he could enjoy, or all he 
 wanted after the excesses he had participated 
 in, could be procured for a very small sum. 
 
 " Strange that after all the vicissitudes of 
 my unhappy life, I should come to be a miser, 
 for surely I love to think this gold is mine 
 did I say mine? yes, by possession, if not by 
 right ! And I like to take it out of its hiding 
 place and count it over and over again. Why 
 surely, Karl Blasius, who has been almost 
 everything else, is now a miser!" 
 
 At this moment a noise was heard in the 
 ante-room, and soon after a knocking at the 
 door of the room, by some person who sought 
 to obtain an entrance. The bags were silentr 
 ly, but quickly, replaced, the door once more 
 locked and the panel closed, when the robber 
 approached the entrance of the room, and un 
 locked it. As he did so, a man half-walked 
 and half-staggered into the room, and threw 
 himself upon a seat, quite as much at home 
 as the first comer. 
 
 The man was rough and weather-beaten in 
 the expression of his face, with heavy eye 
 brows and coarse, vulgar lips. He had evi 
 dently been drinking hard, and was almost too 
 drunk to walk. 
 
 " You are drunk again," said the robber, 
 looking at him with contempt. " Hardhead, 
 you are a fool to get in this condition so often. 
 You will expose yourself sometime by this 
 means." 
 
 The robber addressed him thus, good natur- 
 edly, but rather reproachfully. It was indeed 
 our old acquaintance of the tap-rooms, Hard 
 head, who personated for the fortune-teller the 
 character of the Nubian slave, as well as as 
 sisted him in various other matters that re 
 quired his aid and cunning to consummate. 
 He seemed to be more than usually intoxicat 
 ed to-night, and to have been prompted by a 
 spirit of bravado or independence. 
 
 " Look here, Bill," said he, " you pay me 
 pretty well for this business, but it strikes me 
 that I do the hardest part of it, and I want to 
 go partnerships, and share equal." 
 
 " Hallo ! here's rebellion. Why, Hardhead, 
 I have been the making of you ; took you 
 when you were just about starving, and 
 gave you a good round salary, just for old ac 
 quaintance sake." 
 
 " 0, gammon." 
 
 " But is it not so ?" said the robber, trying 
 to soothe the drunken obstinacy of Hardhead. 
 
 " Gammon, gammon," repeated the other, 
 with his finger at his nose. 
 
 " I tell you it is the truth, Hardhead," said 
 the robber, lighting a pipe to smoke as he said 
 so. 
 
 " Bill, didn't 1 hear you jingling bags of 
 gold while I was at the door there, and haven't 
 I heard you doin' the same thing a number of 
 times, and don't I know you've got a pile stow 
 ed away snugly, out of all these sums that
 
 246 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 you're allers a getin' from the visiters ? O, I 
 I knows all about it." 
 
 "Well, you silly fellow, 'sposing I have 
 saved a little, what then?" 
 
 " Why, I want half, that's what I do," said 
 Hardhead. 
 
 " Half?" repeated the robber, derisively ; 
 " I think I heard you say half." 
 
 " And I must have it, too, or I shall peach, 
 that's all." 
 
 " Do what ?" said the robber, quickly. 
 
 " Peach." 
 
 " Betray me, do you mean ?" he continued, 
 earnestly, with his eyes bent on Hardhead. 
 
 " Unless you poney over half the blunt, I 
 shall block your game." 
 
 " Do you remember our oath, the binding 
 promise we exchanged ?" 
 
 " O, gammon," said the other. 
 
 The robber had put out his pipe as Hard 
 head went on, and he now sat regarding him 
 with an expression of a demoniacal character. 
 The whole expression of his countenance had 
 undergone the most marked change, though 
 his voice indicated no peculiar change in his 
 feelings, yet he seemed to be weighing in his 
 mind some matter of a startling character. 
 He addressed Hardhead and told him that he 
 had better retire for the night, as it was al 
 ready nearly half-past two. The half-drunken 
 man seemed to be himself inclined to do so, 
 and observing that he wanted Bill, as he call 
 ed him, to get all ready to hand over the blunt 
 in the morning, he staggered to his room, 
 which led out of the one they were in. 
 
 The robber closed the door after Hardhead, 
 and then turned and walked his apartment 
 with a thoughtful brow. He was thinking of 
 what Hardhead had said, and how completely 
 he was in his power ! 
 
 " If the villain should breathe but a single 
 word to the police, there is an end to every 
 thing ; my time would be up, and nothing 
 could save me. I have marked a growing 
 disposition in him to play the master, or equal 
 at least, for some time past, and now a little 
 liquor brings him out in his true colors. It is 
 strange that 1 have not before thought how 
 completely I am in his power." 
 
 As he thought these matters over, he paus 
 ed and listened before the door where Hard 
 head had so lately entered. All was still, 
 are the hard breathing of the sleeper, & ho 
 
 was wrapped in deep insensibility, deeper 
 from the effects of liquor than the ordinary 
 course of nature would have created. Listen 
 ing for a moment, the robber turned away 
 again, and continued his troubled and anxious 
 walk to and fro in the mystic reception room. 
 It was very dark and dreary there ; the grim 
 idols looked in the darkness as though they 
 were laughing at each other, and the Chinese 
 characters upon the wall had assumed the 
 shape of Lilliputians, and seemed a miniature 
 army walking on the wall. The skull on the 
 table in the corner, seemed suddenly endowed 
 with life, and to peer forth from its hollow 
 eyes with strange fire. 
 
 All this appeared to the deluded eyes of the 
 robber, whose thoughts were of a character 
 doubtless to startle even himself. Perhaps in 
 all that man's fearful life of crime, he had 
 never yet committed a murder in cold blood ; 
 he had never crept upon a man in the dark, 
 nor struck him the fatal blow while sleeping ; 
 but when he had shed blood, it was when his 
 own was heated, when the clashing of swords 
 was ringing in his ears, and his own life was 
 likely at any moment to pay the same forfeit 
 as that of his opponent. When he had dealt 
 the death blow, it had been in open battle, or 
 perhaps at times in self-defence, but he had 
 never yet been an assassin. 
 
 It was evident now to his mind that so long 
 as Hardhead lived, his own life was not worth 
 a straw. He was liable at any moment to be 
 seized by the police, and being denounced by 
 him, to be condemned and executed. How 
 then could he permit him to live longer ? It 
 was very evident that the man heeded not the 
 mutual oath they had taken. If he disre 
 garded it when in the state he was in to-night, 
 so he might do at another time, or he might 
 be in that condition in some place where it 
 would be equally fatal to the pretended for 
 tune-teller for him to speak out. Realizing 
 these things, the robber said to himself that it 
 was not safe to have Hardhead go from that 
 room alive. 
 
 If he killed him, how could he dispose of 
 the body ? Thinking over this matter, he 
 walked before the door of Hardhead's chamber 
 many times Was there no way to do this so 
 as to leave no trace of the murder behind, to 
 betray that he had died by violence? He 
 thought of poi?on, but all that he knew of,
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 247 
 
 might be detected by dissection of the body 
 after death. They would not do. Taking a 
 candle he looked among the rubbish and 
 shelves of a closet of the room, where he 
 sometimes prepared some chemical agents to 
 produce certain effects before the eyes, or with 
 which to assail the senses of those who came 
 consult him as the fortune-teller. 
 
 Stumbling against a small furnace in which 
 he was accustomed to build the fire for the 
 chemical purposes referred to, an idea seemed 
 to strike him at once, which he prepared to 
 put in execution. 
 
 Filling the little furnace with charcoal, he 
 placed a few bits of folded paper and combus 
 tible matter underneath, and took it to Hard 
 head's door. All was still ; he opened it and 
 went in. It was a smajl room, with indiffer 
 ent accommodations, but very snug ; not a 
 breath of air could get in, save from a small 
 window, which was now tightly closed and 
 fastened. The robber placed the furnace near 
 the head of the bed where Hardhead lay in 
 his drunken slumber, and lighting the paper 
 beneath it, he paused long enough to see it 
 fairly ignited, then withdrew from the room, 
 taking the key with him and locking the door 
 on the outside ! 
 
 The robber then retired to his own sleeping 
 
 apartment, which led from the same room 
 nearly opposite to Hardhead's door. He did 
 not undress himself, but pouring out a glass 
 of spirit, tossed it off clear without water, and 
 throwing himself upon the outside of a dirty- 
 looking bed, fell into an uneasy sleep. Twice 
 he started to his feet and looked about him, as 
 though he dreamed that he was attacked by 
 some one. The second time that he awoke 
 thus, he walked over and listened at Hard 
 head's room. It was already broad daylight, 
 but how still it was in there ! Not even the 
 breathing could be heard now. The robber 
 almost shuddered as he went back to his bed 
 to strive and obtain a few moments more of 
 troubled sleep. 
 
 At last he rose, and making a hasty toilet, 
 quietly put the key into the door of Hardhead's 
 room, and after listening long and anxiously, 
 turned the lock and opened it. At first he 
 staggered back with the gust of noxious gas 
 that fumed into his lungs and nostrils, but 
 with great presence of mind, he pressed in 
 and threw open the window, soon clearing the 
 room of the fatal vapor of the charcoal. On 
 the bed lay Hardhead, just as he had lain 
 himself down on retiring. Not a limb was 
 discomposed, not a feature changed, but the 
 breath was gone !
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 THE ARREST. 
 
 All is not lost the unconquerable will 
 And courage never to submit or yield. 
 
 MILTON. 
 
 THE robber took immediate steps to have 
 Hardhead's body conveyed away from his 
 premises, and in order to do this without hav 
 ing suspicion attach itself to him as to the 
 matter of his death, he applied at once to the 
 nearest police station for a permit and assist 
 ance to have the corpse taken to the dead 
 house. He signed the usual certificates, and 
 swore to the statement that the deceased was 
 a servant much given to intemperance, and 
 that he had retired on the previous night in a 
 state of intoxication and on calling him, and 
 finding that he did not answer, as usual, he 
 had entered his room and found him insensi 
 ble, and that he had apparently died in a fit. 
 
 He paid the necessary fee established for 
 such purposes, and persons were at once sent 
 to remove Hardhead's body, the robber's 
 mind being thus greatly relieved from the per 
 plexity that the business had cost him. 
 
 The reader, who now knows in the fortune 
 teller, not only the person of the Robber of 
 the Rhine Valley, but also the various char 
 acters which he has personated in our story, 
 will realize some points with a little prompt 
 ing, that may heretofore have looked perhaps 
 singular. We have labored to show how 
 strangely Karl Blasius was affected by the 
 love that possessed him for the Lady Gustine. 
 It had rendered him almost insane, and the 
 resemblance of Clara to her he had thus 
 loved, had led him to keep her as a prisoner 
 
 near him, and it was the singular resemblance 
 also of Edith to the Lady Gustine that had 
 so infatuated him in relation to her. It was 
 this that first attracted him towards her in 
 Mother Giles's tap-room, and that afterwards 
 led him to steal her away from Sir Robert, 
 though revenge had also somewhat to do with 
 that matter after the robber found whose house 
 he was in, for he remembered the discomfiture 
 he had received at Sir Robert's hands in the 
 matter when he rescued Edith from the tap 
 room. 
 
 The same feelings that had drawn him 
 towards Edith and Clara heretofore, seemed 
 still to move him, and to one who could ana 
 lyze his mind, it was very evident that he was 
 crazy upon this one point, that a monomania 
 had taken complete hold upon his mind touch 
 ing the memory of her face. There is a pe 
 culiar eye that is not often seen, but when 
 met with, is most frequently blue, large in de 
 velopment, and with a plaintive, witching 
 power, that seems almost involuntary, but at 
 the same time is most potent. One may not 
 meet such eyes but once in a life. Of this 
 class and peculiarity were the eyes of the 
 Lady Gustine. Edith and Clara's were the 
 same, and it was thus that the robber still felt 
 a longing desire to gaze upon them, and even 
 now planned how he might see them once 
 more. The passion, as we have said, amount 
 ed with him to a delirium.
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 249 
 
 As the fortune-teller, neither Sir Kobert nor 
 any of the family had yet recognized the true 
 character of him who had seemed to know so 
 much of their private affairs. Indeed Sir 
 Robert had more than once resolved, since he 
 had openly explained the matter to Lord Ami 
 down, to again visit the fortune-teller, and saf 
 isfy himself how it was possible for this indi 
 vidual to possess a knowledge of his early 
 affairs relative to his child, for it was a broad 
 hint relating to those matters that had so con 
 founded and disturbed him on his first visit to 
 her rooms. 
 
 Sir Robert was so thoroughly convinced 
 that the fortune-teller knew nothing through 
 any superhuman means, that he felt satisfied 
 of his having individual information from 
 some source that it was for his interest to 
 fathom and control. He would not for half 
 his fortune be exposed in the delicate matter 
 relative to his child's loss among the very 
 lowest class of the community, and he knew, 
 too, that he had but indifferently possessed 
 himself pf all the particulars of her childhood 
 while lost to him, and if this person could in 
 form him of even these events alone, it was of 
 sufficient interest for him again to consult 
 her. As the denouement touching her right 
 by birth had transpired, Sir Robert no longer 
 felt the delicacy touching the matter that he 
 had done before, though he earnestly desired 
 still to keep all knowledge of the matter con 
 fined to his own family circle. 
 
 It was on the afternoon of the day which 
 opens this chapter, that Sir Robert, actuated 
 by these feelings, sought the house of the 
 fortune-teller, when, having sent up his card, 
 he was admitted in due form, but not this 
 time by the Nubian. Hardhead, who had 
 personated this character heretofore, was gone 
 now, where, the robber could best say, but a 
 plain white servant ushered Sir Robert into 
 the mystic room. Everything was as he had 
 seen it there before the wax lights burned 
 dimly, and the incense rose gracefully from 
 the table where it was placed, while the light 
 of day but dimly penetrated the heavy hang 
 ing curtains of the windows. 
 
 "What brings Sir Robert Brompton again 
 to seek audience in this place ?" asked the dis 
 guised robber. 
 
 "When I was last here," said Sir Robert, 
 " you referred to a matter that convinced me, 
 
 not of your power as to magic or superhuman 
 knowledge, but that by some strange fortune 
 you had become possessed of information 
 nearly concerning me. The object of this 
 visit is to come to a perfect understanding 
 with you upon this subject." 
 
 " You seem less sensitive than you were 
 when last here ; how have matters changed 
 to affect you thus ?" 
 
 " You know so much of my affairs already 
 by some strange means, that I may tell you in 
 this connection that the secret of Edith's re 
 lationship has necessarily been divulged." 
 
 " To Lord Amidown ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " I anticipated this, and told him in this 
 room that pride would snap the silken tie that 
 bound him there, but that it would be joined 
 again ; for I knew that when you saw so much 
 at stake, you would risk all else to make her 
 you loved so well, happy. Did I not judge 
 rightly ?" 
 
 "You did indeed, and must have known 
 my family affairs well to have reasoned thus," 
 replied Sir Robert. 
 
 " I have known them intimately, Sir Robert, 
 ever since Edith's return to your house after 
 a year's absence !" 
 
 " Indeed," said Sir Robert, in surprise, " this 
 is very strange what motive could possibly 
 have led you to keep such a constant watch 
 upon my domestic affairs ? What interest 
 have you in them ?" 
 
 " It is a long story, Sir Robert, and one 
 which I am not inclined to divulge at present; 
 but at some other time, perhaps, a full under 
 standing will be well on the part of both of 
 us." 
 
 " But I have come expressly for the purpose 
 at this time, and will remunerate you well for 
 your trouble." 
 
 " Money is of little object to me, at present," 
 said the pretended fortune-teller ; " I am not 
 prepared to accede to your wishes now. At 
 another time I may seek an interview myself 
 for the purpose." 
 
 Sir Robert mused to himself for some 
 minutes, evidently disappointed at the turn 
 the interview had taken, when suddenly a 
 loud knocking was heard at the door below, 
 and soon after the heavy tread of several 
 persons upon the stairs announced that a par 
 ty was approaching the room for some purpose.
 
 250 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 At first, the pretended fortune-teller seemed 
 to be evidently disconcerted, but long practice 
 had rendered the robber very perfect at dis 
 simulation, and he appeared once more to be 
 quite at home, and unconcerned, though those 
 who approached so unceremoniously were alrea 
 dy at the door of the room where Sir Robert and 
 the ex-robber were together. All doubt as to 
 the character of the new comers was at once 
 put to rest by some four or five men wearing 
 the police uniform filing into the room, and 
 stationing themselves before the door, while 
 he who seemed to be the leader of the party, 
 advanced and addressed the robber : 
 
 " You are known by the name of Madame 
 Duval, are you not ?" 
 
 " I am." 
 
 " Then you will throw off that toggery, 
 and come along with me." 
 
 " What! 1 ' 
 
 " Lay by your disguise, and come with us 
 at once," replied the officer. 
 
 " There is some mistake here." 
 
 " None at all." 
 
 " You come to arrest me ?" 
 
 " We do." 
 
 " On whose complaint?'' 
 
 " That I know not." 
 
 " With what am I charged ?" 
 
 " Nor that either do I know. We obey 
 orders, and ask no questions." 
 
 " WJ11 you not retire, and give me a few 
 moments to prepare myself?" 
 
 " Not a step do we go until you go with us. 
 We don't lose sight of you, no !" 
 
 The robber saw that he was caught, but he 
 could not fathom the business nor could he 
 tell upon what charge he was arrested. He 
 demanded to see the warrant ; the officer show 
 ed it, and then he could only read his assum 
 ed name but there was no cause specified ; 
 it was all a mystery to him. 
 
 " Come," s.aid the officer, " if you don't take 
 those clothes off, I shall help you ;" and as he 
 spoke he laid his hand upon the person of the 
 ex-robber, as though to remove the flowing 
 gown in which he was dressed. 
 
 "Fool," answered the pretended fortune 
 teller, dashing the officer to the ground with 
 one stroke of his arm. 
 
 This was the signal for a general melee, 
 during which the fortune-teller was not only 
 secured', but had the clothes completely torn 
 
 from his back, leaving him in the dress he had 
 worn in the gaming room. 
 
 "Karl Blasius!" exclaimed Sir Robert 
 Brompton, in utter amazement at the sight he 
 beheld. 
 
 " A word with you, Sir Robert." 
 
 After a moment's pause, Sir Robert ap 
 proached, when the robber whispered in his 
 ear: 
 
 " I have a secret that nearly concerns you ; 
 remember that ; betray not your knowledge of 
 who or what I am, or the secret shall die with 
 me. There is no possible way for those peo 
 ple to detain me long they can produce no 
 evidence against me, and without that, I am 
 easily freed again." 
 
 As he whispered thus hurriedly, and stood 
 there with dishevelled hair, and in an attitude 
 of defence, a strange thought passed over Sir 
 Robert's brain : I have seen that man in pre 
 cisely the same situation before, or nearly so. 
 He closed his eyes, and seemed for a moment 
 lost in thought, then starting, as a picture 
 seemed to present itself, he asked in a whisper, 
 as the robber now stood alone, his hands tied 
 behind him, while the police took notes of the 
 room, and examined the appearance of things 
 closely, as if to make a report of them : 
 
 " A strange suspicion has come over me 
 that I have known you in another character 
 besides that of robber, fortune-teller, and 
 gamester is it not not so ?" 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 " In the tap-room of Mother Giles !" 
 
 " We have met there." 
 
 " And you are Bill the Bold ?" 
 
 " Hush ! To you, yes. But speak not so 
 loud before these witnesses." 
 
 Sir Robert mused for a moment longer, and 
 then asked : 
 
 " Then it was you who stole away Edith 
 from my house ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And you were in the melee of that night 
 when I took her from the tap-room?" 
 
 "I was." 
 
 " Strange that we did not know each other." 
 
 " You were thoroughly disguised." 
 
 " That is true." 
 
 " And little thought to find Karl Blasius, 
 who was reported dead, in the tap-room of St. 
 Giles."
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 251 
 
 " That is all very correct no wonder I did 
 not know you." 
 
 " Come to me when I am confined. Be 
 friend me, Sir Robert, not in money mattersi 
 I have enough of the stuff, but help me as no 
 one else can do, and I will be of great service 
 to you. I will unravel a mystery to you that 
 else must remain hidden forever. Will you 
 remember ?" 
 
 " I will," replied Sir Robert, thoughtfully, 
 as the police hurried the prisoner away. 
 
 " Stay," he said, to those who led him. " I 
 wish to speak one word to my friend." 
 
 " Be brief, then we can't wait long," said 
 the surly official. 
 
 "Si/Robert?" 
 
 "Well." 
 
 "Closer; I wish to whisper to you," he 
 said, waiting for him to draw nearer. 
 
 " What do you wish to say ?" 
 
 " I have no one else to call upon now ; will 
 you not lock that door, and take charge of the 
 key for me ?" 
 
 " Why not give it to these people ?" 
 
 " There is much there that I would not 
 have seen or overhauled." 
 
 " But I hardly think it will be permitted for 
 me to do so." 
 
 "Certainly they have a warrant for my 
 arrest, but not for the seizing of my property. 
 I assure you that it is for your interest to take 
 charge of the key." 
 
 " Until I can communicate with you, I will 
 take the key, then," said Sir Robert, locking 
 the door, and putting the key in his pocket. 
 
 "Thank you," said the robber; "and now 
 until we meet again, farewell." 
 
 " I am ready now," said the prisoner, to 
 those about him, who, though they kept a 
 sharp look-out upon him, had permitted this 
 moment of respite, or release, which enabled 
 him to make the arrangement with Sir Robert 
 concerning the key. 
 
 The robber went peaceably with the men' 
 there was no use in resistance but he sighed 
 heavily. 
 
 Sir Robert turned away towards his home 
 in a thoughtful mood, The mystery of many 
 events in his past experience was unravelling 
 itself; he was so wrapped up in these thoughts 
 that he reached his own door before he was 
 aware of it. Summoning Walter to his stu 
 dy, he related to him the events that had just 
 transpired, of course, under the promise of 
 secrecy. He would not have done so to any 
 one else, but Walter himself was so intimate 
 ly interwoven with these very affairs, that it 
 was a duty he owed to him. As it regarded 
 the robber's fate, it seemed now to be drawing 
 fast towards a close, and confident as he was, 
 still when he entered the walls of Newgate, 
 a chill ran through his frame, and a presenti 
 ment possessed his heart that he would never 
 pass them again his own master.
 
 CHAPTER XL V. 
 
 CUPID'S DOINGS. 
 
 The strife 
 
 Of love, faith, fear, and that vain dream of life, 
 Within her woman breast ! 
 
 HEMANS. 
 
 IN the meantime the developments in re 
 lation to Lord Amidown, which Walter had 
 been called upon to make to his sister the 
 Lady Josephine, had worked quite a change 
 in the affairs at Sir Robert's house. An inti 
 macy at once sprang up between her and 
 Edith and Clara ; Lady Josephine now be 
 came a frequent visiter at Sir Robert's. The 
 delight experienced by Edith in the society of 
 one so nearly allied to him she loved, need 
 hardly be referred to, but it was the source 
 of the greatest pleasure to her. Clara too en 
 joyed her new friend, and truth to say, Sir 
 Robert thought that Lady Josephine paid 
 much more earnest regard to her than she did 
 to Edith ; perhaps her taste and temperament 
 were more to her liking. 
 
 All this was just as Walter could have de 
 sired. It brought him in frequent contact 
 with Lady Josephine, and enabled him to 
 drink in the sweets of her fascinating society. 
 Edith and Clara, of course, could not help 
 smiling within themselves, or at least this was 
 the case with Edith, as she observed how de 
 voted Walter had become to his third choice. 
 We do wrong perhaps to say that Clara laugh 
 ed at Walter ; this was not the case. Secret 
 ly she sighed within her heart, though no 
 mortal could detect any such sentiment, as 
 evinced in her outward appearance and bear 
 
 ing. She was never happier than when 
 praising Walter to Josephine, and the latter 
 was never better pleased than when listening 
 to her. 
 
 But though Clara delighted to praise Wal 
 ter for his good qualities before Josephine 
 Amidown, yet when alone in her own room, 
 her heart beat sadly as she realized that he 
 could never be her husband ; and in the 
 true generosity of her heart, she would hope 
 that he might be as dearly loved by her who 
 should in the end be his life's companion. 
 How unselfish was the fair girl's heart, devot 
 ed as it was to its love for Walter. 
 
 Clara did not exactly envy Edith the posi 
 tion that she now held, but yet she sometimes 
 said to herself, when alone and thoughtful she 
 sat musing in the solitude of her chamber : 
 
 "Ah, Edith, Edith, what reason is there 
 that you should not be perfectly at peace, with 
 everything that should make you happy, and 
 above all possessing that jewel 0, my God ! 
 too bright for me to contemplate innocence !" 
 
 Poor Clara, how sad, how dreary was every 
 thing to thee, even though thy face was so 
 often wreathed in smiles, while Edith and 
 Josephine retired to their pillows to sleep and 
 dream of soft scenes of love and tender endear 
 ments, thy wakeful eyes knew no rest, thy 
 throbbing breast kept pace with the steady
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 253 
 
 march of time, that never sleepeth. Since 
 Edith had become comparatively settled in 
 purpose, and her union with Lord Amidovvn 
 was considered as a matter of course, and 
 since Walter had seemed to have become the 
 accepted lover of Lady Josephine, Clara had 
 grown a shade more sober and thoughtful; 
 her merriment was more subdued, and the 
 merry peals of laughter wont to rise from her 
 fair lips, were less frequent. This matter 
 neither Edith nor Walter noticed ; they were 
 now too full of other thoughts to observe any 
 slight variation in appearance that Clara might 
 evince, but Mrs. Marlow noted it well, and 
 strove by her tender solicitude to make her as 
 happy as possible. But yet the housekeeper 
 realized that there was a worm gnawing at 
 her heart, a secret that doubtless might not be 
 unveiled. 
 
 " Dear Miss Clara," said the housekeeper, 
 " you do not seem well to-day ; can't I do 
 something for you ?" 
 
 " O, no, good Mrs. Marlow ; you are too 
 thoughtful and kind to me. I am not ill, I as 
 sure you." 
 
 "Not ill?" 
 
 No." 
 
 " O, then you must have something upon 
 your mind I fear, that troubles you, for you 
 look very sad at times." 
 
 " Do I ?" asked Clara, thoughtfully. 
 
 " Yes, indeed you do, Miss Clara." 
 
 " Well, we can't be happy always, Mrs. 
 Marlow ; one can't smile all the time ; even 
 the blue sky, that is so bright in the sunlight, 
 and so sparkling in the clear moonlight, is 
 sometimes covered with clouds." 
 
 "True, Miss Clara;. but then it is only 
 when a damp mist comes on, or heavy clouds 
 of rain overspread it. Now just like the blue 
 sky, is your soul. What cloud overspreads 
 it ; wont you tell me. that I may try to brush 
 it away ?" 
 
 Clara started at the apt argument of Mrs. 
 Marlow, and walking to a window, looked out 
 for some minutes without saying aught in 
 reply to the query that had been put to her. 
 Her mind was very busy the while, and she 
 heeded not the scene passing without, upon 
 which her eyes seemed to rest, though their 
 pupils gave back no reflection ; there was too 
 much activity within. " Am I so changed," 
 she thought, " that every one notices me of 
 
 late ? I must look to this ; they shall find me 
 henceforth as merry as ever before !" 
 
 The soft complexion which formed one of 
 Clara's principal attractions in the matter of 
 personal beauty, had of late assumed a more 
 delicate and transparent hue. She had not 
 absolutely grown pale, but the fair color of her 
 cheek was more delicate, and it was more dif 
 ficult to discover where it commenced and 
 where left off, than it had been heretofore. 
 A tender pensiveness crept over the expres 
 sion of her features, and as far as personal 
 beauty was concerned, she was much hand 
 somer than when she first entered Sir Robert 
 Brompton's house as the companion of Edith. 
 The ruby of her sweetly formed lips was less 
 deep, but seemingly more pure, and her plea 
 surable expression was less decided and ear 
 nest in parting those lips, but a gentle an 
 swering token of expression of the eyes when 
 she was slightly moved, had formed an added 
 grace to her smile that was doubly attractive. 
 Indeed, so pure a style of beauty did Clara 
 present, that she had become the paragon of 
 loveliness with all who saw her, and only suf 
 fered by comparison with Edith, whose graces 
 and loveliness of person, though of a some 
 what different character, yet grew thrivingly 
 as she approached still nearer the maturity of 
 womanhood. Perhaps a majority would have 
 pronounced Edith at the present time to be 
 much the handsomer of the two, but an artist 
 would have pointed out with peculiar satisfac 
 tion the extraordinary purity of Clara's expres 
 sion, and the magic blending of the rose and 
 lily upon her cheek. They would have told 
 you that Edith was beautiful, but that Clara 
 was more artistically lovely. Even Walter, 
 who had known her so long and well, and 
 whose heart was so thoroughly engaged now 
 in another quarter, often paused to gaze in 
 admiration upon Clara. 
 
 Lady Josephine Amidown, as compared with 
 either of them, was not handsome, but she 
 possessed a high-bred, easy, attractive and vi 
 vacious manner, that is so winning in the 
 gentler sex. An art, or a gift, which ever it 
 may be, that makes even an ordinary face 
 look pretty, and which carries all before it. 
 You have met with this species of attraction, 
 gentle reader, a hundred times, and such was 
 Lady Josephine's secret of power. 
 
 At a card party at Sir Robert's, about the
 
 254 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 period we refer to, Colonel Freeman and Cap 
 tain Sidney had again met. Both were as 
 devoted followers of Clara as ever, and both 
 were quite as hopeless in their suit. 
 
 " There, captain, did you ever see such rare 
 beauty as that ?" said the colonel, referring to 
 Clara, as she sat turning over some rich en 
 gravings upon the centre talle, and in a posi 
 tion where the light displayed her features to 
 the best advantage. 
 
 The sailor heeded not the remark, and the 
 colonel turned to see that he was also regard- 
 in<y her at that moment with marked admira- 
 
 D 
 
 tion, and it was not until he had laid his hand 
 upon his arm that he succeeded in attracting 
 his attention. When he did so, Captain Sid 
 ney heaved a sigh, that showed how much in 
 terested he was. 
 
 " I was speaking of Miss Clara, Sidney ; is 
 she not looking superbly to-night?" 
 
 " Superbly, colonel ? She's a divinity," 
 said the captain, earnestly, still regarding her 
 as he spoke. 
 
 That very night, Captain Sidney, seeking 
 a favorable opportunity, offered his heart and 
 hand to Clara, but was so gently, so pleasant 
 ly, and yet so decidedly refused, that he swore 
 to a friend the next day in confidence, he had 
 rather have her refuse him, than to have many 
 a more noted belle accept him, she did it so 
 sweetly. 
 
 But it was no extraordinary thing for Clara 
 to receive such proposals ; indeed she might 
 more than once have married far above Sir 
 Robert Brompton's rank in society, had she 
 felt disposed. There was only one person 
 who could appreciate the delicacy of soul that 
 thus kept Clara free, and that was Edith. 
 She alone knew the secrets of her early life, 
 and though she was now so much occupied 
 and engaged by her own associations, that 
 she perhaps gave Clara's position less thought 
 than she would else have done ; yet she had 
 often fully realized these things, knowing at 
 the same time that it was a wound that even 
 her friendly hand must not probe. 
 
 Sir Robert Brompton looked on with warm 
 gratification to see the consummation of 
 Edith's happiness. And it had appeared that 
 the union of Walter and Josephine was a mat 
 ter already agreed upon, though it was not so 
 announced as yet. The two assimilated most 
 happily together, and the sister of Lord Ami- 
 
 down was in love with Walter beyond a doubt 
 
 while he was all devotion and tenderness. 
 
 And in this condition, Sir Robert's house pre 
 sented quite a temple of Hymen, or at least a 
 rendezvous for Cupid. But though Sir Robert 
 was thus happy about his domestic affairs, he 
 now and then felt a strange interest in the 
 robber, who now lay in the dungeons of New 
 gate. He felt that the man possessed secrets 
 concerning himself that were of vital impor 
 tance to his own peace of mind to keep unre- 
 vealed, and that he also knew of matters con 
 cerning Edith that he himself would gladly 
 be master of. These thoughts often caused him 
 to revert to that strange dark man, who had 
 by singular fortune been so intimately con 
 nected with his interests. 
 
 Sir Robert had latterly leaned more upon 
 Walter for advice than he had previously 
 done. His protege now knew the whole of 
 his past history, and therefore he felt less re 
 straint with him than he had done when he 
 was obliged at all times to guard the one se 
 cret of his life from struggling forth to the 
 light. He had told Walter of his last visit to 
 the fortune-teller, and of the singular result of 
 their last meeting, and asked him what he 
 thought it was best to do, 
 
 " Let him receive his deserts, Sir Robert ; 
 the world will then be rid of one black-hearted 
 villain at least." 
 
 " But, Walter, he possesses my secret the 
 tangled thread of my child's history is all in 
 his knowledge." 
 
 " That is true." 
 
 " Besides which, he bade me see him in 
 prison with such a voice and manner, that I 
 knew he had much else to reveal that con 
 cerned me nearly. In short, a strange fancy 
 seems to draw me towards him " 
 
 " Why, if you desire it so much, you might 
 see him in person." 
 
 " Ah ! but that will involve me, I know, in 
 other matters. He is friendless and must 
 need counsel and aid, not pecuniary ; I know 
 he has money enough, but that wont always 
 buy friends." 
 
 " It would be rather bad taste to be counted 
 among the friends of such a man." 
 
 " Nevertheless, Walter, feeling impressed 
 as I do, I must visit him." 
 
 On the evening of the day on which Sir 
 Robert held this conversation with Walter, he
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 255 
 
 received from an unknown hand a note, open 
 ing which, he read as follows : 
 
 " SIR ROBERT BROMPTON : 
 
 " A week has passed since I last saw 
 you at my house, at which time I was seized 
 and carried to prison by the police. You will 
 remember my earnestly expressed hope at that 
 time, that you would come to me in Newgate. 
 I have daily looked for you, more earnestly, 
 perhaps, because I have no visiters at all, and 
 see only my jailer. I should not urge upon 
 you to visit me, if my desire were a selfish 
 one only. I feel that I possess knowledge that 
 to you is most invaluable. This I will only 
 part with in consideration that you offer me 
 such reasonable aid as you can do in getting 
 me legal counsel and taking other steps to have 
 me cleared from this vile duress. It will 
 not be necessary for you to appear in the mat 
 ter at all, so that you will compromise nothing 
 by this kindness to me. 
 
 " As another inducement to bring you here, 
 there is an act of justice that I desire to do 
 for Lord Amidown, which I will entrust to 
 your hands something very important to him 
 in a pecuniary point of view. This induce 
 ment alone, I should think, must be sufficient 
 to bring you to my cell. I shall look for you 
 with impatience. K. B." 
 
 This note aroused all Sir Robert's curiosity 
 afresh. There was evidently some matter of 
 eminent importance to him that the robber 
 was willing to impart, provided he was once 
 assured of his assistance in his present dilem 
 
 ma, and though Sir Robert actually felt con 
 scientious scruples as to aiding such a scourge 
 to society in any way, still he was irresistibly 
 drawn forward to meet with him, if not to 
 serve him, as he desired he should do. The 
 clause relating to Lord Amidown, too, was of 
 importance. Sir Robert was some time since 
 convinced that Karl Blasius was the person 
 who had won so largely from his intended 
 son-in-law, and he thought that no doubt he 
 proposed to refund at least a part of the 
 money. A matter of little importance to one 
 so rich as Sir Robert, but of great consequence 
 to Lord Amidown in the matter of his pride, 
 and also as it regarded his sister's situation, 
 who was now comparatively dependent upon 
 her friends and relations. 
 
 " There, Walter, you remember what we 
 were talking of to-day ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Well, read this note it is from him. 
 How he has managed to send it, I don't know.' 
 
 " I should go to see him most decidedly," 
 said Walter, after running over the note. 
 
 " Very well I shall do so, then, let what 
 may come of the interview." 
 
 The proper permit was accordingly procured, 
 and Sir Robert prepared to visit his singular 
 acquaintance on the following day, in the damp 
 cells of Newgate. Walter offered to go with 
 him, but he preferred to go by himself. 
 
 In the meantime, while the robber was 
 breathing the damp air of this prison house, 
 he called to mind his confinement at the castle 
 of Amantz, on the Rhine, years gone by.
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 
 A SCENE IN NEWGATE. 
 
 And like to this may my fate be, 
 
 To swing from the limb of a leafless tree. ROBBER SONG. 
 
 LEAVING the family of Sir Robert Brompton 
 to enjoy all the regal comforts of his princely 
 mansion, the reader must come with us for a 
 while into that far-famed place of confine 
 ment, Newgate the dreary prison of the 
 metropolis; the den where crime and sin of 
 every description has its representative, of 
 both sexes and of every age. A Babel of sin 
 reigns within these walls, where so many evil 
 spirits congregate, and vice seems to impreg 
 nate the very air. 
 
 Unlike the present mode of separating 
 the criminals, unless they were confined for 
 some extraordinary breach of the laws, such 
 as murder, they were here cast into large 
 apartments of the building, and herded togeth 
 er like so many cattle. At certain hours they 
 were permitted to go out into an open square 
 of the prison, enclosed by high walls and 
 guarded by soldiers, where they presented a 
 most heterogeneous compound of human na 
 ture horrid to behold. There were decrepid 
 old men and women, as gray in sin as they 
 were in years, middle aged persons, presenting 
 all the physical developments of the prime of 
 life, here immured and pent up, like so many 
 sheep in a pen. There were young persons also, 
 
 male and female, some with vice strongly im 
 pressed upon their young faces, and others, 
 whom to look upon, presented no tokens of 
 crime or guilt, and doubtless some there were 
 really innocent. 
 
 A bustle was quite apparent in one corner 
 of the yard where the prisoners were now 
 airing themselves, and on close inspection, 
 it was discernible that some carpenters were 
 at work erecting a gallows there. Significant 
 token ! Some of those nearest the spot were 
 cracking vulgar jokes about the matter, with a 
 hardened indifference that bespoke a long 
 familiarity with vice and crime. Others looked 
 upon the scene with a dull, yet curious eye, 
 and seemed to lose thought as to what the ob 
 ject of the erection was in the minute obser 
 vation of the detail of its formation, observing 
 with care the fitting of each joint, and the 
 manner in which it was secured. There was 
 one looking upon it with a pallid cheek, for 
 its significance brought home to his mind his 
 own chances, perhaps. On one side, two fe 
 males had got one of the timbers across a 
 pile of the rest, and each seated upon an end 
 of it, were tilting ! 
 
 Whata strange spectacle that place presented. 
 
 The next number of this work will be issued on Saturday, hine loth.
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 CHAPTER XL VI. [CONTINUED.] 
 
 There might have been a hundred crim 
 inals or prisoners strolling there at this mo 
 ment, mostly awaiting trial for various offences. 
 In an opposite corner to that where the gal 
 lows was erecting, sat two persons upon the 
 bare ground, engaged in some game. They 
 had picked up some shell stones which they 
 succeeded in marking, and were now gambling 
 with them for imaginary piles of gold, which 
 were represented by bits of chips and shavings 
 broken into small particles. These men were 
 beyond the prime of life, and yet they were 
 as much absorbed, apparently, as a child would 
 have been in this simple game ; the habit of 
 gaming was so strong upon them, that even 
 this trifling occupation was a relief and 
 amusement. 
 
 " Peste !" at last exclaimed one of the men, 
 whose appearance showed him to be a French 
 man. " I'm very much tired of this. I have 
 lose all mine gold you have robbed me al 
 together. I am von beggar." 
 
 " Very well," said the other, gathering the 
 chips and shavings all over to his own side. 
 
 " Vat you say about ze new prisoner they 
 lock up in ze cell?" 
 
 " That feller in No. 18 over there ?" said the 
 ether, pointing to a wing of the building 
 where the cells were numbered. 
 
 " Oui exactement" 
 
 " O, that's Bill the Bold don't you remem 
 ber him, Chevalier ?" 
 
 " Ah, I remember ze Bill ze Bold, very 
 much too well." 
 
 " Where he turned up from no one knows ; 
 he hasn't been to any of our old places fer 
 more than a year, but he's in for it now, thaf s 
 sure, or they wouldn't lock him up in that 
 place, away from the rest of us." 
 
 " That ees very true," said the little French 
 man, whom the reader will remember to hare 
 met before. 
 
 It was fortunate for Karl Blasius that he 
 was confined in a separate place from su*k 
 beings as those who thronged the court or 
 yard beneath his window. Not but that fce 
 was as deeply sunken in crime, and perhaps CTCJI 
 more so, than most of them, but yet kis mini 
 was so superior, his mental faculties had beem 
 so much better cultivated, and there wai a - 
 tive spirit and pride in his nature, wfeich \rowti 
 have but poorly brooked the mingling with 
 such as they were in that place. True, h 
 had been much with the same class, but not 
 on equal terms. He had always been master, 
 and above his fellows. There ^ie would have 
 been on a footing with the meanest, and proba 
 bly the jest of some who had felt his authority 
 in a different situation. He looked out 
 through the bars of his cell with strange emo 
 tions upon that motley assemblage, and he
 
 260 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 could even see the point where the gallows 
 was erecting, and followed out a long train of 
 thought suggested by the sight of that " leaf 
 less tree." 
 
 But he sat now musing to himself in the 
 furthermost corner of his cell. 
 
 He had been impatiently awaiting the ex 
 pected visit of Sir Robert, and this led him to 
 recall the time when he had first met with 
 him in his native valley. From one circum 
 stance to another, his mind reverted still far 
 ther back in the darkness of his own life. He 
 tried to recall it all now, even from his 
 very boyhood. The event that had first 
 driven him from the pale of society, and 
 made him the enemy of the law, was as vivid 
 ly recalled now to his mind as its reality had 
 appeared many long years before. He follow 
 ed up those events and their connections, to 
 the period of his acquaintance with the Lady 
 Gustine, and the minutest circumstance of 
 that period was depicted in his memory. He 
 recalled the many long days, weeks, and 
 months of his confinement at Amantz, his al 
 most miraculous escape, his course over the 
 current of the swift- running river, and his 
 escape in a westward bound ship to the Span 
 ish Indies. His bloody and dangerous career 
 there, and finally step by step he renewed his 
 life thus to the present hour. 
 
 ,And then he fell to reflecting upon his 
 probable fate. He seemed to have become 
 possessed of a singular gloom of spirits since 
 he had been confined here ; a few days only 
 had passed, but he had changed much. The 
 native fire of his eye that had defied the 
 power of time, which had written its lines on 
 all else of his physiognomy, seemed to have 
 become dulled, and a keen observer would 
 have detected. a listlessness of expression that 
 told of a growing indifference in the pos 
 sessor as to his future condition, and yet at 
 times they lighted up, as though occasion 
 might arouse their native energy yet. 
 
 Karl Blasius could obtain no information as 
 to what charge had led to his arrest, or who 
 had brought ^t ; all was wrapped in mystery. 
 To his chagrin and annoyance, he was told 
 that his trial or hearing before the judges 
 would not come on for many months, and that 
 in the meantime he must remain thus immur 
 ed in his gloomy cell. 
 
 After he was informed of this fact, he felt 
 
 no longer in haste as it regarded Sir Robert's 
 matters. He required the aid of some person 
 situated like him, and he resolved to make the 
 most of the secret information which he pos 
 sessed, and which he knew full well Sir Rob 
 ert so much desired to understand. Moreover 
 he felt in some way connected in his interests 
 with him as it regarded his business matters, 
 since Sir Robert held the key of his private 
 apartment. At the time of his arrest, the 
 police made no attempt to possess themselves 
 of anything, but simply to take note of the 
 situation of affairs, and as they passed from 
 the door, the robber turned to Sir Robert, as 
 will be remembered, asking him to take 
 charge of the key for him. It was on this 
 very day that the jailer had informed his pris 
 oner of the matters concerning himself, arid 
 Karl Blasius sat reflecting upon them now, 
 when the door suddenly opened, and the jailor 
 admitted Sir Robert Brompton. 
 
 The two bowed to each other, but paused 
 for the jailer to leave the cell, before they 
 spoke. 
 
 More than an hour was passed by them 
 together there. The result of which was of 
 no particular satisfaction to Sir Robert, any 
 farther than the restoration to Lord Amidown 
 of fifty thousand pounds. The robber reveal 
 ed to Sir Robert the secret of his wealth, 
 and where he might obtain the money that he 
 desired thus to refund. To all Sir Robert's 
 inquiries as to the secret that he promised to 
 divulge, he recived but one answer, and that 
 was, that he realized it to be the only claim 
 upon him that was left, and that once divulg 
 ed, Sir Robert would neither heed nor care 
 for him in the future. 
 
 Richly repaid for his visit in the pleasure of 
 restoring to Lord Amidown so large a part of 
 his losses, Sir Robert fulfilled the errand after 
 leaving the robber ; but he was satisfied that 
 time must develop the secret that he held. 
 
 It was a vivid scene that closed that day. 
 At the set of sun the gallows, which had been 
 nearly all day erecting, was called into requi 
 sition to perform its wonted and legitimate 
 purpose. The prisoners were altogether in the 
 yard to witness the scene which was foolishly 
 expected to operate to their advantage, and to 
 lead to their reform. From his cell window 
 the robber gazed with a strange fascination
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 261 
 
 upon the execution, as it progressed stage by 
 stage. 
 
 With all the ceremony and pomp that such 
 evil scenes are always clothed in, the fearful 
 deed of official murder was commenced. The 
 victim, a young man who else might have 
 found years of sad repentance, and finally of 
 true reform, was hurried, with all his sins 
 fresh upon his young and thoughtless head, 
 to the grave. The robber saw him ascend the 
 scaffold with a firm step, and his blood thrilled 
 through his veins at a token of firmness that 
 challenged his admiration. He felt, not 
 withstanding all his own experience, and all 
 the daring scenes through which he had pass 
 ed, that under such circumstances his own 
 limbs would fail him, old as he was in iniqui 
 ty and sin. That boy yonder, suffering now, 
 perhaps for his very first offence, taught him a 
 lesson, and set him an example that was be 
 yond his power and ability to imitate. That 
 boy was his master in spirit and firmness. 
 
 This thought of the calmness with which 
 the boy had died, seemed to trouble him 
 strangely. He could not forget it, but walked 
 backward and forward in his cell, musing upon- 
 the scene he had just witnessed. He seemed 
 all at once to fully realize that his own end 
 could not be very far distant ; and yet it was 
 not the fear of death that seemed to trouble 
 him, so much as the idea that had just come 
 over him, as to whether he could die with 
 firmness, if he must do so in public, or wheth 
 er he could show the white feather and play 
 the craven before the crowd. He mused thus 
 to himself, until at last a thought seemed to 
 suggest itself to his mind, when he thrust his 
 
 hand into his bosom, and drew forth a small 
 dagger, so minute in size, that it had escaped 
 the eye and search of the officers who had 
 first placed him there. He looked at the well- 
 tempered, but tiny instrument for a moment, 
 in silence, and then said, half aloud : 
 
 " Ay, if the worst comes to the worst, this 
 shall free me from all doubt. This blade is 
 just long enough, when properly handled, to 
 reach the vital spot. I do not fear to do that, 
 no, no but a gaping and curious crowd to see 
 me executed, would unnerve me ; I could not 
 go to my death as I have always trod the 
 earth! But I need not despair. True, I 
 have done enough in Italy, on the ocean, in 
 Paris, and in London, to condemn me ; but 
 my cards have been carefully played, and how 
 few know me in more than one character ; 
 and those, why they are not such as to witness 
 against me. Some idle report has caused my 
 arrest, and confinement, and I weary in wait 
 ing for my day of trial. There can be no 
 witnesses no, no. I'm safe enough but 
 curse this confinement." 
 
 The robber talked thus to himself for a 
 while longer, then said : 
 
 " How calmly, with what firmness that boy 
 died. I wish I had not seen that; what 
 makes me think so much about it ? But never 
 mind, never mind 1 have my resort if the 
 worst comes to the worst." 
 
 But these executions were of frequent oc 
 currence, and the robber must witness them 
 often from the barred window of his cell. A 
 sad prospect for a guilty man to look upon, 
 feeling that his own fate most likely would be 
 of a similar character.
 
 CHAPTER XLVII. 
 
 THE COTTAGE HOME. 
 
 I smile no more but all my days 
 
 Walk with still footsteps, and with humble eyes, 
 
 An everlasting hymn within my soul. 
 
 WILSON. 
 
 SIR ROBERT had lately noticed the melan 
 choly that at times seemed to defy Clara's 
 attempts at disguise, and to shroud her sweet 
 face in a mantle of black. He had tried to 
 dispel it by reasoning with her, and had re 
 ferred to her prospects in life, her former 
 cheerful spirits, and a hundred trifling argu 
 ments why she should be happy. By the 
 most kind and thoughtful attention, he strove 
 to dispel her sombre mood, for spite of her 
 resolution to the contrary, she could not now 
 appear so careless and happy as she used to do, 
 with a crowd about her. Hoping by a change 
 of scene to awaken her once more, and to ren 
 der her more like her former self, her patron 
 proposed a country residence for a few sum 
 mer months. The idea was acceded to with 
 avidity by Clara, she foresaw so much of quiet 
 and such opportunity for reflection, and undis 
 turbed communion with her own heart. She 
 was vastly overjoyed at the prospect of seeing 
 and living even for a short period in the midst 
 of shady groves, and where she might over 
 look the rural landscape. Delighted at her 
 apparent interest in the matter, Sir Rob 
 ert at once caused to be prepared a quiet resi 
 dence a half-day's journey from London, where 
 
 he and Clara, with such of the family as chose 
 to come down occasionally, might find agree 
 able accommodations. In this pleasant abode, 
 -Clara found herself domesticated with the 
 kind Mrs. Marlow, while Sir Robert equally 
 divided his time between London and Hare- 
 dale. 
 
 The summer months had already commenc 
 ed, and the glad earth was putting forth its 
 wealth of vegetation, the soft and fragrant flow 
 ers were bursting forth from every hill side, 
 and thickening leaves began to spread them 
 selves about the lattice of the cottage window. 
 The birds nestled and sung in the graceful 
 elms that overshadowed the door, and little 
 sparrows came daily to pick the crumbs that 
 Clara threw forth upon the smooth gravelled 
 walk. A freshness as pure and invigorating 
 as that which seemed to inspire the honey 
 suckle and morning glories that graced the 
 garden walls, also seemed to impregnate her 
 sad and lonely heart, and Mrs. Marlow told 
 Sir Robert that she was quite like herself. 
 
 Clara loved to walk in the grove that ran 
 back of the cottage until it ended in the grave 
 yard, attached to the village church. She 
 would take a book with her, and sitting alone
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 263 
 
 beneath the still shade of the trees, read to 
 herself or muse in quietude. Then she would 
 walk among the gray old tombstones, and try 
 to make out the names engraven upon each 
 stone, until she had read them all, and felt 
 half as though she knew those who slept be 
 neath. She even picked out a quiet spot in 
 a remote corner of the grave-yard, where she 
 told Mrs. Marlow that she thought she could 
 sleep more quietly than if she were in the 
 tombs that were built in the city. 
 
 " O, do not talk about such things, Clara," 
 said the housekeeper ; " it will be time enough 
 for that many, many years hence. You must 
 enjoy many happy years yet." 
 
 A faint smile was the only answer that 
 Mrs. Marlow received. But after a little 
 pause she asked: 
 
 ** Are you happy, Mrs. Marlow ?" 
 
 " O, yes, I hope so, Clara, as happy as we 
 can be in this life." 
 
 " Ah ! that is it," said Clara, earnestly, " in 
 this life. I often think of that, and wonder if 
 when we lay down to sleep in the grave, our 
 spirits will then be happy." 
 
 " You mustn't talk so seriously, Clara ; 
 think of pleasanter subjects." 
 
 " Ah ! but it does seem to me that I should 
 be so happy to lie domi in one long dreamless 
 sleep, forgetting all the past. I could be will 
 ing to die, I think, this very hour." 
 
 Mrs. Marlow marked the quiet, unexcited 
 manner of her speech, and she almost trem 
 bled as she saw how honestly Clara spoke. 
 She marked too that the brightness of her 
 eyes had faded of late, and she thought that 
 the color of her cheek was fading gradually. 
 But of these things she said nothing, though 
 they inwardly gave her much pain, for she 
 loved Clara better and more tenderly every 
 day. 
 
 When the Sabbath came, Clara and Sir 
 Robert would go and listen to divine ser 
 vice at the village church, and Clara enjoyed 
 it far better than she did in the crowded aisles 
 of the richly decorated town temples. Indeed 
 she seemed refreshed by the sincere, though 
 simple service, and listened to the words of 
 the young curate with absorbed attention. 
 He was a young man, but an enthusiast in his 
 profession, and possessed of a soul baptized in 
 the dictates of revealed religion. He would 
 dwell with tears in his eyes, upon the career 
 
 and suffering of the lowly Jesus, and delight 
 ed in proclaiming the never failing love, for 
 giveness and impartial grace of the great Fath 
 er of all, the Shepherd of our souls. 
 
 In her walks, Clara sometimes met Earnest 
 Brandon, and at first they past each other 
 with a slight, but polite recognition ; but the 
 young curate, in the ordinary discharge of his 
 duty, called occasionally upon all those who 
 listened to his ministrations, and thus he was 
 brought to meet with Clara at her cottage 
 home. His quiet, thoughtful and religious 
 turn of mind strongly impressed her, because 
 it was in accordance with her own feelings, 
 and the curate on his part seemed singularly 
 interested in one so pensive and intelligent, 
 who seemed to be suffering under a wounded 
 spirit ; therefore when they met it was often 
 to walk on together, and to converse upon 
 those matters that his calling would naturally 
 suggest. 
 
 Clara found a strange balm in his conversa 
 tion ; she gave up her mind entirely to the 
 study of the creed that he believed, and so ar 
 dently taught. She was never tired of hear 
 ing him dwell upon the forgiving kindness of 
 Christ, and the holy consohtion that the re 
 pentant sinner was sure to obtain. 
 
 The visits of the curate became at last of 
 almost daily occurrence, and the two, absorbed 
 truly and fully in the holy theme that formed 
 the subject of their discussion, grew more and 
 more intimate in soul and feeling, without 
 realizing it, until the young and devout follow 
 er of the Saviour felt a new fire kindled in his 
 breast, and realized that while he was making 
 a convert of the fair young girl, he was also 
 losing his own heart. Her great beauty of 
 person, her more valued beauty of intellect, 
 had strongly impressed him, until he felt that 
 he loved her almost too well. 
 
 The idea of such a state of things between 
 her and Earnest Brandon had never entered 
 Clara's mind. She felt the warmest friend 
 ship and respect for him, but love she had none 
 to bestow. She had loved once, she could 
 never love again, for love with her seemed to 
 be a guilty thing. "Love? what have I to 
 do with love ?" she used to ask herself. 
 
 She was walking one afternoon m the grove 
 with the ycung curate, when, after touching 
 upon many congenial topics of conversation, 
 they had seated themselves upon a grassy
 
 264 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 knoll. Earnest Brandon had been more than 
 usually pensive and thoughtful, and there was 
 now a pause of some moments in the conver 
 sation. At last he said : 
 
 " Clara, we have been much and happily to 
 gether, and in discussing those subjects con 
 nected with our greatest and most lasting in 
 terests, we have studied well each other's 
 hearts" 
 
 The curate paused for a moment, while 
 Clara turned an anxious eye upon him. 
 
 " Jn short, Clara, after the delightful com 
 munion that I have enjoyed with you, I feel 
 that I love you." 
 
 "Mr. Brandon!" 
 
 11 Have I offended you ?" he asked, quickly, 
 as he marked the tones of her voice. 
 
 " No, not offended, but grieved me. O, sir, 
 never harbor for me any other feelings than 
 those of a friend a dear and earnest friend I 
 shall always be glad to have you esteem me." 
 
 "Must this be so, beyond any hope of 
 change, Clara?" 
 
 " I can never feel any differently upon the 
 subject. O, how wrong it has been for me to 
 draw so much upon your time, enjoying your 
 society, your teachings, and your kindness so 
 constantly, and only to bring about this re 
 sult." 
 
 ' " Nay, reproach not yourself, Clara. Has 
 not my enjoyment of your society been also 
 most sweet ? Surely I have been paid many- 
 fold for my own labors, by your aptness, and 
 by the spirit in which you have received the 
 doctrine I teach." 
 
 " If I have done aught to create such a feel 
 ing as you profess, Mr. Brandon, I pray you 
 to forgive me, for, believe me, I could not will 
 ingly have given rise to sentiments that I can 
 never encourage." 
 
 " I know you would not. Say no more, 
 nor blame yourself in the least," said the cu 
 rate, " we will meet none the less frequently, 
 I trust, Clara, but in the future as friends, 
 trusting and confiding friends only." 
 
 " 0, a thousand thanks," she said, with an 
 animation that lit up with fire, as it were, her 
 sweet face. 
 
 They parted then. The curate, ardent and 
 imaginative as he was, yet was not foolish 
 enough to pine over his disappointment. He 
 only sought to forget it by more earnest ap 
 plication to his profession. His heart was so 
 
 deeply wedded to his calling, that he could 
 more easily turn to it, even from the fond hope 
 he had cherished, than most persons could 
 have done. His day dream was over, but his 
 purpose, his grand aim of life remained, and 
 though it cost him many hours of struggle af 
 ter he reached his home on leaving Clara, yet 
 he strove with his passion and prayed fervent 
 ly for aid lo help him on in his duty, and to 
 keep him from too earnest a worldly affec 
 tion. 
 
 Clara was differently affected ; in her sen 
 sitiveness she imagined herself greatly t 
 blame for that which had transpired. Be 
 sides she could not screen herself from her 
 thoughts as the curate did. She had no routine 
 of duty to engage in of a character to make 
 her forget, even temporarily, the fresh sadness 
 that had been caused by Mr. Brandon's mis 
 understanding her. Though she had often 
 blessed the chance that had brought her into 
 the country where she had enjoyed the beauties 
 of nature so fully and entirely, yet now she 
 could not but wish that she had never come 
 hither. 
 
 The curate was but little less assiduous in 
 his attendance at the cottage. Perhaps they 
 walked together less than they had been in 
 the habit of doing, bur^the same studies and 
 themes served them for conversation, though 
 the subject that had caused Clara so much 
 pain, was never referred to even for a single 
 moment. His attentions, which were of the 
 most thoughtful and delicate character, were 
 yet so strongly tinctured with respect, that 
 outward observers could have detected no 
 token of love. Mrs. Marlow said to one of 
 her neighbors, who was a little inquisitive, 
 that the curate and Clara were only like a 
 brother and sister. 
 
 Months rolled on thus, during which time 
 Clara's disposition and character had under 
 gone a marked change. The forced spirits 
 that she had been so long in the habit of in 
 dulging in, were laid aside altogether, and a 
 soft resignation, that could hardly be called 
 melancholy, had taken possession of her sweet 
 face. She was perhaps in reality more happy 
 than when she had so schooled herself at Sir 
 Robert's to belie her feelings, for then she 
 felt a half consciousness of guilt and decep 
 tion upon her heart all the day long ; while 
 now she gave herself up to those reflections
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 265 
 
 which her studies in religious matters had sug 
 gested. 
 
 Edith and Walter, with Lord Amidown and 
 his sister, not unfrequently came down to 
 Haredale to see Clara, but although they said 
 nothing to her of the impression of their vis 
 its, yet when they went away they never failed 
 to remark how changed she had grown since 
 she had come from the city. Edith, who ten 
 derly loved her, would walk with Clara 
 through all her quiet haunts in the grove and 
 along the meadows, and in the gray old church 
 yard, and would enter into all her simple, but 
 heartfelt enjoyment, at every theme of the sug 
 gestive scene about them, in the flowers, the 
 birds, and the twilight hour. 
 
 " These are sweet and happy subjects, dear 
 Clara ; invigorating to all the senses." 
 
 " 0, yes, and they put one so at peace with 
 in, Edith, and give such assurance of divine 
 goodness." 
 
 " True, Clara, and yet I fear that an undue 
 contemplation of these things leads you into 
 melancholy. Why, you do not seem to sleep 
 at all. No matter how early I get up, I 
 always find you are before me, feeding those 
 little tame sparrows that fly to your hands, or 
 attending to the pretty flower-bed yonder. I 
 do not blame you for loving these things, O, 
 no, Clara ; but then too constant and absorbed 
 a pursuit of any one subject wearies and 
 and weakens the mind." 
 
 " But I was never so happy in town, Edith, 
 as I am now. I never knew myself and na 
 ture so well. 0, you don't know how my 
 heart has grown with the blossoms and flow 
 ers since I came here in the spring, and how 
 it has ripened as the thick foliage and the 
 seeds have matured, and the harvest day by 
 
 day approaches. Sometimes I feel half in 
 clined to pray that I too may be gathered in 
 with the rest of the harvest, and be laid to rest 
 where I showed you." 
 
 " Say not so, Clara, you make me feel very 
 sad," answered Edith, with her cheeks wet 
 with tears. " I know you are better and less 
 worldly than I am ; perhaps I am too much 
 taken up with selfish things I feel that I am 
 but I can appreciate your feelings. And 
 yet, believe me, dear Clara, it is not best to in 
 dulge in melancholy, though it is sweet, ah ! 
 very sweet to the sorrowing heart. I have 
 tasted the cup myself, ay, and drunk its bitter 
 est depths." 
 
 " Not its bitterest depths, Edith," said her 
 companion, with emphasis. 
 
 " I thought so, Clara." 
 
 " Ah! Edith, you always had one sustain 
 ing consciousness that was worth more than 
 all else, a strength that none can appreciate 
 who have not realized its loss. You always 
 knew, Edith, let chance and circumstance 
 play whatever freaks they would with you, 
 that still in yourself you were innocent and 
 pure !" 
 
 " May heaven grant me to the last, Clara, 
 as pure a soul as you possess." 
 
 We have carried the reader thus, to witness 
 Clara's cottage life, because we desire more 
 fully to develop the character and disposition 
 of this lovely girl. It had only seemed to re 
 quire ' the pure air and soft influences of the 
 country to bleach and thoroughly purify her 
 gentle spirit, and the belongings of her cottage 
 home had brought out in its truth the entire 
 loveliness of her sweet disposition, and prepared 
 her at heart for higher and nobler aspirations.
 
 CHAPTER XLVIII, 
 
 THE CURATE'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 A man he was to all the country dear, 
 And passing rich with forty pounds a year. 
 
 GOLDSMITH. 
 
 LEAVING Clara for a while to pursue those 
 thoughtful walks in the grove behind her cot 
 tage home, which she loved so well, we must 
 refer to other characters in our varying plot. 
 It is still in these country scenes that we wish 
 to keep you, gentle reader, at least for the 
 present, and at a spot not many miles from 
 Clara's rural home. 
 
 There is no country in the world whose 
 pastoral beauties can compare with those of 
 some of the rural counties of Old England. 
 Tracts of land, enriched by immemorial cul 
 ture, present during the spring and summer 
 the sweetest variety of herbage and foliage, 
 and while, interspersed with productions that 
 minister to the wants of man, there is much 
 that is purely ornamental, and addresses it 
 self especially to the taste. Thus, the cottage 
 of the poorest peasant and heaven knows 
 that some of the peasantry of " Merrie Eng 
 land" are poor enough is surrounded by 
 flowers, overgrown with clematis and eglan 
 tine, and can boast its climbing roses, and its 
 verdurous shade tree. 
 
 The territorial divisions which, on this side 
 of the Atlantic, are formed />f rough posts and 
 rails, or ragged and unsightly stone walls, 
 overgrown with brambles, there consist of lux 
 
 uriant hedge-rows of buckthorn or hawthorn, 
 the latter forming at certain seasons of the 
 year a living wall of odorous blossoms j while 
 here and there, as if to prevent monotony, rise 
 tall elms, or branching oaks, or graceful lin 
 dens, among the branches of which the little 
 birds sit swinging and warbling in the alter 
 nate sunshine and shadow. Under these trees 
 repose in the sultry noontime, groups of cattle 
 well fed, sleek and shining from perpetual care, 
 while upon the uplands browse flocks of sheep 
 almost as white as the fleecy clouds that spot 
 the firmament above them. In some of these 
 enclosures wave billowy fields of grain, now 
 green as the water of a shallow bay, anon gold 
 en as the same waves enlightened by a mel 
 low sunrise. 
 
 The line of the horizon, and the surface of 
 the country, is just sufficiently broken to re 
 lieve the eye, differing totally from the dead 
 level of the rich and fertile Netherlands, while 
 the parks and preserves of the landed gentle 
 men, with their vast ancestral trees, communi 
 cate an air of grandeur and massiveness to the 
 expanded landscape. 
 
 These romantic scenes, where nature has 
 done so much, and art has so closely followed 
 in her footsteps as to seem a better nature,
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 267 
 
 would appear to be peculiarly fitted for the 
 dwelling-place of gentle hearts and guileless 
 souls. It would seem as if the evil passions 
 and vain desires which run riot in crowded 
 cities, would here perish, death-stricken by 
 the calm and silent rebuke of the beautiful 
 and the true. But human nature is the same 
 everywhere, and there are passions so strong, 
 and wills so self-sustained, that no external in 
 fluence can tame or exterminate them. 
 
 It was in one of those rural counties which 
 we have referred to, that the Rev. Ambrose 
 Warden dwelt, the curate of a little parish but 
 a few leagues from Haredale, at a period some 
 years prior to the commencement of our story. 
 He had struggled with indigence while pur 
 suing his preparatory studies, and his career 
 at Oxford was marked alike by studious assi 
 duity and personal privation. At length he 
 graduated with all the honors of his Alma Ma 
 ter. The friendship of an early school-fellow 
 ef Harrow procured him a curacy, and though 
 his annual stipend was but little more than 
 fifty pounds a year, yet with his simple tastes 
 and habits he felt content, and would have 
 deemed the sum ample had not the shafts of 
 the blind god, which spare the cassock of the 
 curate no more than the steel cuirass of the 
 soldier, penetrated his heart. 
 
 The Rev. Mr. Warden fell in love with the 
 daughter of a parishioner, poorer, if possible, 
 than himself. Whether he had any actual 
 promises of church preferment to rely upon, 
 or whether his passion blinded him to the fu 
 ture, we know not, but he boldly led Miss 
 Emeline Woodley to the altar, and carried 
 her home in happy triumph to Woodbine Cot 
 tage. The union was a happy one, though 
 the toil and care that devolved at once upon the 
 bride of a poor country clergyma^, soon be 
 gan to tell upon the delicate frame of the cu 
 rate's wife. 
 
 Yet the gentle being struggled bravely with 
 fortune, and was but too happy when she suc 
 ceeded in disguising her failing health and 
 active labor from the anxious eyes of her hus 
 band, and when at last she sank away in his 
 arms, he attributed her death to some tempo 
 rary malady, rather than to a long course of 
 hardship and privation. But she was happy 
 both in her life and in her death, and with 
 her last aspirations she commended her little 
 Emma to the charge of her husband and the 
 
 kind care of Providence, in the full faith that 
 both were adequate to temper the wind to the 
 shorn lamb. 
 
 " My time, dear husband, has come ; it 
 seemeth good to the Lord to call me home, 
 and why should 1 repine 1 My only concern 
 is for you and our dear little Emma, but hea 
 ven will bless you both." 
 
 The husband could only press the thin hand 
 of his dying wife, while he bent over her to 
 hide his tears. 
 
 With a soft and tender smile upon her pale 
 face, the young mother breathed her last. 
 
 Faithfully did the widowed husband fulfil 
 his promise to the departed. No mother 
 could have been kinder or more considerate ; 
 his child was all in all to him, and he doted 
 upon it both for its own sake, and the memory 
 of its dearly beloved mother. Mr. Warden 
 had studied the peculiarities and the intrica 
 cies of the female heart ; not as many men do 
 for the purpose of depravation and destruc 
 tion, but to know where to administer consola 
 tion, where support, and where aid. Under 
 his care and experience, Emma grew up beau 
 tiful, gentle, affectionate, charitable and pious. 
 Her affection was not of that kind which 
 wastes itself in sickly sentiment ; her charity 
 not of that description that neglects the house 
 hold hearth, to scatter its sympathies and 
 benefits abroad; nor was her piety of that 
 stamp which begins and ends in cold formali 
 ties and observances, in lip-worship and like 
 external devotion. God her father her 
 fellow creatures these were the objects of a 
 love that varied only in intensity, but whose 
 unity was intangible. " To be good and to do 
 good," was the basis of her entire creed, and 
 she fully lived up to the spirit of her heart- 
 logic. 
 
 Thus Woodbine Cottage, though bereft of 
 the gentle mother's spirit, was nevertheless 
 the paradise of constant and quiet joy, and 
 Mr. Warden was a man to be envied for kis 
 home relations. The village teemed with 
 praise and sincere love for the occupants of 
 the parsonage, and the humble curate with 
 his meagre income, was a happy man. 
 
 Until her nineteenth year, Emma had found 
 that her domestic and charitable duties, togeth 
 er with her studies, were all sufficient for the 
 occupation of her mind and heart, and she 
 had no luxurious habits, and no idle moments
 
 268 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 for day-dreaming; her imagination had never 
 been betrayed into any dangerous idealizing. 
 She had never lost herself in the glowing and 
 enticing fields of romance ; she only reflected 
 the real life about her, and her heart was as 
 simple as it was true. 
 
 But the fates bring queer things to pass, 
 and Emma was destined to see a great change 
 come over her quiet life. 
 
 It so chanced that Francis Marlow, the son 
 of Charles Marlow, the old school fellow of 
 her father, to whom he owed the curacy that 
 supported him, visited his father's country seat 
 in the neighborhood, to enjoy a few days' 
 sporting, previous to his departure for the 
 East. It must be premised that Sir Charles 
 Marlow had himself died in India, that the 
 villa alluded to had been for many years neg 
 lected, and perhaps entirely forgotten by its 
 wealthy owner, and that Francis, with only 
 a younger brother's portion, had been provided 
 for by a cornetcy in one of the East India 
 Company's cavalry regiments, and had noth 
 ing but his sword and his horse for his future 
 dependence. But he was full of life and 
 spirit, generous, free-hearted, and manly in 
 every prompting of his heart ; the future was 
 unclouded before him, and his heart was 
 light. 
 
 It was natural for the young officer to call 
 upon the old friend of his late father, of whom 
 he remembered to have heard him speak ; it 
 was natural for him to meet with a cordial 
 reception, and it was also natural for him to 
 be strongly impressed with the beauty of a 
 young girl, whom he found blooming like a 
 lily in this sequestered valley. An intimacy 
 followed, the dangers of which Mr. Warden 
 did not perceive until he found that his 
 daughter's affections were irrevocably en 
 gaged. 
 
 It was not in his nature then to reproach 
 Francis with having taken advantage of the 
 susceptibility of his daughter, for it was very 
 evident to the parent that the error was a 
 mutual one, and besides, the young cornet, 
 generous, handsome and noble-hearted, was 
 the very son-in-law he would have chosen, 
 had not his poverty forbidden a union which 
 could only entail distress and misery upon 
 both parties. This he frankly told Francis. 
 
 " But, sir," said the ardent young soldier, 
 " I have a brother you know in London, who 
 
 inherits the whole of my father's large prop 
 erty ; I will apply to him for aid, and if that 
 shall come, then " 
 
 "Then I cannot withhold my consent to 
 your union," replied the curate. 
 
 " I am sure of success, then," he replied, 
 warmly, anticipating a prompt and generous 
 response from his brother. 
 
 " Be not too confident, Francis," said the 
 curate, who knew the human heart better 
 than his young friend. 
 
 " I have spoken with your father, Emma, 
 dear, and he consents." 
 
 " Consents, Francis ?" 
 
 " Yes, provided my brother will assist me 
 pecuniarily," replied her lover. 
 
 He wrote his brother an affectionate and 
 sincere letter, stating exactly how he was situ 
 ated, and soliciting a modest allowance from 
 the surplus of Sir Charles's fortune, at the 
 same time -pledging his honor to reimburse 
 him when his own exertions should be crown 
 ed with success. In his letter to his brother, 
 he described to him, only as a lover's pen could 
 do, the extraordinary beauty, both mental and 
 personal, of her whose hand he sought, and 
 finally ended with an appeal to his brotherly 
 regard. The reply was a harshly worded re 
 fusal, that insulted, as well as disappointed, 
 the young brother. 
 
 " Francis," said the curate, " under the 
 circumstances, I feel it my duty, both for Em 
 ma's sake and your own, that you part at 
 once. Perhaps fortune may smile on your 
 efforts, and then, if you are both constant you 
 may be united." 
 
 " I know your motives too well, dear sir, to 
 question them for a moment. My regiment 
 will sail in a week, and I shall join them at 
 once ; but I shall leave my heart in Woodbine 
 Cottage," he replied, sadly. 
 
 With breaking hearts, the lovers parted, 
 promising mutual fidelity, and consoling each 
 other with words of hope. 
 
 Soon after the departure of Francis, who 
 seemed to carry with him all the sunshine and 
 contentment of the parsonage, Mr. Warden 
 received word that he had sailed. Most fer 
 vent prayers ascended to the throne of grace 
 for the safety of the young adventurer upon 
 the perilous deep. Weeks had passed, and 
 Emma was beginning to recover from her agi 
 tation and distress, and to find consolation in
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 269 
 
 her daily and religious duties, when, one eve 
 ning, as she was standing at the cottage gate, 
 a figure was seen approaching, which she 
 seemed to recognize through the uncertain 
 twilight. In another moment she was clasped 
 in the arms of her lover. 
 
 " Francis !" she exclaimed, in tones of min 
 gled astonishment and pleasure. 
 
 " Yes, your own Francis," was the tender 
 reply that greeted her. 
 
 " But how can this be possible ?" 
 
 " A freak of fortune, Emma." 
 
 " But the papers said that you sailed with 
 the regiment for India." 
 
 " That was all very true; but I have been 
 badly used by the, winds and waves." 
 
 " Wrecked ?" 
 
 ' Yes, gentle one. We were driven back 
 by a tempest and wrecked upon the coast of 
 Cornwall." 
 
 " Fearful mishap !" 
 
 " Rather happy chance, Emma," continued 
 her lover. 
 
 " How so, Francis ?" 
 
 " Because my misfortune has proved a 
 blessing. I have seen my brother he has 
 relented he grants me all that I could ask of 
 him, and I come back with gold to redeem my 
 beloved. Your father will no longer withhold 
 his consent we will be married at once, and 
 try together if the ocean will not be more 
 merciful." 
 
 " O, let us hasten at once to my father with 
 this news." 
 
 "What to-night?" 
 
 " To-night ! yes are you not eager to em 
 brace him ?" 
 
 " 0, certainly." 
 
 " How cool you speak, Francis ; why my 
 father will be delighted to see you." 
 
 " Yes, Emma, but you must remember that 
 I have just escaped from a shipwreck, and 
 that I have been so exposed, and suffered so 
 severely, that I am hardly myself." 
 
 Emma seemed glad to understand this, for 
 there was a want of cordiality in his manner 
 that was quite different from himself, she 
 thought. Bat sfee was too much bewildered 
 to be very critical now, and she brought him 
 at once into the house, and to her father's 
 side. Mr. Warden was of course surprised 
 and delighted at the wanderer's return, and 
 
 asked him many questions in relation to his 
 adventures and future prospects. 
 
 His replies with regard to the latter subject, 
 particularly, were very satisfactory, and he ex 
 hibited authority from his brother to draw upon 
 him to an unlimited amount. The only draw 
 back to this change of circumstances was the 
 necessity which existed of removing Emma 
 immediately from the paternal roof, and mak 
 ing her the companion of her husband's dis 
 tant wanderings. But the good pastor con 
 cealed his grief, and where is the woman's 
 heart that would not cling fondly to the part 
 ner of her choice, though ties scarcely less 
 dear are to be severed by the union ? And 
 thus was it with the gentle Emma Warden. 
 
 The next day, Mr. Warden joined their 
 hands, and the following hour, Emma, now 
 become Mrs. Marlow, took a heart-rending 
 farewell of her father, and sprang into a post 
 chaise that was to convey her with her hus 
 band to the sea-shore ; for he had represented 
 to them that his regiment, having been all 
 saved, were once more just about to embark 
 again for their destination. 
 
 Francis appeared strangely abstracted, and 
 his manner, passionate and cold, by turns, sur 
 prised his wife by its singularity. His prin 
 cipal concern seemed to be to hurry on the 
 post boys and the horses, until towards night 
 they drove up through an avenue of ancient 
 elm trees, to the door of a stately mansion, 
 embowered and almost hidden in verdant fo 
 liage. 
 
 " Come, my dear, we will stop here for the 
 night," he said, preparing to alight. 
 
 "Why, what place is this, Francis?" 
 
 " An old mansion-house, but a very com 
 fortable one, I assure you." 
 
 " But I thought we were to go on board 
 your ship to-night ?" 
 
 " Ah, true, true I forgot that ; but we will 
 talk those affairs over after we get into the 
 house." 
 
 Emma leaned upon his arm, but her heart 
 almost failed her, at the strange coldness she 
 met in her husband. 
 
 A number of servants in sumptuous liveries 
 awaited them at the door ; Emma was as 
 tounded at all she beheld. But her compan 
 ion seemed to take no notice of this, simply 
 leading her on, and receiving the ready hom 
 age and respect of the many servants, until
 
 270 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 they at last found themselves within a sump 
 tuously furnished drawing-room. 
 
 " Emma," he said, after closing the door, 
 and approaching her. 
 
 " Well, Francis ?" 
 
 " Am I Francis ?" 
 
 " Why, what do you mean ? you almost 
 frighten me by such conduct and such singu 
 lar questions." 
 
 " Well, it is a strange business," replied 
 her husband, musing. 
 
 " What is strange ?" 
 
 "Why, Emma, you must forgive the de 
 ception I have practised upon you!" 
 
 "Deception, Mr. Marlow?" 
 
 " Yes, Emma, you are thoroughly and most 
 egregiously mistaken." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 " They say that Jove laughs at love's per 
 juries. If this is so, now let him laugh his 
 fill, for you are wedded, not to your first love 
 a pauper younger son but to Sir Charles 
 Marlow, the richest land-holder in all of Eng 
 land, and one who will love and take care of 
 you far better than the poor India cornet 
 could do." 
 
 "Do I hear aright? am I awake? what 
 does all this mean ?" 
 
 " You are in the full possession of all your 
 faculties, Emma." 
 
 " No, no, no. This is a dreadful dream," 
 she cried, shuddering. 
 
 " Not so, Emma, but a bright reality. 
 Know that my brother and myself are exam 
 ples of oq of those striking freaks of nature, 
 by which she sometimes assimilates two 
 members of a family by a resemblance which 
 defies the closest scrutiny. Were Franis 
 here, and myself standing side by side, the 
 eyes of love even would be baffled in seeking 
 to identify the object of its preference. We 
 are alike in every particular." 
 
 " Except in soul," retorted the agonized 
 girl, almost frantic with sobs. 
 
 " Hush, proud girl, and hear me out," said 
 the baronet. 
 
 " Go on, sir, it is fitting that I should know 
 the truth now," replied the young wife, with 
 a bitter sarcasm expressed in her voice, and 
 an expression of contempt wreathing her hand 
 some lips. 
 
 " My brother wrote to me, as you doubtless 
 know; that letter, filled as it was with glow 
 
 ing thoughts and descriptions of thee, portray 
 ing, I acknowledge, most faithfully your beau 
 ty, fired my imagination, and filled me with a 
 desire to see one who was so beautiful. 
 I came down into the country in disguise, and 
 hovering about Woodland Cottage, saw you, 
 and acknowledge that my brother's letter had 
 even fellen far short of the bright reality he des 
 cribed. To refuse his application for aid, and 
 to send him despairing to the East, was the 
 work of a man who never yet permitted any 
 obstacle to impede the progress of his will. 
 To personate my brother, to impose on you 
 and your father, and at last to make you so 
 quickly mine, were easy tasks under the cir 
 cumstances. And now I have triumphed, 
 and forever possess a legal title to your hand 
 and person, if not your heart." 
 
 " False and perjured villain," cried the ex 
 cited victim. " Your every word is false ; 
 not only my heart, but my hand and person 
 are free, and rather than yield to you, I will 
 spring from yonder turret window and dash 
 my limbs to atoms on the pavements below." 
 
 "Go on, my brave one, go on." said the bar 
 onet, with provoking coolness. 
 
 " 0, that I should have been so deceived !" 
 she exclaimed, wringing her hands bitterly, 
 " and my poor dear father too, alas ! I fear 
 'twill break his heart. Was ever such perfidy 
 known before ?" 
 
 " There is no mood that doth not become thee," 
 he continued, as he stood watching his victim 
 with folded arms, " and I think- a little spirit 
 rather heightens the style and effect of that 
 pretty face of thine, my wife !" 
 
 ' Call me not by that name ; it is saered, 
 and if you abuse it, heaven will signally pun 
 ish thee. I am no wife of thine; no laws 
 will sanction such a vile deceit as you have 
 practised, and I defy you." 
 
 * Wow I have seen thee thus, I like thee all 
 the better for this spirit. Who would wish to 
 win or wear a tame and over-willing heart ? 
 Thou art a very Catherine, but I will tame 
 thee like Petruchio." 
 
 " Indeed !" 
 
 " Yes, and indeed." 
 
 " Sir Charles Marlow, you know not what 
 you say ; you know not what you have done, 
 or would do." 
 
 " Think you so ?" 
 
 " I do, and so you will find it to be."
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 271 
 
 " You shall see then ere long that I under 
 stand myself and you more than passing well," 
 he said, smiling. 
 
 " I fear you not," she answered. " Heaven 
 will protect me from such a villain as thou 
 art." 
 
 " I have tamed prouder spirits than thine," 
 said the baronet, " and yours is not of the sort 
 to outsoar mine. I leave you now to reflec 
 tion, and I have no doubt that by-and-by you 
 will come to your senses." 
 
 " That I have done already, though, alas ! 
 at so late a moment," she replied. 
 
 He withdrew, and Emma heard the door of 
 the drawing-room double-locked behind him ; 
 but her heart did not fail her, she even felt 
 calmer and more self-possessed now. Her 
 early education had taught her to place entire 
 reliance upon divine Providence, and she 
 knelt now and prayed fervently for fortitude 
 and guidance in her present situation. How 
 fervently she prayed and her prayer was an 
 swered as we shall see. 
 
 That night, before the return of her betray 
 er, she had opened one of the high windows 
 of the drawing-room, and leaped fearlessly and 
 unharmed to the ground. From the hated 
 towers of Marlow House, she fled with the 
 speed o/ a hunted deer, and at the expiration 
 of three days of toilsome wandering, came 
 once more to Woodbine Cottage, to tell her sad 
 story to her father and only protector. His 
 Christian principles forbade his taking the re 
 venge that his manliness at first prompted him 
 to, and he only prayed that a wrong spirit 
 
 might not actuate his heart towards one who 
 had so foully wronged his dear child. His 
 health was naturally delicate, and this misfor 
 tune seemed to break him down most sudden 
 ly, for a few short days and weeks only pass 
 ed, before the curate slept in the, village 
 church-yard. 
 
 Sad was now the condition of the gentle Em 
 ma. She wrote to India to her lover to apprise 
 him of his brother's conduct and her bereave 
 ment, but no answer was ever received. Anoth 
 er letter, sent upon the supposition that the 
 first might have failed, elicited no reply, 
 and with a settled melancholy upon her 
 heart, Mrs. Marlow for by her father's advice 
 she had still retained the name that the law 
 alone could justly relieve her of adopted such 
 industrial means as should enable her to pro 
 cure a respectable livelihood, and being, un 
 like her mother, blessed with health and 
 strength, she was now comparatively comfort 
 able. 
 
 Her nominal husband never preferred a 
 claim to her hand, well knowing that he could 
 not sustain such a course either by law or jus 
 tice. In time, a holy calm, and a sweet resig 
 nation settled over her chastened spirits, and 
 few who witnessed her quiet demeanor, her 
 active benevolence, her cheerful performance 
 of her duties, could imagine that her placid 
 exterior hid so dark and pregnant a story of 
 the heart. 
 
 Such was Mrs. Marlow when, after the 
 lapse of a few years, circumstances brought 
 her in contact with Sir Robert Brompton.
 
 CHAPTER XLIX 
 
 LOVE AND PRIDE. 
 
 O, gentle Romeo, 
 
 If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully ; 
 Or, if thou think'st I am too quickly won, 
 I'll frown, and be perverse, and say thee, nay, 
 So thou wilt woo ; but, else, not for the world. SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 SUCH was the history of the kind-hearted 
 Mrs. Marlow, who had served Sir Robert so 
 faithfully, and who had endeared herself so 
 much to Edith and Clara. After her early 
 experience, she had grown to be the kind- 
 hearted and thoughtful being that we have 
 represented. Solicitous to do her duty, con 
 scientious, highly respected, even by Sir Rob 
 ert himself, and ever striving to do good where 
 it was in her power, though in ever so humble 
 a way. Mrs. Marlow was not yet forty years 
 of age, her hair was dark and glossy, her 
 'Complexion fair, and her general character of 
 features highly pleasing. The beauty of her 
 childhood was not yet gone, while her manners 
 had the quiet and subdued character that 
 might be supposed to attach itself to her situ 
 ation in Sir Robert's household. 
 
 But Clara and herself were together now 
 at the cottage, and no better companion could 
 have been chosen for the fair but unhappy 
 girl, than Mrs. Marlow. After the explana 
 tion that had taken place between Clara and 
 the young curate, she had necessarily felt 
 some delicacy in addressing him as she had 
 done heretofore, and for this reason she turn 
 ed to Mrs. Marlow, and for the first time, ap 
 peared to realize the depth of her mind, and 
 the pure religious tone that seemed to actuate 
 
 it. Indeed she seemed to have found new 
 life in the dear companionship of her who 
 had been so. kind and thoughtful in her behalf 
 for a long period. 
 
 Sir Robert knew nothing of his house 
 keeper's former life ; he had become acquaint 
 ed with her in some casual excursion to the 
 cottage or neighborhood where they now resi 
 ded, and had been recommended by a friend, 
 who said he had known her father well, to 
 engage her in the capacity which she still oc 
 cupied. But Clara and herself were now 
 thrown almost entirely upon each other for 
 amusement, and, for the first time, Clara al 
 luded one day to the past, and asked Mrs. 
 Marlow about her former life. A mutual del 
 icacy had kept them from speaking of this 
 subject to each other, until Clara had seemed 
 to have lost all pride, and to have grown thus 
 dejected. Clara listened with much interest 
 to the story which the reader is already con 
 versant with, and in turn made Mrs. Marlow 
 more of a confidant than she had ever done 
 any human being before this period. 
 
 In the meantime Walter was pressing his 
 suite in turn with the Lady Josephine. 
 
 But agpew phase had been put upon this 
 proposeo%connection, and the friendship of 
 Walter Lord Amidown having received the
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 273 
 
 large sum of money that Karl Blasius had 
 voluntarily returned to him through Sir Rob 
 ert Brompton, and had thus been enabled to 
 pay off all demands upon him, and to once 
 more reinstate his sister in the elegant home 
 from whence his extravagance had at one 
 time expelled her. Here she was again sur 
 rounded by those fair-weather friends, who 
 had temporarily withdrawn from her society, 
 and when they had observed the familiar 
 manner in which she received the advances 
 of the young East Indian, Walter Manning, 
 they did not hesitate to inform her that she 
 should weigh well the consequences of an inti 
 macy that might disgrace her descent, and de 
 bar her from participating in those circles to 
 which she had been born. 
 
 Lord Amidown's sister had gone too far al 
 ready to recede, that is to say, she had lost 
 her heart, and yet the busy-bodies who were 
 constantly buzzing like insects in her ears, 
 could not but affect her judgment, at least in 
 some degree, though to do her justice, she felt 
 that she loved Walter, and that she must al 
 ways do so, let what might transpire. Wal 
 ter could not help discovering this, and he 
 shrewdly divined the cause at once. Though 
 it made him quite unhappy, he said nothing 
 about the matter, but continued, as far as he 
 was permitted to do so, his attentions to her 
 he loved. 
 
 As to Edith and Lord Amidown, they were 
 only too happy, and the time for their union 
 was already fixed upon. Walter was too 
 proud to refer to the matter that we have men 
 tioned tp Josephine's brother, while he was far 
 too much taken up with his own prospects and 
 happiness, to scan those of Walter and his 
 sister. 
 
 As we have already said, the young East 
 Indian was a young man of marked and pe 
 culiar manly bearing and beauty, his figure was 
 exceedingly graceful and attractive, added to 
 which, his mental cultivation was of the 
 rarest kind, and his views, and manner of 
 discussing subjects, were exceedingly en 
 tertaining. For these qualities he was a fa 
 vorite wherever he was thrown, and even in 
 the distinguished circles which he met at Jo 
 sephine's house, he was very popular at once, 
 and indeed he became so much so as to cause 
 quite a revolution in the state of affairs as it 
 regarded his position with Lady Josephine. 
 18 
 
 " Say, Beverly," remarked one young gal 
 lant to another, during a party at Lady Jose 
 phine's, " this fine looking chap who is only a 
 plain Mister, seems to carry everything before 
 him here." 
 
 " Fact," said the other, lazily, quizzing Wal 
 ter as he spoke. 
 
 " 'Twas said that Lady Josephine loved the 
 fellow, and was engaged to him, but she flies 
 higher now her fortune has come back again. 
 She's given him up as a lover, but she 
 patronizes him still." 
 
 " Do you call that giving him up ?" said he 
 who had been addressed as Beverly, referring 
 to Walter, who was now walking across the 
 room with the finest lady in the room, chatting 
 familiarly as she leaned upon his arm, lady 
 Josephine all the while watching them, and 
 biting her fan impatiently for very vexation. 
 " Do you call that giving him up, my fine fel 
 low ? Why, gads life, she's jealous, immense 
 ly jealous." 
 
 " The waters are a little troubled, that's a 
 fact," replied the other, regarding Lady Jose 
 phine with a smile at her earnestness. 
 
 " Troubled ? it's a regular tempest." 
 
 And this was a fact, for when lady Jose 
 phine saw Walter so warmly appreciated by 
 others, she began to review her own con 
 duct towards him, and she saw that her heart 
 was his, wholly his, in spite of all the cold 
 worldly considerations that her officious friends 
 adduced to persuade her to the contrary, and 
 she would have given worlds, had they been 
 at her control, to revoke the little coolness 
 that had already been evinced by her towards 
 Walter Manning. She felt uneasy, unhappy, 
 miserable, and out of conceit with everybody. 
 
 In the meantime, Walter studied her char 
 acter well, though he did not seem to do so. 
 He pretended much devotion to a young heir 
 ess named Lambeth, a titled lady, rich and 
 beautiful, and she, forsooth, seemed greatly 
 smitten with him. They were very intimate, 
 much together, and agreed charmingly, and 
 many a broad hint was thrown out in Lady 
 Josephine's hearing as to their regard for each 
 other. Of course, all this was like throwing 
 sparks among dried chips, and only set her 
 jealousy in a blaze. 
 
 Lady Lambeth was but little over twenty 
 years of age, but she was possessed of remark 
 able penetration of judgment, and a rare
 
 274 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 knowledge of the human heart for one so 
 young. She had made Walter's acquaint 
 ance at the Amidowns, with great satisfac 
 tion to herself, because she saw how different 
 he was from the herd of gaudy butterflies that 
 generally followed in her suit. His plain, un 
 affected, yet highly refined manner was a rara 
 avis in her circle, and altogether she felt that 
 she could have respected and loved him for 
 life, had she not discovered that he was al 
 ready bespoken for Lady Josephine. But her 
 feelings led her to a close watchfulness of 
 Walter in his intercourse with her friend, and 
 she soon discovered the true state of affairs. 
 Appreciating, as she did, the manly character 
 of the young East Indian, she resolved to 
 serve him if it was in her power to do so. 
 
 She could easily realize, in her keen discern 
 ment, how Lady Josephine was affected in the 
 matter ; she saw that at heart she loved Wal 
 ter truly, and that Walter too loved her as 
 sincerely, and she thought that she could serve 
 the interests of both. It was not, however, by 
 going to Josephine Amidown and arguing with 
 her; no, no, she knew the human heart too 
 well for that, she must apply herself to some 
 other mode of procedure, and she accordingly 
 laid her plans quietly, but shrewdly. 
 
 " Mr. Manning," she said to him, as she 
 leaned familiarly upon his arm, "you love 
 Lady Josephine ?" 
 
 " Lady, yes, if it be proper for me to ac 
 knowledge it to another." 
 
 " Her friends have been trying to influence 
 her, I know, against the match that her heart 
 would lead her to. She lacks the resolution 
 to make herself happy, and to take the neces 
 sary steps in spite of the interference of oth 
 ers." 
 
 " You are very frank, 'madam," said Wal 
 ter, not a little surprised at the manner and 
 subject of her conversation. 
 
 " It is my way, Mr. Manning. Believe 
 me to be your friend, and Josephine's also, and 
 govern yourself by my suggestions for a short 
 time, and I will warrant you perfect success in 
 your suit with her." 
 
 " I know not how to thank you for such 
 disinterested kindness, Lady Lambeth. It 
 will by my pride to obey you in everything, 
 and to improve any suggestion you may be 
 pleased to make." 
 
 " That is right. I see you will be an apt 
 
 pupil. Now, give me your arm, if you please, 
 thus. We are going over to examine the pic 
 ture opposite; excuse me if I lean rather 
 heavily" she continued, smiling. 
 
 This conversation had taken place in Lord 
 Amidown 's drawing-room, and though the tones 
 of voice were too low to be overheard by a 
 third party, yet Lady Josephine saw the inti 
 macy, and marked it well. Walter did not 
 require to force his spirits in order to appear 
 interested and vivacious with the pretty, re 
 fined heiress, who leaned so familiarly upon 
 his arm ; his blood was all on fire at the inti 
 macy and tender glances that she lavished 
 upon him, in spite of the fact that he could 
 realize they were intended solely for effect 
 upon Lady Josephine. But she was so enter 
 taining, so handsome, so high-bred and accom 
 plished, that Walter was completely dazzled, 
 and almost forgetting Lady Josephine, he 
 played the part that was assigned to him with 
 a truthfulness that ere a fortnight had passed, 
 had in more than one instance drawn forth a 
 truthful sigh from Lady Lambeth. Indeed she 
 found that where she had intended to play a 
 fictitious part, she had very nearly become in 
 earnest,, and she could not but acknowledge 
 that, under other circumstances, she should 
 have been desperately in love with Walter. 
 
 Matters were in this state at the time when 
 the scene occurred of which the two gallants, 
 Beverly and his friend, had spoken in the 
 drawing-room, and when Lady Josephine's 
 manner had been so marked as to attract their 
 attention. 
 
 As to Walter, he found himself, to* use a 
 familiar term, in clover. The Lady Lambeth 
 was so attentive that the part he played was 
 not feigned ; he was almost, if not quite, in 
 earnest, and this Lady Josephine saw most 
 clearly, and on the occasion referred to, retir 
 ed to her private room to cry with vexation 
 over the feelings that she realized after ob 
 serving the conduct we have described. 
 
 A few weeks of this familiarity had brought 
 matters into such a situation, that they requir 
 ed an explanation. Lady Josephine felt that 
 she could bear this state of suspense no longer, 
 besides which Lady Lambeth appeared to be 
 more a%l more familiar every day with Wal 
 ter, and indeed comments from others began 
 to reach her ears concerning this. 
 
 The gay saloon was cleared at last one
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 275 
 
 night, after a more than usually brilliant eve 
 ning, and Walter, either by accident or de 
 sign, seemed to be the very last person to 
 withdraw, and when he approached Lady 
 Josephine to take leave, his observant eye told 
 him at once that the crisis had come, and that 
 the present moment must make or mar his fu 
 ture relation to her. 
 
 "Mr. Manning!" 
 
 " Lady Josephine !" 
 
 A most embarrassing silence ensued for 
 nearly a minute, in which the lady stood with 
 her eyes riveted upon the carpet, and Walter 
 almost trembled to hear what she would say. 
 He loved her tenderly, and his heart had often 
 rebuked him for the part that he felt Lady 
 Lambeth was causing him to personate ; and 
 yet how could he longer continue his at 
 tentions, when he saw them coldly received, 
 as they had been, while the object of them 
 was influenced by the arguments of her aris 
 tocratic friends. 
 
 " Walter," she repeated. 
 
 He marked the change in her mode of ad 
 dress, and his heart beat quickly at this evi 
 dence of interest, while he drew still nearer to 
 her side. 
 
 " Have I offended you ?" 
 
 " Offended me, lady ?" 
 
 " Yes, that you should have so avoided me 
 of late." 
 
 Ah ! Lady Josephine, do you think that I 
 have voluntarily done this ?" 
 
 " Ho\v else, Walter, could it be ? Surely 
 yoir are your own master." 
 
 'T*Jot in your presence, lady. If I have 
 happened to avoid you, it has only been be 
 cause I thought the attention which 1 tender 
 ed was no longer acceptable. Since we were 
 so intimate, lady, there has been a great 
 change in your prospects, and, perhaps, as 
 change brings change, your feelings are not 
 the same that I had supposed them once." 
 
 " Walter, it is you who are changed. You 
 love the Lady Lambeth." As she said this, she 
 burst into a flood of tears ; her feelings seemed 
 to have become uncontrollable. 
 
 " Are these tears for me ?" he asked, gently 
 
 soothing her agitation. " Ah ! Josephine, do 
 you still love me ?" 
 
 " Walter, you know that I do." 
 
 " Then, believe me, dearest, 1 love you, and 
 as devotedly as ever before." 
 
 The spell was broken, and for them to sit 
 down together there, and scan the past, mutu 
 ally forgiving and explaining, was the most 
 natural thing in the world. The lady ac 
 knowledged frankly the influence that had 
 been brought to bear upon her, and that all the 
 while she heeded these heartless promptings, 
 she was unhappy. 
 
 " Nothing, dear Josephine, shall part us 
 again, now that we thoroughly understand 
 each other," he said, pressing her hand tender 
 ly within his own. 
 
 She could only answer his appeal by si 
 lence; but the confiding manner, the clear 
 sunshine of joy that chased away the tears 
 from her face, were more eloquent than words. 
 What though "the course of true love never 
 does run smooth," the very difficulties and 
 troubles that are encountered but add zest to 
 the final attainment of the soul's desire. 'Tis 
 not the object most easily won that is most priz 
 ed, but rather that which costs us labor, and 
 mayhap even pain and anxiety to call our own. 
 
 Thus it was with both Walter and Jose 
 phine ; they were even happier now that the 
 rainbow had arched the broad heaven of their 
 love, than they would have been had no in 
 tervening clouds for a moment obscured 
 the brilliancy of their hopes. 
 
 Of course, Lady Lambeth soon realized 
 this, and though she said nothing, yet once 
 she did give Walter a look of intelligence that 
 he could not but understand, and on his part 
 he took occasion to acknowledge to her that 
 she had done him such a favor as no one else 
 might have jdone, and that his heart would 
 ever acknowledge the indebtedness. As Lady 
 Lambeth gave him her hand to kiss, after the 
 close of this gratuitous service on her part, 
 Walter felt it tremble slightly within his own, 
 their eyes met, and he saw that their intimacy 
 had ceased not one moment too soon for the 
 happiness of both !
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 
 THE TRIAL. 
 
 Ceaae, triflers; would you have me feel remorse? 
 
 Leave me alone nor cell, nor chain, nor dungeons, 
 
 Speak to the murderer with the voice of solitude. MATURIN'S BERTRAM. 
 
 WHILE Clara was tending flowers and pet 
 ting little sparrows at Haredale, while Walter 
 was threading the mazy paths of love, now 
 coquetting with Lady Lambeth, and now re 
 viewing his past promises with Lady Jose 
 phine, while Lord Amidown and Edith were 
 quietly enjoying the sweets of each other's 
 society, and while Sir Robert Brompton divided 
 his attention equally among them all, now 
 moralizing with Clara, and now driving out in 
 the Park with Edith we say while all these 
 matters were transpiring, Karl Blasius lay 
 immured in his gloomy cell, dejected and 
 miserable. 
 
 Months have passed since we'first saw him 
 there weary, long and trying months to him, 
 and most wretchedly had he become reduced 
 by the physical suffering, caused by want of 
 fresh air and exercise, and the far more 
 bitter gnawings of conscience. When he had 
 been confined at Armantz, and from whence 
 he so signally escaped, he was a much young 
 er man, his spirits were more pliant, and re 
 bounded again from the occasional depression 
 that overcame him. But now he was older 
 older in years, and older in sin ; his conscience 
 carried a heavier weight now, and he felt at 
 
 times as though he could not long survive this 
 accumulation of miseries. 
 
 And yet, for all this, he cherished hopes of 
 soon being released from his unhappy confine 
 ment, and once more feeling himself free to 
 go where he would. How he envied the 
 doves that filled the prison cots, as he saw 
 them wheel about their little open doors, and 
 feeding their young, dash out again, and fly 
 away far off over the prison top, free and un 
 restrained. He had succeeded in enticing a 
 pair of them to come daily to his grated win 
 dow, where he fed them ! Ay, this fierce 
 and bloody man would watch now impatient 
 ly for the hour to come when the doves would 
 eat of the food saved from his prison fare ! 
 
 Strange how circumstances may change 
 the heart of man ; he was as gentle with 
 these doves as a little child would have been ; 
 his arm that had been raised so often to spill 
 his brother's blood, was as light as a woman's 
 now, as it smoothed the glossy plumage of his 
 feathered pets, and there was ever an answer 
 ing 'fcsponse within his breast when the 
 doves turned their eyes up to look into his 
 face, after they had eaten of his scanty fare. 
 Yes, thus it really was Heaven had left some
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 277 
 
 of the angel still in that dark and guilty 
 man's heart. The half effaced image of his 
 Maker still was there ! 
 
 He was allowed no recreation, no books, no 
 employment, but seemed doomed to a terrible 
 idleness that was fearful, because it turned 
 his mind so continually and actively in upon 
 himself. He envied the joy of convict labor 
 ers who passed sometimes within his sight 
 on their way to break stones, for they had 
 employment their minds were occupied. 
 He looked back upon his confinement at Ar- 
 mantz, with regret that he was not able now 
 to be as happy even as he then was. - His 
 jailer rarely vouchsafed a word to him, and his 
 tongue half forgot its office. 
 
 A spider that had weaved its nest across 
 the topmost corner of his grated window, was 
 an object as minutely watched in all his do 
 ings, as though the prisoner's very life depend 
 ed upon the little insect. The spider seemed 
 at last to know him, and not to hasten to the 
 deep crevice and hide itself when he drew 
 near, but kept busily spinning its infinite num 
 ber of threads, so fine that the robber could 
 only discover them by taking into view a 
 large number at a glance One day he fell 
 asleep, with one hand upon the bar, and the 
 spider stung him, and this brought to his 
 mind a strange train of thoughts. 
 
 His hand became swollen, and painful, but 
 it seemed to be a mental relief to him, and he 
 would not apply for any medicines or bandages 
 for it, but watched the subtle working of the 
 poison, and studied its course in each stage. 
 It was occupation, even bearing the pain, 
 which at times was most acute,and relieved his 
 mind from the fearful and never-ceasing 
 wakeful dreams that oppressed it. The virus 
 having at last exhausted itself, by being taken 
 up, and becoming absorbed in the system, 
 the hand became once more well. 
 
 Thus, as we have said, months passed over 
 the robber's head, and the date drew near 
 when it had been intimated to him that his 
 trial would take place. Sir Robert had twice 
 called upon him during this period, once in 
 relation to the care of the ill gotten wealth, 
 which had been secreted by the robber, and 
 this had been properly disposed of, as the 
 rooms he had occupied for his mystic purposes 
 were now engaged to other tenants. He 
 had also procured respectable counsel for the 
 
 robber, that he might not kck for a proper and 
 reasonable legal defence, in behalf of his 
 life. 
 
 The lawyer thus retained had visited him, 
 and satisfied himself on all the necessary 
 points, as it regarded the prisoner's defence, 
 and as he could do nothing more until he was 
 aware of what witnesses and charges would 
 be brought, he had not deemed it necessary 
 further to consult with his client, and there 
 fore the robber had seen him but once ; and 
 now that the day was so near at hand, he felt 
 a natural desire to consult him more fully 
 upon a matter affecting, as this did, his life. 
 But the day appointed for his trial came be 
 fore he met his counsel again, and then it was 
 in court. 
 
 After a brief conversation with him, 
 the jury was summoned, and Karl Blasiu? 
 was put upon his trial, by the name of William 
 Lancewood. He refused of course to answer 
 to this name, declaring that it was not his right 
 ful one, but the prosecuting attorney said that 
 he expected to be able to show that although 
 the prisoner might have many aliases, this 
 was the one by which he was at least the best 
 known among his companions, though the 
 public had known him best as Madame Duval, 
 the fortune-teller. This matter being dispos 
 ed of to the satisfaction of the court, the trial 
 then commenced in earnest. 
 
 At first, evidence was adduced showing that 
 the prisoner and the so-styled Madame Duval 
 were one and the same, and to prove this, it 
 was only necessary to summon the policemen 
 who had arrested him. Thus, at the outset, 
 the robber's case received an almost fatal blow. 
 He found by the reading, that he was charged 
 with murder,or rather an attempt to commit mur 
 der, but where this was to be applied or localiz- 
 ed,he could not conceive. True,he had murder 
 ed Hardhead, but "dead men tell no lies," 
 and who could suspect him in a matter where 
 in he had acted so openly, and which he had 
 himself laid before the police 1 
 
 Several hours were occupied in points of 
 evidence, when at last a first witness was 
 summoned. The robber could not see his 
 face until he had assumed the witness's stand, 
 and had sworn the usual oath, when he turned 
 to face in part, the jury, the two counsel, and 
 the prisoner. As he did so, the robber rose 
 to his feet, in amazement ; he could not be-
 
 278 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 lieve his eyes, and as he stood there, he rub 
 bed them again and again, and gazed more 
 intently, when he seemed to sink into his seat 
 again, as though perfect despair had taken 
 possession of his soul, and his head dropped 
 upon his breast, as if he had become lifeless ! 
 The witness who was thus brought to con 
 front him there, was Hardhead ! 
 
 No wonder that the robber felt himself so 
 thoroughly lost. He realized, even in the 
 midst of his wonder at seeing his supposed 
 victim alive, how thoroughly Hardhead knew 
 him and his guilty habits. He was a host of 
 evidence within himself, for he had witness 
 ed over half the most daring burglaries 
 which he had committed in London, besides 
 showing in his own person sufficient to con 
 demn the prisoner, in relation to his attempt 
 upon the witness's life. The fact was, Hard 
 head had turned state's evidence against Karl 
 Blasius, in revenge for that fearful night's 
 work. 
 
 The evidence elicited from Hardhead, was 
 of the clearest and most satisfactory charac 
 ter. He told a plain and straight-forward 
 story, for he fek that the truth was bad enough, 
 and that he could scarcely render it darker by 
 falsehood. He related the life of the robber 
 from the period when our story opens, up to 
 the very day of his arrest, but more he did not 
 know, save that he had heard the prisoner tell 
 of some daring piratical scenes in the Spanish 
 Indies, in which, according to his own admis 
 sion, he had participated. The jury listened 
 attentively, and appeared to believe all that 
 Hardhead uttered. 
 
 Being called upon to explain the fact of his 
 not losing his life at the time that he was sup 
 posed to be dead, he showed that he had 
 scarcely been brought to the dead house be 
 fore the air and motion that he had encounter 
 ed, revived him so that he could make a mo 
 tion, and this being observed, a surgeon was 
 sent for directly, and proper means being 
 adopted an^ vigorously applied, he was in a 
 few hours quite relieved from danger. His 
 suspicions were aroused, and he divulged 
 them to the police, who at once procured a war 
 rant for the robber's arrest. 
 
 At first, it could not exactly be discovered 
 what means had been used to produce the 
 state in which Hardhead was conveyed to the 
 dead house, but the police who arrested the 
 
 robber, noted a few bits of charcoal that 
 appeared to have fallen upon, and burned the 
 chamber floor, and also discovered the small 
 hand furnace. These facts, coupled with the 
 observation of the surgeon, as to the insensi 
 bility that had been produced, led them at 
 least to believe that the robber had placed 
 charcoal in the room for the object of ridding 
 himself of a dangerous witness. 
 
 " Had you any words with the prisoner on 
 that night before retiring?" asked one of the 
 jury of Hardhead. 
 
 " Yes, we had a dispute about some money 
 matters, and I threatened to expose him if he 
 didn't share the profits he had made for I 
 knowed he had lots of gold secreted some 
 where in the place." 
 
 The jury looked significantly at each other, 
 as they seemed to sum up in their minds the 
 various links of the evidence which they had 
 heard. Hardhead was dismissed from the 
 stand, and the defence was opened by the 
 counsel for the prisoner. He was rather a 
 young man, but had obtained considerable 
 reputation for shrewdness and legal cunning, 
 and Sir Robert had secured his services with 
 the promise of a liberal fee of a thousand 
 pounds if he would succeed in clearing the 
 prisoner, for he wished to have him liberated, 
 and permitted to retire to his own country, to 
 repent and become fit for death. 
 
 This was an unusually large fee, and tempt 
 ed the cupidity of the young lawyer, who, 
 therefore, resolved if possible, to prove his 
 client innocent, at least to the satisfaction of 
 the jury, and being himself well satisfied of 
 his guilt after a few moments' conversation 
 with him, he found, that let the evidence be 
 what it might, his reliance must not be in any 
 assistance the robber could afford him in 
 strengthening his case, but that he must rely 
 solely upon his own inventive powers, and the 
 application of the shrewd points and bear 
 ings of his profession. 
 
 The charges preferred by the prosecuting 
 attorney seemed to be fully substantiated, all 
 save the attempt upon Hardhead's life, which 
 was the main thing upon which the action 
 was brought, and that was strongly sustained 
 by a chafc of circumstances. There was the 
 testimony of the physician, as to the effect 
 produced upon Hardhead, which he unhesi 
 tatingly pronounced to be most likely to have
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 been caused by the gas of burning charcoal, 
 and then, to corroborate this idea, there were 
 the bits of charcoal found upon the floor, and 
 the furnace also in which the coals might 
 have been ignited. 
 
 This chain of evidence, and the fact of the 
 dispute that had passed between the prisoner 
 and Hardhead, were forcibly dwelt upon by 
 the prosecuting attorney. He labored to show 
 the former character of the prisoner in its 
 most odious light, called the attention of the 
 jury to the fact of his having played upon the 
 credulity of the public for so long a period, un 
 der the name of Duval, pretending to afford 
 information of a superhuman character, and 
 in short, did not seem to let any chance for 
 sarcasm or bitterness escape him, but poured 
 out his accumulated charges and anathemas 
 upon the prisoner's head, with excited earnest 
 ness. 
 
 Not so with the robber's counsel ; he was 
 cool and collected. , He had allowed the prose 
 cution to go on to every extreme that was 
 attempted, and had not once used his preroga 
 tive to check them where he thought them to 
 
 o 
 
 be exceeding the spirit of the law, and thus 
 permitted to go on, the prosecuting attorney 
 had more than once, though a most able man, 
 made points that might have been easily de 
 clared inadmissible as evidence against the 
 prisoner, had his counsel challenged them be 
 fore the court ; but this was not the case, and 
 the prosecution went through its entire course, 
 unchecked and undisputed. 
 
 The jury even thought that the prisoner did 
 not have a fair chance for his life through his 
 counsel, and thus a half defined sympathy 
 was aroused in their breasts in his behalf. 
 They began to wonder what he could say, 
 after letting so much go against his client. 
 Though he was now fully possessed of the 
 government plan and manner of charging his 
 client, they could know nothing of his mode 
 of defence, and therefore could take no fair 
 means to defeat or disprove the validity of 
 what he might say. This state of things 
 created no small interest among the jury, 
 judges, and counsel, when, at this moment, 
 the prisoner's counsel rose to speak. 
 
 He was, as we have before remarked, a 
 young man, but he had studied the art of pro 
 ducing effect upon a jury one of the greatest 
 secrets of his profession. He had rejoiced 
 
 within himself at the excited and passionate 
 spirit of the prosecution ; he had not regretted 
 the illegal points that had been made, for 
 all these were a mine of strength in the 
 defence, and by his rigid contrast to the heat 
 ed manner of the prosecution, he would be 
 able to produce a far more decided effect than 
 he could have done had the trial on their part 
 been conducted with calmness. 
 
 He rose with a quiet, calm self-possession, 
 that said upon the face of it, as a confident 
 smile lighted up his features, that he consid 
 ered all that had been said and done as weigh 
 ing not one farthing against the case. He 
 bowed respectfully to the court, the jury, and 
 the crowd of his professional brethren that 
 thronged the court-room, at this interesting 
 moment. 
 
 With the most deliberate intonations of 
 voice and the most distinct articulation, he 
 commenced by saying boldly, with his clear, 
 handsome eye fixed upon the jury, that not 
 one item of evidence had yet been adduced 
 to prove the guilt of his client. He told the 
 jury that he would not trespass so much upon 
 their patience as to take up the extraordinary 
 points made by the prosecution, and attempt 
 ing to disprove them, one by one, he would 
 annul them altogether. He called upon the 
 jury to mark the character of the hardened 
 villain who had been brought there to swear 
 away another's life, and the prosecution had 
 even taken the pains to show that he did so 
 after a personal quarrel with ihe prisoner! 
 
 He . referred the jury, one by one, to the 
 illegal points made by the government, and 
 showed them so plainly, and showered them 
 down upon the prosecuting attorney's head in 
 such profusion, that he writhed under the in 
 fliction. He said that he had not come there 
 to couch a lance against any one, nor to lose 
 his temper in arguing his cause : his case did 
 not require any vehemence to propagate it, 
 but he would call the attention of the court 
 and the jury to a few remarks which he de 
 sired to make, and which he should substan 
 tiate by competent witnesses. 
 
 He then commenced a clear, calm, but 
 powerful argument against circumstantial evi 
 dence ; he even startled the jury by the num 
 ber and thrilling character of the incidents 
 he related, from undoubted authority, show 
 ing how many innocent persons had been ex-
 
 280 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE -TIME. 
 
 ecu ted upon the strength of this species of 
 evidence. He drew pictures, related cases, 
 and stated facts, in such an array and strength, 
 as to astonish the older members of the pro 
 fession about him. The court-room was 
 all the while as still as death. The jury 
 looked at each other in amazement, and their 
 faces evinced as much hesitation now, as it 
 regarded the case before them, as they had 
 done of confidence during the remarks of 
 the prosecuting attorney. The keen sighted 
 young lawyer saw, and improved this advan 
 tage ; he was not addressing himself solely 
 to a panel of jurors, but he was working 
 upon their convictions he was moulding their 
 belief and fancy to serve his own purpose. As 
 he saw them gradually receive and credit his 
 remarks, he grew more decided, until he had 
 brought them, step by step, to the point where 
 they were ready to receive assertion for argu 
 ment, and then he changed his tactics. 
 
 Now he launched forth on another branch 
 of evidence. He told the jury that he should 
 not attempt to refute in detail what he could 
 annul altogether, and he boldly declared that 
 he could prove Hardhead to have fallen down 
 in the street in a tit on that night on which 
 the indictment charged the prisoner with hav 
 ing attempted to kill him, and he called four 
 persons to swear to this, who declared that at 
 a certain hour, which each one fixed by some 
 attending circumstance, they had seen Hard 
 head lying in the street, as though he were 
 dead, but by the copious use of water and 
 external friction, he was revived sufficiently 
 to go on his way, unaided. 
 
 This was the only evidence that he wished 
 to introduce; his client 'was brought there to 
 be tried upon an indictment relating to an at 
 tempt to murder ; no other charge had been 
 legally brought against him, though the prose 
 cution, feeling the weakness of the case, had 
 gone back and attempted to show the prisoner 
 to have been a villain almost from his cradle. 
 But what had this to do with the indictment? 
 That was all he desired to refute a charge 
 that was legally brought : neither the court 
 nor the jury had aught to do with any other 
 consideration ; this their honors upon the 
 bench would sustain him in most fully. 
 
 He then wanted to know, when it was clear 
 ly proved that the man known as Hardhead 
 had been seen in a fit the evening before the 
 
 day when he had been conveyed to the dead 
 house, who was prepared to say that his sec 
 ond fit, from which he had recovered as 
 described, was not produced by the same cause 
 as the one that had occurred in the street ? 
 Was it likely that a man guilty of his sup 
 posed murder, would have gone, as the pris 
 oner did, at the moment of his discovering it, 
 and declare the fact of his death to the 
 proper authorities ? He left this question for 
 the jury to settle in their own minds; he 
 should draw no inference for them the case 
 was too clear for a doubt. 
 
 The calm air of confidence, so different 
 from the heated manner of the attorney for 
 the prosecution, had great weight with the 
 jury they were half inclined in his favor be 
 fore he had spoken five minutes. The judge 
 even seemed to waver when he summed up 
 the evidence, and charged the jury he could 
 not overrule any point made by the prisoner's 
 counsel. He had been wary and cautious in 
 all he had asserted, and all he had done, and 
 finally the jury retired for the consideration 
 of the guilt or innocence of the prisoner at 
 the bar. 
 
 In the meantime, Karl Blasius had sat with 
 watchful eagerness, carefully drinking in every 
 word that his counsel uttered. When he had 
 heard of the manner of Hardhead's revival, 
 he no longer wondered at seeing him there, 
 but the plea that was put in, proving a fit 
 as having occurred to Hardhead before he saw 
 him on that eventful night, was new to him ! 
 He studied the expressive countenances of the 
 jury, as they listened to the eloquent and 
 convincing remarks of his counsel, and when 
 they had retired to consult upon the verdict, 
 he fell to musing on all this singular business, 
 and realized after all, how little real justice 
 there is in law, since a feather's weight 
 may turn the scale either way, and innocence 
 suffer, or transgression go unscourged. Nor 
 was he far from correct in his inference. 
 
 But the jury were soon in their seats again, 
 and through the foreman, ready to declare 
 their verdict. The usual form was observed. 
 The judfre called upon them for their answer 
 to the gfct or innocence of the prisoner at the 
 bar, when the foreman replied in a clear, dis 
 tinct voice : 
 
 " NOT GUILTY !"
 
 CHAPTER LI. 
 
 THE RETRIBUTION. 
 
 Take my esteem, if you on that can live ; 
 But frankly, sir, 'tis all I have to give. 
 
 DRYDEN. 
 
 THE country seat of Sir Charles Marlow 
 was a rich specimen of the style in which the 
 English gentry formerly lived. Its yards 
 were spacious, its parks and preserves ample 
 and thrifty, and the old trees about the an 
 cestral mansion itself, looked like huge giants 
 set to guard the Marlow domain. The present 
 representative of the family, who has already 
 appeared upon these pages in so unfavorable a 
 light, was hardly worthy to sustain the reputa 
 tion of so goodly a stock as he had sprung 
 from. He was an imperious, self-willed man, 
 and though his table never lacked plenty of 
 jovial attendants from the country round, yet 
 they came more for the good things the table 
 bore and for the pleasure of meeting each other, 
 than for the sake of the host himself. 
 
 To-day was devoted to a fox hunt, to-mor 
 row, perhaps to a race, and the next, maybe, 
 to gambling in some way. The cold, selfish 
 master of the domain, made every one subser 
 vient to his will, and lived in all things as 
 though life was created alone for him, and as 
 if all those persons who breathed the air in 
 common with him, were intended to adminis 
 ter to his pleasure. 
 
 At the age of forty-five, Sir Charles by 
 accident met with a young and beautiful girl, 
 not far from his own home. Her parents 
 were poor, but respectable, and she being an 
 
 only child, had shared all the advantages for 
 improvement that were possibly to be obtained 
 through the limited means and humble influ 
 ence of her father. Fanny Hardway's beauty 
 was of just that blooming, yet retiring char 
 acter, that would attract such a man as Sir 
 Charles Marlow. He saw and loved her at 
 once. The cunning baronet was already too 
 well experienced in those matters to be hasty 
 or indiscreet. He in the first place, secured 
 the good will and approbation of her parents 
 by a few well-bestowed favors ; but Fanny 
 herself, he saw was not to be so easily won, 
 even by a baronet. 
 
 The truth was, the humble girl had a lover 
 already among her own class, one with whom 
 she had already exchanged promises of love 
 and constancy, though this was unknown to 
 her parents. Sir Charles's constant visits 
 seemed to delight the simple father and moth 
 er of Fanny, while they greatly distressed the 
 young girl. He daily grew more familiar, but 
 she could onlyextendto him a careful and studi 
 ed politeness, for she did not dare to thwart his 
 advances boldly. She was young, not yet 
 twenty, her father was ill, their means were 
 daily becoming exhausted, and Fanny saw 
 that she was expected by her parents to sacri 
 fice herself in order to give them bread. She 
 looked upon the bent form of her father, who
 
 282 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 had never denied her anything in his life, and 
 upon the anxious face of a mother, the larger 
 portion of whose life had been expended in 
 caring for and bringing her up, and she said : 
 " It is but one little struggle and all is over, 
 and by the sacrifice I shall gajn comfort and 
 plenty to their future share. How can I hesi 
 tate even for a moment to decide in my own 
 mind, when I see that their happiness depends 
 upon my marrying Sir Charles ?" 
 
 But her heart beat heavily, and the deep 
 sighs that escaped her incontinently now 
 and then, came from the very depths of her 
 young breast. Edward Manley knew very 
 well the course of reasoning that had brought 
 Fanny to consent in her own mind to the at 
 tentions of the rich baronet, and miserable as 
 this made him, still he could not but admire her 
 the more for the self-sacrificing willingness 
 with which she yielded all to her parents, and 
 sold her own happiness even, to buy them 
 bread. Bitter, ah ! how bitter was their meet 
 ing one night alone, and unseen by any other 
 human eye. Fanny's grief was resolved to 
 show itself once, and she wept like a child, 
 while Edward told her, after all else, that at 
 least she had the sweet assurance of affording 
 her parents protection and support for life. 
 He was himself as poor as Fanny, therefore 
 he could not bring to her or them any ex 
 change for her hand, except the warm and 
 honest heart, a gift richer than the glittering 
 pile Sir Charles promised them. 
 
 "I may love you still ?" whispered Edward 
 Manley, entreatingly. 
 
 " Nay, Edward, it would be wicked to love 
 the wife of another." 
 
 " And I must see thee thus borne away by 
 this baronet for want of the means to support 
 purselves and parents. Alas! that fortune 
 should have dealt so hardly with us." 
 
 And so indeed it was ; there was no other 
 way for Fanny to do, provided she counted 
 her parents' wants and comforts as weighing 
 aught in the scale, and as Sir Charles renew 
 ed, each time he came to the cottage, his warm 
 assurance of love and devotion, Fanny had at 
 last learned to receive them with downcast 
 eyes and silent acquiescence, at least as far as 
 appearances were concerned. 
 
 The baronet really loved her ; when he had 
 carried away Emma, and by deceit made her 
 Mrs. Marlow, he had been tempted by his 
 
 passions, not his love. Now his heart, or at 
 least what heart he had left, was touched, and 
 as the proper period transpired before the pro 
 posed union should take place, the cold, sel 
 fish man felt the chastening influence upon 
 his heart of the love that actuated it. It 
 changed in no small degree his habits and 
 feelings, and those about him were surprised 
 at witnessing deeds of liberal charity and un 
 usual kindness. The truth was, that so po 
 tent is love, it will purify and bleach even the 
 hardest heart. 
 
 In the meantime the wedding-day was ap 
 pointed, and arrangements were made to give 
 the neighboring country folks a liberal and jo 
 vial entertainment on the occasion of Sir 
 Charles's union with one of their own class. 
 
 Edward Manley could remain in the vicini 
 ty of Fanny no longer, now that the day was 
 affixed which was to make her Sir Charles's 
 wife. He therefore bade her a tender fare 
 well, and left his native place to seek for em 
 ployment elsewhere. 
 
 Already had Sir Charles offered to purchase 
 the cottage and lands, for which Fanny's fa 
 ther was obliged to pay so much rent as to 
 keep him constantly embarrassed, and to pre 
 sent it to them, but the father refused all such 
 assistance now. He said that when Sir 
 Charles became his son-in-law, if he chose to 
 lend him an aiding hand, it was all very well, 
 and would be very acceptable, but it looked, 
 he said, too much like selling his child, to re 
 ceive such a favor before he parted with her. 
 However, Mark Hardway awoke one morning 
 and found upon his table that the cottage and 
 land, with all right and title, had been trans- 
 fered to his name, and the papers making the 
 whole property his own were in his hand. 
 No donor appeared, or was named. Of course, 
 he presumed it came from Sir Charles, but he 
 knew not, and this being the case, the family 
 found themselves on a happy and comfortable 
 pecuniary footing. 
 
 Fanny grew pale and thin, and her mother 
 felt that her daughter was far from being 
 happy. 
 
 Thfi day approached when the victim was 
 to be %crificed, and finally, Fanny having, in 
 accordance with what she deemed to be 
 her duty, consented to give her hand to Sir 
 Charles Marlow, the village church was pre 
 pared for the ceremony. The little altar was
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 283 
 
 dressed with fragrant flowers, and the sexton 
 was seen all day running and bustling about, 
 full of importance and business. Every niche 
 and corner was decorated again and again, and 
 there was no portion of duty that was not 
 done twice over in his anxiety to do the best 
 he could. 
 
 Little boys 'and girls lingered about the 
 church door as the hour fof the ceremony ap 
 proached, and Cato, as he was called a poor 
 half-witted being, who came from no one knew 
 where, but who had been cared for by the 
 villagers these fifteen years leaned against 
 the door and watched with a half-foolish, half- 
 thoughtful eye, the proceedings of those who 
 prepared the church. Some folks thought 
 him without any wits at all, but those who 
 were kind to him, and Fanny was among that 
 number, knew better. 
 
 This weak minded boy he was scarcely 
 more than a boy seemed unusually troubled 
 and uneasy as the hour approached for the 
 wedding. He walked quickly backward and 
 forward like a dumb animal that seeks to find 
 some relief from a pressing annoyance. Four 
 fifths of the villagers who had canvassed the 
 proposed connection in the usual gossipping 
 style, had come to the conclusion that Fanny 
 was very glad indeed, and very much to be 
 envied that she should be able to make a match 
 so much above her own sphere. The other 
 portion said it was an ill assorted match, but 
 probably a love one. 
 
 Strange that out of them all, this poor fool, 
 as he was called, should have best read the 
 young girl's heart. He sighed, ay, and now 
 the hour had nearly come, he cried too ! 
 Fanny had always been his friend, she gave 
 him food and clothes, but more than all, she 
 was kind and gentle to him, and he loved her 
 0, how much the poor half-witted creature 
 loved that kind-hearted girl. In spite of all 
 his simplicity, he knew that she was unhappy, 
 though Fanny breathed no word of complaint 
 to any one; itwasnot her way to do so. Ed 
 ward only knew her heart ; her parents could 
 only see the picture that their fancy drew of a 
 comfortable and even splendid home for their 
 child, and a happy setout for life. 
 
 Poor Cato knew that although Fanny was 
 going to a proud, rich mansion, that her heart 
 went not with her, and as he walked back and 
 forth by the door of the village church, now 
 
 and then a strange dark feeling came over 
 him, as though he would like to leap upon Sir 
 Charles Marlow, and, clutching his throat, kill 
 him ! Such thoughts as these filled the poor 
 creature's breast as the marriage corteg'e ap 
 proached. 
 
 They were all there ; the proud baronet and 
 his village bride, the curate, the parents, the 
 friends strangely mingled from the gentry 
 and the humble peasantry altogether filed in 
 by the poor half-witted boy, until as the last 
 one brought up the rear, he stole in also, and 
 posted himself in a corner where he could see 
 and hear all that was done in the little church. 
 
 The ceremony was performed with all the 
 details to that part where the curate asks the 
 usual questions ; that relating to the bans is 
 repeated three times. It had already been 
 distinctly uttered twice, when the clatter of 
 horses' feet rang over the road, and the peo 
 ple in the little church were startled by the 
 noise of one rushing up the aisle, and in the 
 next moment a voice cried aloud : 
 
 " I forbid the bans !" 
 
 In order to render our story plainer, we turn 
 with the reader now and follow Edward Man- 
 ley, who had been driven to leave his child 
 hood's home by the unhappy force of the cir 
 cumstances referred to. He could not bear to 
 stay and see the choice of his heart become 
 the wife of another ; indeed he felt that it was 
 best for them both that he should not do so. 
 He was humble in means, and must be indus 
 trious even to enable him to procure the ne 
 cessities of life, and he hoped, too, by assidu 
 ous application to drive away in part the bit 
 ter reflections that now flooded his heart. 
 
 Edward Manley, in his wanderings in 
 search of employment, came at last to Hare- 
 dale, where he engaged with Sir Robert 
 Brompton, whom he chanced to meet, to at 
 tend to the garden and grounds generally of 
 the cottage. 
 
 " You will pay all regard to the wants of the 
 house. I am frequently in town myself for 
 some days at a time." 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 " Do as well as you can, and be industrious, 
 and I doubt not I shall like you well," said Sir 
 Robert, encouragingly. 
 
 " I will try, sir." 
 
 " Mrs. Marlow will''
 
 284 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 " Who, sir ?" asked the new gardener, with 
 a startled energy. 
 
 " Who ? Why, I was about to speak of 
 the housekeeper," he replied ; " is there any 
 thing remarkable in that to surprise you?" 
 
 " No, sir, but you called her name, sir ?" sug 
 gested Edward, respectfully. 
 
 " I did Mrs. Marlow." 
 
 " Any relation to Sir Charles Marlow, in 
 the east county, sir ?" asked Edward, with evi 
 dent interest depicted in his face. 
 
 "I know not ; and yet Marlow is not a com 
 mon name." "It is a little queer," thought 
 Sir Robert, to himself, " that I never thought 
 to ask Mrs. Marlow about her birth I will 
 do so sometime." 
 
 At this moment, Clara approached them 
 where they stood together in the garden, when 
 Sir Robert turned carelessly, to satisfy the cu 
 riosity that had sprung up in his own breast, 
 and asked her : 
 
 " Is Mrs. Marlow any relation of the Mar- 
 low family of east county, Clara ?" 
 
 Clara was startled by this question, which 
 she feared involved the disclosure of Mrs. 
 Marlow's confidence to her, and yet she did 
 not know that what she had told her was con 
 sidered a secret exactly, for at the time of its 
 occurrence years before, it must have been 
 generally known. She therefore answered 
 Sir Robert that there was a very peculiar re 
 lationship existing between her and Sir Charles 
 Marlow, which she could explain to him if he 
 desired. Saying which Sir Robert turned 
 from Edward Manley, and drawing Clara's arm 
 within his own, strolled away down one of the 
 paths to hear what she had to communicate 
 relative to the subject of Mrs. Marlow's rela 
 tionship to Sir Charles Marlow. 
 
 But Edward Manley had heard enough to 
 excite his curiosity ; he remembered when a 
 boy to have heard of some illegal transaction 
 between Sir Charles and a young girl whom 
 he married, or was said to have run away 
 with, but who afterwards ran away from him, 
 and there seemed to be something whispering 
 at his heart that all this concerned himself in 
 some way. He felt as though he ought to 
 understand the matter at any rate, and when 
 Sir Robert returned, after hearing Clara's story 
 of the housekeeper, he resolved to ask him 
 not to consider him impertinent if he should 
 inquire more fully as to what relationship 
 
 Mrs. Marlow was to Sir Charles. And as Sir 
 Robert came up, he did so. 
 
 " Why do you feel so much curiosity about 
 the matter, young man ?" asked Sir Robert, 
 interested in the feelings he observed the new 
 gardener to possess, more particularly since the 
 story which had just heard from Clara. 
 
 After a few moments' hesitation, young 
 Manley seemed to take courage, and resolved 
 to tell his story to Sir Robert, in whom he 
 thought he discovered one who would befriend 
 him as far as it was possible. He therefore 
 told him what had driven him from his native 
 place to seek employment elsewhere ; he told 
 him of his love for Fanny Hardway, and that 
 Sir Charles Marlow was the successful rival 
 who was that very day to bear Fanny a bride 
 to his proud mansion. 
 
 " Does she love him ?" asked Sir Robert, 
 hastily, " or is your regard mutual ?" 
 
 " Ah ! sir, we have been pledged to each 
 other for years," replied Edward Manley. 
 
 " And she marries him, as you say, from a 
 sense of duty in her parents' behalf?" 
 
 " That is the only consideration that influ 
 ences her to marry Sir Charles." 
 
 " Then the marriage shall not take place," 
 said Sir Robert, confidently. 
 
 " It is too late to prevent it now, sir. They 
 are a dozen leagues from here, and this after 
 noon is fixed upon for the wedding." 
 
 Sir Robert's mind seemed to be made up in 
 one instant, and he resolved to befriend the 
 young couple at all hazards. 
 
 " Look you, my fine fellow, you best know 
 whether you have told me the truth about 
 the matter, or not if you have done so, I 
 will be your friend ; in the stable back of the 
 cottage, there is a large gray horse he is 
 strong, well trained, and fleet ; saddle him, and 
 if you do not reach Sir Charles Marlow be 
 fore the ceremony be performed, it will be 
 your own fault. At the proper moment, for 
 bid the bans say that you require but a few 
 hours to give legal reasons why the marriage 
 should not take place. Say no more than this, 
 and I will be there to-morrow with evidence 
 that^ill sustain you, but which it will proba 
 bly be unnecessary to adduce. Do you under 
 stand me fully ?" 
 
 " Perfectly, sir ; I know well enough what 
 to do, but I know not what to fay to you who 
 have thus befriended me."
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 285 
 
 " Hasten there is no time to be lost. 
 Here, take this purse, saddle the gray horse, 
 and be gone at once." 
 
 Edward Manley required no mpre urging, 
 but with a muttered acknowledgment that only 
 served to show how thankful he was, without 
 giving articulation to any distinct utterance, 
 he sought the stable, and was mounted and 
 upon the road so quickly as to give promise 
 to Sir Robert that he needed no urging to 
 prompt him. A cloud of dust followed his 
 horse's heels, and soon shut him out from 
 view of those at the cottage. 
 
 Sir Robert entered the library of his coun 
 try house, and seating himself, as he reflected 
 upon this queer business, he could not but feel 
 surprised at the chance which had brought 
 Edward Manley to him, and at such an op 
 portune moment, He knew the family of 
 Marlow by reputation, but the idea ha d never 
 entered his head to inquire before that day 
 as to his housekeeper's story. Having resolv 
 ed to assist young Manley in relation to his 
 love for Fanny Hardway, he now perfected 
 his plan. In the first place, he drew up a 
 brief paper for Mrs. Marlow to sign, testifying 
 to the truth of her having been married to 
 Sir Charles Marlow, and this she readily did, 
 more particularly when she understood the 
 object of the paper which Sir Robert explain 
 ed to her. 
 
 " There is to be a singular finale to this 
 story, between Sir Charles Marlow and your 
 self," said Sir Robert. 
 
 " So far as I can be the means of prevent 
 ing another's unhappiness, I am very glad," 
 said the kind-hearted Mrs. Marlow; "but I 
 have long since forgiven Sir Charles in my 
 
 own heart for the wrong he would have done 
 me years ago." 
 
 " Yours is a good heart, Mrs. Marlow, and 
 would not revenge itself, I know ; but we must 
 not see these young people I have befriended 
 suffer while we can prevent it. It may be, 
 and indeed is most likely, that I shall be com 
 pelled only to show this paper to Sir Charles 
 himself, without in any other way making its 
 contents known. He will dread exposure and 
 give her up." 
 
 " I trust it may be thus, for both his sake 
 and mine," she said, quietly, though evidently 
 with much feeling. 
 
 " Trust to my discretion, my good Mrs. 
 Marlow, and I will do all for the best," an 
 swered Sir Robert Brompton. 
 
 " I will, sir for you have always been a 
 true friend to me," replied Mrs. Marlow, with 
 honest meaning. 
 
 " If I have been kind to you, I have been 
 doubly repaid in the same coin," answered 
 Sir Robert. " But I must not stop to talk 
 now : time is precious, until I join my young 
 friend, Edward Manley." 
 
 Saying which, Sir Robert gathered up the 
 important paper that Mrs. Marlow had just 
 signed, and ordered a vehicle at once. 
 
 Thus reinforced, Sir Robert repaired at once 
 to Fanny's parents, and on the following day, 
 when the nature of the evidence which Ed 
 ward Manley brought to prevent the marriage 
 of Sir Charles was made known, the baron 
 stayed all further proceedings, declaring hum 
 bly that it was a just retribution upon him for 
 the part he had played so many years before 
 toward Emma Warden, the curate's daugh 
 ter.
 
 CHAPTER LII. 
 
 THE SOLDIER. 
 
 My conscience has a thousand several tongues, 
 
 And every tongue brings in a several tale, 
 
 And every tale condemns me for a villain. SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 FROM the moment that Edward Manley 
 leaping from his horse, dashed into the little 
 church, and declared that he forbade the bans, 
 also that he required but a few hours to show 
 why Sir Charles could not legally marry 
 Fanny, the baron's heart sank within his 
 breast. Hi? happy expectations for many 
 weeks past, had changed the entire current of 
 his life ; the chase had no longer any charms 
 for him, the race course had lost its power of 
 attraction, and he loathed the wine cup. For 
 the first time in his life, he was really in love. 
 Like most men of his class, his amours had 
 been numerous, but never before were the 
 sympathies of his breast engaged. In fact, it 
 had been doubtful until now, if Sir Charles 
 had any heart at all but the simple-minded, 
 pure village maiden had won his love, and 
 conquered all his pride. 
 
 We say from the moment that Edward 
 Manley stayed the ceremony, the baron be 
 came an altered man he seemed to have a 
 presentiment that Sir Robert had full power to 
 prevent the marriage, and he scarcely took the 
 trouble to inquire the character of the evi 
 dence brought against him. Had not his 
 heart been interested, he might have even 
 contested the case, and insisted upon the con 
 summation of his wishes ; but the very affec 
 tion which he bore for Fanny completely un 
 manned him, and he seemed more like a child 
 than like the proud Sir Charles Mario w. It 
 
 is a long road that has no back turning, says 
 the old proverb : Sir Charles had been to the 
 extreme point that his imperious self-will could 
 indicate, and now it was time for the unbend 
 ing of the freely bent bow. 
 
 What a relief was all this to Fanny she 
 had followed a conscientious sense of duty in 
 what she had done, and Providence itself had 
 seemed to intervene, as with Abraham of old, 
 to prevent the willing sacrifice. 
 
 "Why, Edward, how was it possible that 
 you should have become acquainted with the 
 good Sir Robert Brompton at such a moment, 
 the only man, perhaps, in all England who 
 could have helped us, and that too, at just the 
 right moment ?" asked Fanny, with her eyes 
 bent tenderly upon him by her side. 
 
 " I know ry>t, Fanny ; I scarcely compre 
 hend this business at all. It seems like a mir 
 acle to me, and as though I had been impelled 
 to do what I have done, by some superior 
 power." 
 
 " Sir Robert Brompton has been here this 
 morning talking with my father." 
 
 "Has he?" 
 
 ' Yes, and has placed in his hands a great 
 of money," said Fanny, with suppressed 
 pleasure. 
 
 " For what purpose, Fanny ?" 
 
 " He said it was for our start in life," said 
 the blushing girl, as her eyes sought the 
 ground.
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 287 
 
 Sir Robert, in his generosity, had indeed 
 thus pecuniarily befriended the young couple, 
 and by bestowing that which to him was a 
 trifle, he richly endowed persons of such 
 humble requirements as those who would ap 
 propriate this hundred pounds. The pleas 
 ure of giving was rich recompense to him. 
 
 After having settled the affairs of Fanny 
 and her lover, so far as to leave them with the 
 most happy prospects in view, Sir Robert re 
 solved to call personally upon Sir Charles 
 Marlow, partly to explain to him the part that 
 he had performed in this peculiar business, and 
 also to refer to Mrs. Marlow and to take from 
 Sir Charles a written discharge as to his right 
 to her hand. This Sir Robert determined to 
 do, not with any distinct object in view, but 
 rather as an act of justice to one who had 
 served him so long and faithfully. In pursu 
 ance of this object, he called at Marlow 
 House, and after due ceremony was ushered 
 into the presence of its master, who received 
 him courteously. 
 
 Sir Robert frankly explained the matters re 
 ferred to, as he had designed to do and told 
 Sir Charles why and how he had been induc 
 ed to befriend young Manley, and also referred 
 to his connection with his housekeeper, and 
 found Sir Charles so far from being vexed at 
 these subjects, inclined to make all the repara 
 tion in his power, cheerfully acquiescing in 
 signing a paper drawn up by Sir Robert, fully 
 resigning all claims to Mrs. Mario w's hand, 
 and also acknowledging the deceit he had 
 practised. Sir Robert who had supposed him to 
 be an austere, unprincipled man, was greatly 
 surprised at this. Indeed he knew not what 
 to make of such concession on his part, as 
 was readily yielded to each proposition. 
 
 While Sir Robert Brompton was thus en 
 gaged with the baron, there appeared at the 
 gates of Marlow House, a man whose looks 
 bespoke him as belonging to the humbler 
 classes. From the coarse garments that he 
 wore, and his swarthy complexion, he might 
 have been supposed to belong to some of the 
 roving tribes of gipseys that infested the rural 
 districts of England at this period. He moved 
 like one intent upon observing everything 
 about him, and seemed to be absorbed in his 
 own thoughts. To his inquiry whether Sir 
 Charles Marlow was at home, he received an 
 affirmative answer, and immediately request 
 
 ed to be shown to his presence, as he wished 
 to see him on some personal business. 
 
 The servant had intended to go up and an 
 nounce the stranger, but by some mistake he 
 followed the valet into the reception room, 
 where he saw Sir Robert and Sir Charles to 
 gether. 
 
 " Do I address Sir Charles Marlow ?" asked 
 the stranger, looking at the baron. 
 
 " That is my name, sir. Have you any 
 business with me ?" asked Sir Charles, some 
 what sharply. 
 
 " I have, sir. Shall it be transacted here ?" 
 he said, looking towards Sir Robert, as though 
 he desired to see the master of the house 
 alone. 
 
 " Yes, and briefly." 
 
 The other seemed to hesitate for a mo- 
 merit, and to regard Sir Charles with great 
 steadiness as though he would read his very 
 soul before he spoke further, and then said : 
 
 " I may not have any claims upon you, 
 sir, and yet I have presumed to ask a favor on 
 account of my acquaintance and long service 
 with your brother." 
 
 "My brother?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " How can that be, since he has been these 
 many years in India ?" 
 
 " It was there that we served together, and 
 on parting with him he had become somewhat 
 reduced, and he borrowed from me a hundred 
 pounds, and said that if I would show you this 
 signet ring as a token from him, and the note, 
 that you would, he thought for his sake, repay 
 me. I happen to need the money very much 
 at present, and have therefore been obliged to 
 seek you, though I have just arrived in Eng 
 land." 
 
 Sir Charles glanced over the note and 
 threw it carelessly upon the table by his side, 
 but the ring he looked upon more closely. 
 His countenance seemed to show that a strong 
 but silent contest was going on within his 
 breast relative to that brother ; he even seem 
 ed for a moment to forget that Sir Robert 
 Brompton was there, or that the stranger was 
 waiting, but at last he asked : 
 
 " Was my brother well when you left him ?" 
 
 " Perfectly so, though the climate has not 
 spared him; he's bronzed by exposure and 
 roughened by service." 
 
 " There is the sum that the note repre-
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 sents," said Sir Charles, handing a few notes 
 to the stranger. 
 
 "Thank you," said the other, taking the 
 amount with evident satisfaction, though he 
 thrust it into his pocket without counting the 
 money. 
 
 " Did my brother send no word by you ?" 
 -asked Sir Charles, with interest, still regard 
 ing the ring. 
 
 " Why, yes, he bade me remind you of the 
 time when you were both boys together, and 
 tell you that he often thought much and ten 
 derly of home ; he also bade me to recall to 
 you the period when your mother died, and 
 you both, then boys, followed her remains to 
 the grave, and he wished me to say to you 
 that there were but two of you now, and that 
 it would be joyful to go down the hill of life 
 in peace together." 
 
 " Did he tell you this ?" asked Sir Charles, 
 musing ; " he did but speak the language of 
 my own heart. There is no reason why we 
 should be so widely separated from each oth 
 er." 
 
 " Say you so ?" asked the stranger; " would 
 you really wish to embrace your brother ? I 
 thought from what he had told me on our 
 long marches, that there was a want of sym 
 pathy between you." 
 
 "There has been, but I feel that I am 
 changed now." 
 
 " And would be glad once more to embrace 
 him ?" he asked. 
 
 " Most happy. We have not been so inti 
 mate as two brothers should be, and now I 
 feel that I need a brother's aid and counsel ; but 
 regrets are vain, it is perhaps too late for me 
 to expect ever to see him again." 
 
 A visible change had come over the stran 
 ger within the last few moments, and a hasty 
 movement served to divest him of the rough out 
 ward covering that he wore, leaving him stand 
 ing there in the full dress uniform of a general 
 of cavalry ! A moment after and either re 
 peated the name of the other. 
 
 " Francis !" 
 
 " Charles !" 
 
 The two brothers embraced each other in 
 tears. Ay, the before hard-hearted elder brother 
 wept now, and tears rolled over the sun-burnt 
 cheek of the East Indian officer. Sir .Robert 
 Brompton looked on with no ordinary feelings 
 of interest. The sight seemed to him to be 
 
 The next number of this uxrrk trill 
 
 almost a sacred one, and with the knowledge 
 of Mrs. Mario w's story which he possess 
 ed, he fully appreciated the scene before him. 
 He saw in a moment the reason why that 
 brother had come to his. early home in dis 
 guise, and he wished to know whether time 
 and chance had softened his elder brother's 
 heart, before he made himself known to him. 
 And after they had spoken of those subjects 
 which it seemed most natural for the first to 
 refer to, Sir Robert waited impatiently for the 
 officer to ask after her whom poverty had com 
 pelled him to leave behind, when he was a 
 cornet just starting for India. 
 
 But there seemed to be no purpose of this 
 sort in his mind. His brother having intro 
 duced the general to Sir Robert, he also said 
 that at his leisure he would explain to him the 
 business that had brought Sir Robert at that 
 time to his house, but that at present they 
 must be happy together. Sir Robert remark 
 ed casually that he believed he was well ac 
 quainted with one whom he 'had once held 
 very dear. 
 
 " Whom do you refer to ?" asked General 
 Marlow, quite innocently. 
 
 " Mrs. Marlow," he replied. 
 
 " Mrs. Marlow ?" 
 
 " Or perhaps I should say, Emma Warden, 
 to be more plain." 
 
 "Emma Warden ; did you know her, sir ?" 
 asked the soldier, seriously. 
 
 *' Did I know her, yes, and still know her, 
 well," replied Sir Robert. 
 
 " There is some strange mistake here," said 
 the officer, " Emma Warden died many years 
 since, almost _s soon as I left England. I 
 have my brother j letter to that effect." 
 
 " A falsehood, urother," replied Sir Charles. 
 " A deceit only worthy of one as guilty as I 
 then was. Emma Warden still lives, and has 
 ever been true to you." 
 
 " Why, this is very strange. And where is 
 she now, pray ?" ht asked, earnestly. 
 
 " With Sir Robert Brompton." 
 
 " She has had the direction of my family 
 for years, and is still at its head." 
 
 The officer mused to himself, while Sir 
 Robert felt relieved to know that he had not 
 remained so long away from her without even 
 writing to her, while he believed her to be 
 alive and still in England. 
 
 be issued on Saturday, June 29th.
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 CHAPTER LIL [CONTINUED.] 
 
 Some moments of silence transpired, in 
 which the soldier seemed hardly able to realize 
 the fact that Emma Warden and himself had 
 been separated for so many years, when but 
 for the deception that had been practised upon 
 him they might have been enjoying life in the 
 sunshine of each other's smiles. He seemed 
 more visibly moved than he yet had been, 
 and Sir Robert appeared to fear for the result 
 between the two brothers. 
 
 " O, brother, brother !" said the officer, 
 at last "this is the severest reflection of 
 all. That Emma, for whom I would have 
 given up everything, that I might call her my 
 wife, should have been living all this time, 
 while I have been wasting my life in the 
 wilds of India." 
 
 " Ah, Francis, you can add no words that 
 will heighten my consciousness of my own 
 guilt." 
 
 " Nay, I would not reproach you at such a 
 moment as this, but the heart will speak out, 
 Jbrother." 
 
 " When I wrote you that she was dead, I had 
 designed to supersede you in her affections ; but 
 having failed in that, 1 was more than once 
 tempted to refute the story that I had fabricat 
 ed ; but until within these few days past, I have 
 never possessed such a spirit as would have led 
 me to consummate so just a determination." 
 
 " Let bygones be bygones," suggested Sir 
 Robert Brompton ; " I can judge as one unpre 
 judiced between you; I see not only the honest 
 confession on the one hand, but the heart to for 
 give on the other, and a smiling Providence 
 over all." 
 
 The soldier gave his hand to Sir Robert 
 with a grateful smile, and said, cheerfully : 
 
 " You say well, my dear sir ; the past is 
 beyond recall, and it only remains for us to 
 improve our experience, not to regret that 
 which is already over, and past help." 
 
 " There's my hand, brother," he continued, 
 offering this token to Sir Charles. " In the 
 future, let come what may, we will be to each 
 other brothers indeed, and thus obliterate the 
 records of the past." 
 
 " With all my heart, Francis it will be my 
 constant endeavor to atone for the wrong I 
 have done you." 
 
 As the soldier took Sir Robert Brompton's 
 arm, and invited him to a short walk in the 
 park, his brother knew very well that it was 
 to inquire after her to whom his heart was 
 still affianced. 
 
 And so it was. Sir Robert answered all 
 his curious inquiries, and gave him a full his 
 tory of her who had formed so important a 
 member in his household for a period of years. 
 His informant was eloquent in describing the
 
 292 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 good qualities of Mrs. Marlow; her kindness 
 of heart, her lady -like delicacy of character, 
 her subdued and quiet dignity of manner, and 
 in short, he drew such a truthful yet pleasing 
 picture of the soldier's early love, that he was 
 overjoyed at the news he heard. 
 
 " And she is now, you say, at Haredale ?" 
 continued General Marlow, musing to him 
 self, and picturing her image in his mind. 
 
 " Yes, at a cottage where I occasionally 
 repair with my family," replied Sir Robert, 
 observing him with interest. 
 
 " Are they also there now ?" asked the sol 
 dier, somewhat inquisitively. 
 
 " Only an adopted daughter and Mrs. Mar- 
 low," replied Sir Robert, smiling within him 
 self at the soldier's query. 
 
 " How odd it sounds to me to hear you call 
 her by that name it seems so misplaced," he 
 said. 
 
 " True, I should think it would. It appears 
 that she retained the name on account of her 
 father's scruples. 
 
 " Yes, yes the old gentleman was over- 
 conscientious I can understand it. But he 
 was a fine man, Sir Robert, for all that." 
 
 In the mood that was actuating General 
 Marlow, any one he could have referred to 
 would have been spoken of as a fine person ; 
 the truth was, he saw everything with new 
 eyes, and his heart leaped as fresh as in boy- 
 hood, at the joyful anticipation of once more 
 meeting her who to him was still Emma 
 "Warden, the curate's daughter. 
 
 Chatting cheerfully together, Sir Robert and 
 General Marlow repaired once more, after the 
 walk, to the house, where they were both 
 kiadly welcomed by its masted. 
 
 It was a strange party that was gathered in 
 the drawing-room of Marlow House that 
 night. Indeed a change seemed to come over 
 verything with the singular vicissitude that 
 md awakened the elder brother to a sense of 
 manhood and feeling. Francis looked at him 
 cvith surprise, to see him so different from that 
 which he had seemed when they had parted 
 :rom each other last. 
 
 He was no longer the hard-hearted elder 
 brother, arrogating to himself, the entire benefit 
 of their father's estate, but he was a brother 
 indeed, in heart and in action. The soldier 
 could but sigh to think they had not better 
 known each other before, but present joy left 
 little inclination in his breast for regrets. 
 
 Sir Charles himself told his brother of his 
 stratagem to win Emma's hand, and of her 
 resolute conduct, and subsequent escape from 
 him. He acknowledged his perfidy, and de 
 clared that he now held himself in such con 
 tempt for the exercise of the spirit that had 
 prompted him in the past, that he could never 
 hold up his head with a manly confidence 
 again. But he was freely forgiven, and 
 affectionately entertained by his brother and 
 Sir Robert, who cheered him on in the good 
 resolve that he had made for the future, to 
 atone, as far as was in his power, for the past. 
 Francis could not have returned at a more op 
 portune moment, either for himself or for his 
 brother, and both himself and Sir Charles re 
 alized this fully. 
 
 Leaving the brothers to enjoy each other's 
 society, and Francis to repress his impatience 
 until he might see her who was still so dear 
 to him, we must turn to other characters of 
 our story.
 
 CHAPTER LIII. 
 
 A GLANCE AT THE PAST. 
 
 Well peace to thy heart, though another's it be ; 
 And health to thy cheek, though it bloom not for me. 
 
 MOORE. 
 
 TIME has not halted one moment, 
 while we leave one circle of our characters to 
 represent another; its unceasing course is 
 steadily onward they all advance alike 
 towards death, that starting post for heaven. 
 
 Clara was still moving on in the quiet, un 
 ostentatious life that seemed so congenial to 
 her feelings ; the birds and flowers were still 
 her constant pets, and the grove, and the sol 
 emnly suggestive graveyard behind the village 
 church, her daily resort for contemplation 
 and thought. When she was alone, her life 
 had become a waking day dream, and all 
 things were contemplated through a gauze-like 
 ideal veil of soft melancholy. Mrs. Marlow 
 would often strive to dispel the mood that 
 seemed to render Clara so insensible to the 
 outward world, but she rarely succeeded in 
 interesting her beyond the teeming beauties 
 of the harvest scenes that surrounded them 
 at this season of the year.] 
 
 "Clara, did you see the reapers to-day, as 
 they gathered in the nodding field of ripened 
 grain?" 
 
 " I watched them until the twilight hour 
 drove them home with sheaf and sickle," was 
 the reply. 
 
 " It was a fair sight, a generous sight, and 
 I watched it too ; I think gratefully of the 
 bounties of a good Providence.'' 
 
 " It reminded me," said Clara, " of the 
 harvest of life, and I wondered how many 
 souls were fully ripened, that the reaper Death 
 cuts down and gathers into sheaves, garnering 
 them for eternity." 
 
 " You do give such a serious cast to every 
 thing, Clara, that it makes me feel sad to 
 hear you converse." 
 
 " Do I ?" said Clara, thoughtfully ; " well, 
 I know I am growing to be poor company for 
 any one save my own thoughts, and some 
 times these are sad enough, and render me 
 quite unhappy." 
 
 " Sir Robert is coming back to-morrow," re 
 plied Mrs. Marlow, " and you will be cheered 
 by his presence, Clara." 
 
 " It was a singular combination of circum 
 stances that took him away to follow Edward 
 Manley to Marlow House ; how very odd that 
 chance should have brought the young man 
 here to seek for employment was it not ?' r 
 
 " Most truly, it was very strange ; but Provi 
 dence sometimes chooses singular ways to 
 effect its objects. You said that it was a strange
 
 294 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 chance, Clara, that brought him here, but in 
 my mind, it was as much ordained that this 
 should take place precisely as it did, as it was 
 fore-ordained that you and I should live as we 
 do here." 
 
 " You believe, then, Mrs. Marlow, that 
 everything is fore-ordained by Heaven ?" 
 
 " I do, most assuredly, and all my experi 
 ence sustains the belief." 
 
 Clara sat lost, as it were, in meditation, and 
 Mrs. Marlow watched the working of her ex 
 pressive countenance with more than usual 
 interest for some moments, and then she 
 asked : 
 
 " What are you so absorbed in thinking 
 about, Clara?" The tone was gentle and 
 confiding. 
 
 " I was thinking that I wished I could know 
 the future, if it be fore-ordained and prepared 
 already. I think I could then be happy that 
 I should be content." 
 
 " What would you know, Clara, more than 
 you know already?" asked the good Mrs. 
 Marlow. 
 
 "I would know, my dear Mrs. Marlow, 
 whether it shall ever be discovered to me who 
 my parents were ?" 
 
 " Ah, Clara, it matters but little after all, so 
 that we do our duty to each other, and are 
 content." 
 
 " Perhaps not, or rather it may seem thus 
 to you, who know not the want of this im 
 portant knowledge." 
 
 In the meantime, Earnest Brandon, the 
 young, enthusiastic, and perhaps a little ro 
 mantic curate of Haredale, came constantly 
 to the cottage. There seemed to be a mutual 
 understanding between him and Clara for 
 once more they enjoyed each other's society 
 in quiet and reflective walks together, in read 
 ing beneath the broad old elm that ornamented 
 and shaded the front of their rural abode, as well 
 as in conversing upon the subject which had 
 within six months or a year past become so 
 interwoven with her feelings, and so im 
 pregnated all her views of life. We mean 
 the Christian religion, as Mr. Brandon had 
 taught it to her. 
 
 To observant persons who saw and noted 
 their intimacy, it appeared that they loved 
 each other most tenderly, though there was 
 no evidence of this, other than his constancy ; 
 there were no other tokens, no familiaT|y, no 
 
 particular expressions and yet it was very 
 true that the attraction of Clara's society had 
 so powerfully charmed the curate, that he felt 
 he had not the power to resist the temptation, 
 and determined to indulge it, but with guard 
 ed tongue, and careful manner, lest he might 
 again commit himself. He did not entertain 
 a single hope of ever calling her his wife, for 
 Clara had once told him so earnestly and 
 truthfully that this could never be, that he felt 
 she must have reasons past his control ; but 
 he could not deny himself the sweet enjoy 
 ment of her captivating society. 
 
 Not permitted to speak upon the one subject 
 that so warmly actuated his breast, yet the 
 curate would fancy as they commented upon 
 these absorbing themes that had become 
 Clara's life, and which drew forth all those 
 tender intonations of voice which the heart 
 can so easily furnish when it is awakened by 
 feeling, he would fancy, we say, that those 
 tender and heart-awakening tones were utter 
 ed thus in soft and winning melody for his 
 ear, and that a stranger could not have drunk 
 of such sounds from her lips. And when he 
 reached his quiet little home, and sat himself 
 down in his little library, he would sit for 
 hours and recall every word and every look 
 that had passed recall the tender expressions 
 of feeling lavished by Clara upon the holy 
 subject upon which they had been conversing, 
 and appropriate half of them to such a cause 
 as his heart suggested. 
 
 Mrs. Marlow thought that Clara must have 
 reconsidered her refusal of Earnest Brandon, 
 for she had by some means discovered that 
 she had once declined the offer of the curate's 
 heart and hand, they seemed to be again so 
 very intimate ; but let the curate and Mrs. 
 Marlow, think what they will, Clara never 
 entertained the least thought of this matter : 
 she considered it settled forever. But Earnest 
 Brandon was deceiving himself, or rather lay 
 ing a snare for his own heart, in the way 
 we have already seen. 
 
 It was a fine autumn afternoon, the twi 
 light hour had already begun to spread its 
 sombre veil over the landscape, when a party 
 dashed up to the entrance of the cottage, and 
 dismounted. It was Edith and Lord Ami- 
 down, Lady Josephine and Walter. As they 
 approached, the curate was sitting by Clara's 
 side in the entrance, and now for the first
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 295 
 
 . time, met Lord Amidown and his sister at 
 Haredale. Lady Josephine approached him 
 at once, and offering her hand, greeted him 
 as an old friend, while Edith and Walter had 
 already known him here. He was pressed to 
 join the party at the tea-table, where Lady 
 Josephine seating herself by his side, engaged 
 him in a conversation too low to be overheard 
 by the rest of the party, but which was ex 
 ceedingly interesting to her, and which seem 
 ed to affect the curate not a little. 
 
 That the reader may the better understand 
 the character of Lady Josephine, the curate 
 and the scene we are describing, it will be 
 necessary to go back for a period of years, 
 and represent them both in different connec 
 tions from those they now fill. 
 
 A fair personification of modest worth and 
 rural beauty was Lydia Gray. Born of hum 
 ble but worthy parents, who like their ances 
 tors for many generations before them were 
 dependants to the proud estate of the Earl of 
 Amidown, beneath whose castle walls the cot 
 tage home and grounds were located. Had 
 not Lydia possessed a naturally strong and 
 well balanced mind, she would have been 
 spoiled while yet a child, for her remarkable 
 beauty of person had made her an early pet at 
 the castle, where the rich heiress to this broad 
 domain, the lady Josephine, was but too much 
 delighted to find a companion of her own age 
 and sex to love, and with whom to roam about 
 the woods and glens that hem in the lands of 
 the estate, and render it one of the fairest 
 rural districts in all of " Merrie England." 
 
 To this preference Lydia was indebted for 
 the liberal instruction which had so improved 
 and cultivated her natural taste, and rendered 
 her, mentally, at least, her noble patron's 
 equal. The castle was her constant abode, 
 and the youthful Lady Josephine would scarce 
 ly permit her to be out of her sight. This 
 favoritism was also of no little value to Martin 
 Gray, her father, who never failed to have his 
 rent remitted in full at the close of every half 
 year. Besides this liberality, the steward of 
 the castle was in the practice of sending some 
 substantial token each returning Christmas of 
 his lord's good will to the honest farmer and 
 father of his daughter's protegee, the pretty 
 little Lydia, whose flaxen curls and dimpled 
 cheeks had won the hearts of the entire 
 household. 
 
 The same instructors and private tutors 
 who were engaged for the high-born child of 
 fortune, also bestowed their attentions in com 
 mon upon the humble but no less beautiful 
 child of Martin Gray. Her clothes were from 
 the same wardrobe, her toys and books from 
 the same source, and in short had Lydia 
 been a sister to Josephine she could have 
 shared no more fully the kind consideration 
 and munificent providence of the stately 
 and proud Earl. The father of Josephine was 
 a man of profound study and erudition, most 
 observant of the tender flower which Heaven 
 had sent him to rear and cherish, and who, 
 with a brother of about her own age, must be 
 his representatives, and that of his lordly line 
 of ancestors in the future, for with him now 
 rested alone the name of Amidown. His wife 
 had died when Josephine was about fifteen, 
 and the earl was not a man to love or to mar 
 ry twice. 
 
 In little Lydia he had discovered the germs 
 of a sweet temper, a generous and yielding 
 disposition, and those traits of mildness that in 
 after years form the crowning beauty of her 
 sex. To secure such an example and influ 
 ence in his daughter's behalf, was the actua^- 
 ing motive of her father in rearing and foster 
 ing Lydia thus gently, and in striving to ren 
 der her in all respects a desirable associate for 
 hi? own child. Money and influence the 
 earl knew very well, would easily procure 
 polished and courtly companions for his daugh 
 ter, but money could not create nor purchase 
 the traits which had so challenged his ad 
 miration in the farmer's child. 
 
 Time in its steady unwavering course 
 brought with it approaching maturity, and the 
 two friends, after years of sweet companion 
 ship, were now just blooming into womanhood, 
 and the attendant charms that wait upon the 
 flower in its ripened fragrance and perfection. 
 There is no period when the gentle sex ap 
 pear more lovely or more interesting, than at 
 this age ; when the heart, peculiarly suscepti 
 ble, is filled with the ideal, and in its fullness 
 of joy is ready to lavish its wealth of love and 
 devotion upon another ; when all life's phases 
 are seen through the soft twilight hue of 
 romance. The simplest token of regard is 
 then cherished as of inestimable value, the 
 most ordinary events are clothed with tender 
 thoughts and comparisons, every association is
 
 296 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 truthful, or believed to be so, and the bright 
 star of hope is the only magnet that attracts 
 the soul. 
 
 Disappointment has not yet clouded, nor 
 care corroded the heart ; the cold, selfish breath 
 of the world has not yet mildewed the fair 
 and stainless purity of that brow; no tears, 
 save those of gentle sympathy, have dimmed 
 the brightness of those volumed eyes; the bit 
 ter realities of life are all yet to come. Jose 
 phine and Lydia had as yet tasted nothing of 
 their bitterness. 
 
 Residing as they did in a somewhat isolated 
 district, the two saw few individuals beyond 
 the circle of the household, and their instruc 
 tors. True, they mingled at times in the vil 
 lage sports on May day, and other occasions 
 of rural gatherings, but the profound respect 
 that custom demanded of the humbler classes 
 towards such as the earl's daughter, general 
 ly acted as a source of restraint upon such 
 minglings, and both the lady and the villagers 
 realized that they enjoyed themselves better 
 in their legitimate spheres. It is true that 
 Josephine's free heart would sometimes rebel, 
 and her native spirit sigh for the freedom and 
 enjoyment that the humble peasantry partici 
 pated in with such zest, but in the wearing of 
 her title and position she must pay the attend 
 ant penalty. 
 
 Yet there was one person who was an ac 
 knowledged friend of Lydia's, and on whom 
 Josephine herself often smiled, a youth of the 
 valley, named Earnest Brandon, whose father, 
 though like Martin Gray a dependant of the 
 estate of Amidown, was still a thrifty man, 
 and whose good fortune and industry had en 
 abled him to amass what to one with his hum 
 ble desires and actual wants was a comfortable 
 fortune. Earnest's father had thus been en 
 abled to afford him advantages for cultivation 
 and personal improvement, not generally en 
 joyed by those of his class of society at that 
 period. From early childhood, Earnest had 
 associated with Lydia Gray, and the signal 
 advancement that he saw her make under the 
 patronage of the earl and his daughter, incit 
 ed him to more than ordinary exertion. He 
 loved Lydia in secret, but her proud associa 
 tions at the castle rendered him perhaps timid 
 and doubtful, as to his success with her 
 though she was ever kind and considd%te to 
 him. But he reasoned, that with her meet, 
 
 conceding disposition, she would be thus to 
 any other, and indeed he had never received 
 from her any peculiar mark of regard or af 
 fection. 
 
 It is doubtful if any power of ordinary am 
 bition could have made Earnest Brandon so 
 constant a student, such " a consumer of mid 
 night oil," save the desire to equal Lydia in 
 mental attainments, and to feel more and more 
 worthy of the love he secretly coveted. As it 
 was, his leisure moments were preciously hus 
 banded, and a good book was always ready to 
 his hand. Many and many a time had he 
 walked three leagues to the nearest market 
 town, where he could procure such books as he 
 wanted, and he performed the journey at night 
 to save time and expense, in order that he 
 might afford himself the mental luxury he de 
 sired. 
 
 The indulgence and cultivation of such a 
 taste was not without its physical as well as 
 mental effect upon Earnest. The fine manly 
 expression of his brow was heightened in its 
 beauty by a beaming spirit of intelligence, 
 while his conversation made his society covet 
 ed by all, and even highly entertaining and 
 agreeable to Lydia and Josephine, when he 
 was fortunate enough to meet them in a situ 
 ation where they could mingle in social inter 
 course. And thus years were recorded in the 
 ledger of time, until Josephine and Lydia were 
 eighteen years of age, and Earnest Brandon 
 was twenty. 
 
 The earl now resolved to take his daughter 
 to his town residence in London, deeming her 
 of sufficient age to begin to see and partially 
 to mingle with that society which in time he 
 hoped she would grace, and in which she must 
 eventually take the position that her rank and 
 fortune commanded. Josephine had been to 
 London for a short period at a time before, but 
 now that she was to take up her residence 
 there, she felt no little regret at bidding fare 
 well to the scenes of quiet, peaceful happiness 
 that were entwined with the memory of her 
 childhood's home. All innocent and untaint 
 ed by the pride and allurements of the world, 
 these feelings had strong influence upon Jose 
 phine, and she shed tears of genuine sorrow 
 at parting from her rural home. The earl 
 saw that his daughter was unhappy, and de 
 termined that Lydia should accompany her 
 to town, as he thought by this means partially
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 297 
 
 to reconcile her to an event that at first so 
 seriously dashed her spirits. 
 
 Both Lydia and Josephine were delighted 
 at the prospect of remaining still together, and 
 in a fortnight they were ' domesticated in the 
 town house of the Earl of Amidown. 
 
 Through the kindness of the earl and 
 Josephine, Lydia was introduced to their do 
 mestic circle on an equal footing with her no 
 ble friend and companion ; but as Josephine 
 was deemed yet too young to go largely into 
 society, her circle was still limited. Yet she 
 began to mingle with the world sufficiently to 
 feel its influence, and even became gradually 
 much devoted to dress and fashion. The 
 town had charms for her that Lydia could 
 not appreciate, but still the proud girl loved 
 her humble friend none the less, though day 
 by day the impressions of her rural home 
 were less and less potently felt. It was not 
 so with Lydia ; her gentle nature was better 
 fitted to the soft scenery and music of nature, 
 a bubbling brook across a forest path, or wind 
 ing like a thread of silver through a verdant 
 meadow, had inexpressible charms for her. 
 And not unfrequently her spirit fluttered in 
 her breast, like a caged bird longing for the 
 freedom and invigorating air of the merry 
 greenwood. 
 
 Finding at last how uncongenial with her 
 taste these town associations were, Jose 
 phine reluctantly consented to Lydia's re 
 turning to her friends in the country. But 
 the fair young girl had made more than one 
 gay city acquaintance who was smitten by her 
 simple attractions. She had heeded but 
 lightly the fashionable compliments of these 
 persons, and weighed them in a scale of calm, 
 but deep penetration, that showed her very 
 truly how shallow they were at heart. And 
 yet, strange to say, as careful as she thought 
 herself, and as much on her guard as she 
 ever was, the person whose attention was 
 most agreeable to her, was the one who of all 
 the company at the earl's hospitable mansion 
 was the least worthy of her confidence. 
 Lydia did not strongly affect him, but was 
 rather won by his extraordinary conversation 
 al powers than by any other peculiarity relat 
 ing to his person or mind. He was a young 
 officer in the king's guard, one who had strong 
 natural advantages, and to these he added a 
 large experience in travel and reading. Col. 
 
 Dudley might have been in years nearly thir 
 ty, but he was of a fine figure, handsome and 
 graceful just the person to fill a lady's 
 eye. Lydia could not but be pleased with the 
 polite and delicate attention of such a man, 
 and she had enjoyed many pleasant hours 
 with him at the earl's before it was announced 
 that she would return again to the country. 
 When she did go, the manner in which Col. 
 Dudley bid her good-by impressed her some 
 what by its earnestness. 
 
 Scarcely had Lydia greeted her friends at 
 home, and met with Earnest Brandon, who 
 was as cordial as he dared to be in expressing 
 his pleasure at again meeting her, when Col. 
 Dudley appeared in the neighborhood, declar 
 ing that a sudden order upon business connect 
 ed with his official position had brought him 
 into the neighborhood, and being so near, he 
 could not permit himself to leave without a 
 call upon her at her 'home. 
 
 His stay proved so protracted that Earnest 
 Brandon began to feel a certain uneasiness, 
 and after a while discovered that the heart 
 which would else have been his, was already 
 more than half won by the gallant Colonel 
 Dudley of the king's guard. And so it really 
 was ; Lydia was dazzled by his conversational 
 powers, and he had at last won her entire 
 confidence. By what means, or through 
 what promises, no one knew. At last he left 
 her for the city, but he came not back again. 
 
 One month after that period Lydia was 
 found drowned in the deep brook that inter 
 sected the forest path near her father's cottage. 
 The story needed no interpreter ! 
 
 Earnest Brandon had loved her, but there 
 had never been a reciprocity of feeling be 
 tween them ; that is to say, no near intimacy 
 had ever been cultivated between him and 
 Lydia, but he felt the blow to his peace of 
 mind keenly, and this very incident it was 
 that gave to his character the melancholy turn 
 that we have already alluded to, and it was 
 also this early blight upon his hopes that had 
 led him to embrace the profession that now 
 occupied him. In Clara he found one who 
 had not only more beauty, more strength of 
 character, and a more lovely perfection in all 
 respects, but also one who sympathized sin 
 cerely with him in the devout and religious 
 sentiments that occupied so large a space in 
 his thoughts.
 
 CHAPTER LIV. 
 
 MEETING OF OLD FRIENDS 
 
 Absence, with all its pains, 
 
 Is by this charming moment wiped away. 
 
 THOMSON. 
 
 WE have related a scrap from the history 
 of Earnest Brandon, the curate of Haredale, 
 and he who was now so devotedly attached 
 to Clara, in part because it served in some de 
 gree to inform the reader of the early life of 
 Lady Josephine, as well as of one who had 
 become so much of a confidant with Clara. 
 Lady Josephine knew of the feelings , enter 
 tained by the curate for Lydia when they 
 were playmates and companions together, and 
 she knew too of the tragical result of Colonel 
 Dudley's intimacy, and for" which, by her 
 father's influence, he was disgraced, and dis 
 missed from the service. 
 
 Clara and Edith wandered again over these 
 scenes, rendered so interesting by the many 
 thoughtful hours that Clara had passed there ; 
 each opened her heart most fully to the other, 
 and their sympathy was freely mingled. 
 Edith had so much to tell her dear friend of 
 her proposed marriage which was soon to take 
 place, of her arrangements, and happy pros 
 pects, that they found hardly any time for 
 gloomy reflections ; they were a happy party, 
 all four of these who had just come down 
 from the city. ^^ 
 
 The harvest twilight lay in picturesque 
 
 beauty about the cottage, and so soft and 
 genial was the hour that the whole party had 
 seated themselves about the lawn in the im 
 mediate vicinity of the entrance where the 
 ladies were chatting together, including Mrs. 
 Marlow and Clara, the former sewing on a 
 light piece of embroidery. While the party 
 were thus engaged, their ears were saluted by 
 the approach of a travelling chaise, which 
 stopped opposite the entrance of the lawn, 
 before the cottage. 
 
 The first person who stepped out of the 
 vehicle was a little above the medium size, a 
 man past the prime of life, who walked a 
 little lame as he approached. This was Sir 
 Robert Brompton. His companion was a 
 taller person than himself, of a fine manly 
 figure, and handsome, sun-burnt countenance. 
 He was dressed in the national undress uni 
 form, and walked forward with a quick, nerv 
 ous step, as he came to the side of Sir Rob 
 ert. 
 
 " Who are these ?" asked Lord Amidown, 
 turning to Walter. 
 
 " One is Sir Robert, I know," exclaimed 
 Edith, rushing forward and giving him a sin 
 cere and hearty kiss.
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 299 
 
 " It is Sir Robert," said Walter, as he and 
 Lord Amidown came and cordially pressed his 
 hand at meeting. 
 
 Clara had discovered that it was he even 
 before any of the rest, but she came forward 
 the last one to greet him, and did not kiss 
 him until after he had pressed his own lip to 
 her cheek, and spoken kindly to her. 
 
 Sir Robert spoke to Mrs. Marlow also, but 
 she either heard him not, or was too much 
 absorbed to answer. As she gazed upon the 
 commanding figure and deportment of the 
 gentleman by his side, her work dropped from 
 her hands, and she looked upon the soldier 
 with eyes that bespoke the utmost intensity of 
 feeling. He seemed to be struggling with 
 Sir Robert, who held him back by the arm, 
 as though he wished to see if Mrs. Marlow 
 would know him. 
 
 " Francis !" she almost whispered, " is it 
 Francis, or am I again deceived ? I pray 
 you speak to me, sir." 
 
 " It is General Francis Marlow," said Sir 
 Robert. " You need feel no fear of deception 
 this time, I assure you." I 
 
 " Yes, Emma, it is indeed Francis," he said, 
 taking her hand tenderly, and leading her 
 away toward the grove. 
 
 "There go two happy beings," said Sir 
 Robert, rubbing his hands with perfect de 
 light at the sight he beheld. 
 
 Sir Robert had not waited to introduce 
 General Marlow to any one. That he deemed 
 to be of no importance at such a moment, but 
 now that the two had left them, half a hun 
 dred questions poured in upon him at once 
 from Lord Amidown, Walter, Edith, and even 
 Clara, to know if that was indeed Francis 
 Marlow, and the early lover of the dear good 
 housekeeper. To these inquiries, Sir Robert 
 replied in detail, telling them how the discov 
 ery of his arrival had just been made at his 
 brother's, and how his brother had changed 
 and become a liberal and noble-hearted man, 
 as it were, all at once, dividing his entire es 
 tates with him whom he had so seriously in 
 jured years before. He told them also of his 
 successful arrangements relating to young 
 Edward Manley and the gentle village girl 
 whom he loved. In short, Sir Robert came 
 to them so laden with good tidings and in 
 teresting news, that they very nearly wearied 
 him out with questions and congratulations. 
 
 " Is Fanny Hardway pretty ?" asked Lady 
 Josephine. 
 
 " What did she say when she found that 
 all was so happily settled ?" asked Edith, with 
 speaking eyes. 
 
 " Did not her mother and father press her 
 to their hearts after all this ?" asked Clara, in 
 her turn. 
 
 Sir Robert, as happy as any of them, an 
 swered all in a breath, and told them of the 
 poor, half-witted boy who was so happy after 
 the marriage was stopped, and so miserable 
 before it, and how the village gossips had re 
 solved to take a holiday for the especial purpose 
 of discussing and catechising about the whole 
 transaction, and how happy in the meantime 
 Fanny and Edward were. 
 
 It is needless for us to particularize as it 
 regards the interview between General Mar- 
 low and his long lost and early love. Suffice 
 it that everything was fully explained, and a 
 glance at each other's lives given since they 
 parted. While he had grown to the full prime 
 of manhood, she had hardly yet lost one 
 charm of her more maidenly years. Her 
 full, clear black eyes lacked not the power that 
 love imparts, and General Marlow looked upon 
 her with feelings like those that actuated his 
 heart when years ago, he had kissed her fair 
 young cheek, and sworn eternal fidelity ; and 
 he had been faithful to her. His early disap 
 pointment had given him a distaste for society, 
 and devoted to his profession, he had struggled 
 on with hardships of all sorts and characters 
 in discharge of his duty. 
 
 " But can you love me now as well as 
 then ?" she asked, in answer to his earnestly 
 declared regard. 
 
 " Ay, better, Emma, better. We both know 
 more of the world, and of ourselves now, and 
 our hearts will yield, when need be, more 
 pliantly to the dictates of the head. Love 
 you as well ? I have never ceased to love 
 you. This little talisman has been about my 
 neck in every battle, and by every camp fire, on 
 the open plain, and in the mountain, fighting 
 with human beings, and with the wild and 
 fearful beasts of the Eastern jungles. It has 
 never left me, Emma." 
 
 As he spoke he took from his bosom a 
 miniature that was suspended about his neck 
 by a small golden chain. It was Emma's 
 token when they had confidently hoped to
 
 300 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 consummate this love for each other by mar 
 riage. This token of fond regard flooded her 
 cheeks with tears, and she felt that she was 
 indeed dear to him who had been thus faith 
 ful. 
 
 Before they left the grove, they became a 
 second time betrothed to each other, and as 
 Mrs. Marlow approached the pleasant group 
 on the stoop of the cottage, her expressive 
 countenance told them how happy she was, 
 and that the gallant soldier by her side was 
 the same at heart as the young cornet had 
 been years ago. 
 
 Now it was time forjSir Robert to introduce 
 the new comer in a formal manner, though 
 little formality was observed among such a 
 cheerful, happy party just from town, come 
 down into the country to enjoy themselves, and 
 be merry. The only draw-back to the fullness 
 of their pleasure was the fact that Clara could 
 not join them with her old accustomed spirits, 
 but she placed them all at ease concerning her 
 by her pleasant and ever cheerful mien. She 
 could not help feeling overjoyed at the delight 
 ful re-union that she had just witnessed be 
 tween her dear friend Mrs. Marlow and the 
 general. This was enough in itself to tem 
 porarily dispel the gloom from her beautiful 
 and delicate features, and Sir Robert and 
 Edith whispered together as they observed the 
 new animation there, that the dear girl was 
 getting better. 
 
 " God grant that it may be so, Edith," said 
 Sir Robert, earnestly, " for those blue veins 
 are sometimes fearfully distinct upon her tem 
 ples and brow, and now I am about to lose 
 you from my side, I feel doubly drawn towards 
 poor Clara." - 
 
 Edith put her arm gently about his neck, 
 and kissed him as he said this, for she saw a 
 lingering tear in his eye. 
 
 " Have you had an opportunity to speak 
 with Clara in private since your arrival ?" 
 asked Sir Robert, still observing her of whom 
 he spoke, marking her placid smile and the 
 oftentimes quick motion of her bosom, as a 
 pang seemed to cross her heart. 
 
 " Scarcely, though we have been some 
 together," she replied. 
 
 " And do you think her any less melancholy 
 than when she first came down tdfearedale ?" 
 he continued. 
 
 " No, I do not think her much changed ; 
 
 she has more" time for thought, and less ex 
 citement here, arid is doubtless more truthful 
 in her appearance than when she was in town, 
 where she strove to throw a cloak of mirth 
 over her feelings." 
 
 " This is just as I have supposed," continued 
 Sir Robert, " and you seem to understand her 
 like myself, Edith." 
 
 At this moment the subject of their remarks 
 approached them, and coming to Sir Robert's 
 side, braided a sprig of flowing myrtle through 
 the button holes of his coat, and made a 
 wreath of the same for Edith's hair. 
 
 " Which of these girls do you love best ?" 
 asked General Marlow, who had been watching 
 the pure regard that Sir Robert's face express 
 ed for Clara, " your own daughter or the 
 adopted one, eh, Sir Robert ?" 
 
 " It is hard to say," replied Sir Robert, 
 starting at the question, from a reverie that 
 had absorbed him for a moment. "If you 
 knew their story, you would not perhaps won 
 der at the feelings I possess." 
 
 " Lady Josephine has been telling me part 
 of it just enough to render me very curious 
 to know all the particulars. This Clara is a 
 sweet creature, though Edith is the hand 
 somer, I should say. There, observe now, 
 Sir Robert." As he spoke, Edith and Clara 
 had entwined each an arm about the other's 
 waist, and were turning away together for a 
 short walk in the twilight. 
 
 " How very like they are !" said Sir Robert, 
 watching them until , they had turned out of 
 sight among the hedges. 
 
 Walter sat down with General Marlow, and 
 together they talked over matters relating to 
 Calcutta, Walter's native place, and the officer 
 took much pleasure in describing to him the 
 changes that had recently taken place, and 
 also in' listening to Walter's story of his own 
 and Sir Robert's adventure together after they 
 sailed from India. In the meantime Sir Rob 
 ert and Lord Amidown were talking over 
 some trifling matters relating to the proposed 
 ceremony of marriage that was soon to take 
 place between Edith and himself. 
 
 Suddenly a shrill cry as of horror came upon 
 the evening air, and startled the party of gen 
 tlemen and Lady Josephine who were by the 
 cottage door. Walter and Sir Robert were 
 upon their feet in an instant, and in answer to 
 Mrs. Marlow's suggestion, sprang at the top
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 301 
 
 of their speed towards the grove in the rear of 
 the cottage. They soon came in sight of 
 Edith, who stood with extended arms and pal 
 lid face on the brink of a broad and deep 
 stream that intersected the grounds of the 
 grove. Walter understood at once the state 
 of affairs, dashed his coat from him as he ran 
 leaping in a moment into the swiftly running 
 stream. Sir Robert was less thoughtful as to 
 himself, and only intent upon understanding 
 the hurried exclamations of Edith, sprung 
 from the bank into the water with every arti 
 cle of dress upon him as usual. 
 
 Clara had already sunk below the surface, 
 and having satisfied himself as to the spot, Wal 
 ter had twice dove down already, but had fail 
 ed to reach her. Sir Robert was the same 
 indomitable spirit that we have represented 
 him to be heretofore. His physical strength 
 was immense, and he was even more at home 
 in the deep water with all his clothes on, than 
 was Walter. At last Walter discovered her, 
 but his own strength was nearly gone, and he 
 rose to the surface to breathe, designating to 
 Sir Robert where she lay. Taking Walter's 
 directions in less than a minute, Sir Robert 
 had brought the lifeless girl to the surface, and 
 with a strong arm he swam to the shore where 
 the rest of the party was ready with every as 
 sistance to help them up the steep bank, and 
 to apply every restorative to Clara that experi 
 ence suggested. 
 
 Walter had very nearly fallen a victim to 
 his own anxiety to rescue Clara, for it requir 
 ed the united efforts of General Marlow and 
 Lord Amidown to raise him from the water at 
 the bank, he had become so exhausted. Not so 
 Sir Robert ; his strong arm had, while he was 
 sustaining Clara, twice lent its ready aid to 
 Walter, in helping him towards the shore ; all 
 having transpired so quickly that the others 
 had hardly time to render them other aid. 
 Some wine from the house soon revived Wal 
 ter, while Sir Robert bore the lifeless form of 
 Clara in his arms to the cottage. 
 
 It was a long time before consciousness 
 was restored to her; to those anxious ones 
 
 about her, it seemed an age. At last, how 
 ever, she breathed again with a deep sigh, 
 and gradually the lungs assumed their func 
 tion. This accident threw a gloom about the 
 cottage, notwithstanding its fortunate termina 
 tion, for some days ; but it was not more than 
 a week before all were once more reseated about 
 the family board in peace and good health. 
 
 It appeared that as Edith and Clara were 
 wandering on together after leaving the cot 
 tage, they approached quite nearly to the 
 water's bank, which was rather precipitous, 
 and Clara turning her eyes upon it, gazed for 
 a moment, and as though she had become sud 
 denly dizzy, lost her balance, or else her feet 
 slipped, and she fell into the current. Of 
 course it was some minutes before Walter and 
 Sir Robert reached the spot, and during 
 that time Clara had sunk three times, and 
 when they got there she was lost entirely to 
 sight ; but all was well now,and she was safe. 
 
 " Did you not fear to die when you were 
 thus sinking in the water, Clara ?" asked 
 Edith of her one day. 
 
 " No I had no thoughts of fear. I re 
 member to have thought of you, Sir Robert, 
 and Mrs. Marlow." 
 
 " And was the situation painful ?" 
 
 " On the contrary, it was almost pleasurable, 
 and seemed like going to sleep. Perhaps, 
 Edith, it would have been quite as well if I 
 had gone to sleep there /" said Clara, with a 
 deep meaning. 
 
 " O, say not so, remember how dear you 
 are to us all, Clara, and strive to be happy," 
 replied Edith. 
 
 A dark suspicion overspread Edith's mind 
 as she thought upon the matter, that perhaps 
 Clara had purposely cast herself from the 
 bank at the time of her having so nearly lost 
 her life ; but she gave no utterance to such a 
 thought, not even to Lord Amidown or Sir 
 Robert, though she thought of the subject seri 
 ously. 
 
 But we must now leave Haredale and the 
 family at Sir Robert's cottage for other scenes.
 
 CHAPTER LV. 
 
 THE MONK OF GHERTSTEIN. 
 
 High minds, of native pride and force, 
 Most deeply feel thy pangs, remorse : 
 Fear for their scourge mean villains have ; 
 Thou art the torturer of the brave. 
 
 SCOTT. 
 
 WE must turn back once more to the day 
 on which the jury had acquitted Karl Blasius 
 of the charge that was brought against him, 
 of attempting Hardhead's life, in the manner 
 already described. The counsel through 
 whose masterly arrangement and argument 
 he had been enabled to obtain such a favorable 
 verdict, did not stop here in his service to his 
 client. He knew very well that the authori 
 ties would only allow him to pass out of the 
 court house before they would arrest him on 
 some other charge, inasmuch as he was proven 
 to be a dangerous person to be at large, al 
 though so successfully cleared from the charge 
 that had been brought against him. 
 
 The young lawyer therefore, immediately 
 whispered to Karl that, though he was at lib 
 erty, he must not attempt to go out as he was, 
 or he would be again arrested almost imme 
 diately. But lending him his own hat and 
 cloak, he led him, in the confusion that ensued 
 upon the adjournment of the court, through 
 the private door of the hall, and mailing an 
 appointment as to where they might meet 
 that night, he sent the robber away in safety, 
 leaving the bailiff and the police who had been 
 
 on the watch for the prisoner, quite nonplussed 
 as to how he had escaped them. Thus 
 
 " Liberty plucks justice by the nose." 
 
 Karl Blasius avoided all his former places 
 of resort, fully realizing that he was sought 
 by the police in every probable place, and that 
 if he should be again arrested he would doubt 
 less lose his liberty forever, if not his life. 
 He called at Sir Robert's house, in order to 
 repossess himself of the money he had placed 
 in his hands for safe keeping, but finding Sir 
 Robert out of the city, he addressed him at 
 Haredale, at the very date of his return from 
 Sir Charles Marlow's. Sir Robert immedi 
 ately enclosed the proper order to transfer the 
 deposit from the bankers where it had been 
 left, also appointing a time and place where 
 he would meet the robber immediately on his 
 return to London. 
 
 But Karl Blasius found that London was 
 getting to be a dangerous place for him. He 
 dared not remain there one hour longer than 
 was absolutely necessary in order to complete 
 the transfer of his money, and this he tran 
 sacted through his late legal counsel, paying 
 the young lawyer just double the remunera-
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 303 
 
 tion that Sir Robert had promised him, viz., 
 2,000. He had money enough, and paid it 
 willingly. This done, he improved the first 
 opportunity to leave the metropolis, and turn 
 ed his steps towards the scenes of his native 
 valley. The robber was weary of excitement, 
 indeed he was almost weary of life ; his late 
 confinement had given him ample time for 
 frequent and minute reviewals of his eventful 
 life, and his conscience had most fearfully 
 asserted its power. 
 
 He felt that it only remained for him now 
 to seek the most quiet and secret abode, where, 
 after dispensing the ill-gotten wealth that he 
 possessed so that it might effect the best good, 
 he could sit down by himself, and give up his 
 hours to bitter, galling repentance. He felt 
 that he had need enough of that. 
 
 For some reason, even after the close of his 
 pecuniary arrangements with Sir Robert 
 Brompton, the robber desired to see him, and 
 yet he could not go down to Haredale it 
 would be a piece of foolhardiness for him to 
 do so. He felt that he would be almost sure 
 to be discovered and arrested, if he attempted 
 it. In this mood, he resolved to commit his 
 business to paper, and having done this, he 
 sealed and carefully addressed it to Sir Robert, 
 but still hesitated about trusting it in the 
 mail. At last an idea seemed to strike him, 
 and he determined to leave the document with 
 his lawyer, with strict injunctions to deliver it 
 to no one save Sir Robert himself. 
 
 " I have a letter," he said to the lawyer, 
 having met him privately at his office, "which 
 I wish to get safely to Sir Robert Brompton, 
 and as he is out of town, I should like to have 
 you engage to keep it for me, and deliver it in 
 person when he shall come to London." 
 
 " Why not send it down to Haredale by the 
 mail ?" 
 
 " I fear some casualty or accident whereby 
 it may get into the wrong hands or be lost." 
 
 " 0, no fear of that : does it contain a draft 
 for money that makes it so important?" 
 
 " No, not that." 
 
 " It is safe enough then, in any event, so 
 you had better mail it for his country house." 
 
 " It will not answer my purpose to do so, 
 and unless you will engage to keep it for him 
 and deliver it in person when he comes to Lon 
 don, I must go down to Haredale myself." 
 
 " Well, if you are so decided and feel so 
 very particular about it, I will do so." 
 
 " Thank you. I do, and now am much re 
 lieved, and can take my departure at once from 
 London." 
 
 This seemed to close up the robber's busi 
 ness in the metropolis, and he walked away 
 from the office of his counsel with a freer step 
 than he had before done for months. "A weight 
 seemed to be off his mind, and all guilty as he 
 was, he appeared to feel comparatively easy 
 that his every step now would bring him. 
 nearer and nearer to the great object and pur 
 pose that he had already formed for repen 
 tance. As he passed on, it was evening, 
 almost pitchy dark, and he pressed on to that 
 part of the town where his humble lodgings 
 now were, when, strange chance ! he came full 
 upon Hardhead. It was near a street lamp, and 
 he knew him at once ! His first impulse, al 
 most a resistless one, was to strike him dead 
 with the dagger that was already clasped in his 
 hand. He even half drew it and followed the 
 unconscious burglar for some steps. But sud 
 denly stopping, he leaned against the stone 
 wall of the house where he stood, and said to 
 himself: 
 
 " Hold, I could kill him, but how will that 
 agree with my new resolve ? Quick, let me 
 decide before he gets out of sight." And as 
 the robber thus communed with himself, he 
 seemed to be undetermined whether he should 
 follow the receding form of the burglar, now 
 just discernible through the darkness, or let 
 him depart in peace. It was a struggle be 
 tween his better judgment and his revengeful 
 feelings against his former accomplice. 
 
 His better feelings and a resolve of a more 
 godly life prevailed ; and the burglar went on 
 his way unharmed, while Karl Blasius turn 
 ed and went towards his lodgings, with a 
 downcast and more thoughtful face. 
 
 Now he came into St. James street, and saw 
 the glare of light pour forth from the windows 
 of the gaming house where he had so often 
 played with fearful dishonesty of purpose, 
 where he had so nearly ruined Lord Amidown 
 and where that startling exposure had taken 
 place, the secret of which he even then did 
 not understand. He now crossed over the 
 street into the shadow of an angle in the build 
 ings opposite, where he paused for a few min 
 utes, evidentlyrecalling the moments of excite
 
 304 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 ment that he had passed there, and with a 
 sickening and scornful curl of his lip he pass 
 ed on once more, still wrapped in the reflec 
 tions that these subjects gave rise to in his 
 mind. He saw how much evil he had done 
 now, it came up before him with terrible force, 
 and he almost groaned with the weight. His 
 victims, like Banquo's ghost, came up before 
 him at every point, and as Macbeth saw the 
 spirits of those whom he had murdered pass 
 in review on the surface of the magic mirror, 
 so Karl Blasius now reviewed his victims. 
 
 Leaving the robber to his reflections, let us 
 pass over a period of months and take the read 
 er to another land. 
 
 It was but a few months subsequent to the 
 scene which we have described, when an 
 humble traveller stopped at the little ancient 
 inn of Mprentz. He was way-worn and 
 weary, and had evidently come a long way 
 on foot. His habiliments were coarse and his 
 form not a little bent, while the expression of 
 his countenance seemed to show its possessor 
 to have tasted deeply of the bitterest cup of 
 fortune. He looked about him with an eye 
 that at times was lit up with vivid interest, and 
 then as though the scene had little joy for 
 him. 
 
 " Welcome," said the host, a little gray old 
 man. " Wilt come in and refresh thyself, 
 friend ?" 
 
 " What is the name of thy inn ?" 
 
 ' It is called the Postilion." 
 
 " 0, I remember." 
 
 " You remember it?" 
 
 " No, that is I saw the sign just now." 
 
 " Ah, will you walk in ?" 
 
 " Thank you, good man, 1 have much need 
 of rest and food, I will come in for a while." 
 
 After his partaking of a little plain bread, 
 and drinking a. glass of cheap wine, the host 
 asked him from whence he came, and tried, 
 as was his wont, to gain what news he could 
 from the stranger by way of gossip. 
 
 " Do you go on to-night, or will you tarry 
 until the morrow?" asked the host of the 
 stranger. 
 
 " I must go on to-night. I suppose Ae roads 
 are safe in this neighborhood landlord ?" 
 
 " O yes, of late years, there is rarely any 
 trouble on the roads, but the bold Karl Blasius 
 used years ago to keep the whole neighbor-^ 
 
 r 
 
 hood for leagues about here even to the very 
 gates of Brontz, in fear." 
 
 " He, was beheaded, I suppose?" remarked 
 the stranger, carelessly, while he seemed to 
 examine the view presented from the door. 
 
 " No, he was condemned to be, but escaped 
 by some curious means of his own construc 
 tion. It is many years since that, but I be 
 lieve he was drowned or shot while trying to 
 get away." 
 
 " His band is now all dispersed, I suppose, of 
 course ?" 
 
 " 0, yes, they had a cave not far from here 
 in a deep wood, where the regular troops rout 
 ed them and took a large number prisoners 
 among the rest, Karl himself, and carried them 
 all to Armantz." 
 
 " A set of cutthroats that the country was 
 glad to get rid of, I suppose ?" said the stran 
 ger, indifferently. 
 
 " Not exactly so. The fact was, Karl Bla 
 sius used to be very good to the peasantry, 
 who loved him." 
 
 " O,the peasantry then regretted, and spoke 
 well of him," said the stranger, with evident 
 interest depicted in his face. 
 
 " Yes, and it was the same with his father, 
 the far-famed Sehinderhames. Both have 
 been in my time." 
 
 "Indeed, did you know him?" asked the 
 stranger, watching the landlord with an ear 
 nest eye. 
 
 " Well, and might have known his son, but 
 I was more closely watched by the authorities, 
 and I stayed at home." 
 
 The traveller paid his moderate fee, pressed 
 the host's hand with an humble benediction, 
 and departed. Little did the landlord of the 
 old inn think that he had just been talking with 
 the very Karl Blasius, who, a score and more 
 of years gone by, had been the virtual master 
 of that part of the valley of the Ehine. The 
 wanderer had gotten thus far on his return to 
 that home which was, in fact, no home to 
 him. Yet he had longed once more to look 
 upon the old familiar spots where so many 
 years of his early life had been passed, and 
 where he had done so much good, and, alas ! 
 so much evil, the latter fearfully outweighing 
 the former, if indeed it did not blot it out al 
 together. 
 
 .The robber wandered on, and revisited those 
 , scenes so powerfully impressed upon his mem-
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 305 
 
 ory, recalling each event that had nemonized 
 this or that spot upon his mind. He wander 
 ed even in the streets of Bronts, without any 
 fear of discovery. He was so much changed, 
 and such a lapse of years had transpired since 
 he was there, that he felt not the least alarm. 
 He visited the castle of Ghertstein again, 
 where he had passed so many delightful hours, 
 and where he had sought the hand of the fair 
 Lady Gustine. All was a ruin now ; the old 
 lord was bankrupt, and Sir Robert had per 
 mitted it to go to decay without scarce a 
 thought of the fact that it had been the home 
 of his dearly loved wife, and her ancestors. 
 
 A few years of civil war and devastation 
 had left the place a pile of ruins. 
 
 " Where her high steeples whilom used to stand, 
 On which the lordly falcon wont to tower, 
 
 There now is but a heap of lime and sand, 
 For the screech-owl to build her baleful bower." 
 
 Still actuated, even at this remote period, 
 in no slight degree by his almost maddened 
 passion for the Lady Gustine, the rohber re 
 solved that these ruins should be his future 
 home, and that he would here live among the 
 bats and owls, a creature no less out of the 
 pale of human society than they were. The 
 very hooting of the ghostly owls seemed in ac 
 cordance with his feelings, and the darting 
 and shot-like rustling of the bats' wings, was 
 music to him now. These things were in ac 
 cordance with the sad music of his own up 
 braiding conscience. Gentle sympathy from 
 his own species would have been bitterness to 
 him ; the voice of kindness, gall itself. No, 
 no, he was most at home here. 
 20 
 
 " The moss his bed, the care his humble cell, 
 His food the fruits, his drinks the crystal well." 
 
 Ruins were too many, and hermits too fre 
 quent in the valley of the Rhine, for Karl 
 Blasius, disguised as he was by the ruthless 
 hand of time, to fear being disturbed or dis 
 covered. The ruins were somewhat disolated, 
 forming the crowning point of a lofty and 
 rocky promontory that jutted into the Rhine, 
 and here he slept and prayed, for he was 
 thoroughly awakened now to his crimes and 
 the power of conscience. The dark man who 
 had once kept that valley in awe by his deeds 
 of daring, now knelt at the vesper hour, and 
 smote his hreast before high Heaven, a con 
 trite, hroken-hearted man. 0,' fearful close of 
 a fearful career. 
 
 At last, when he had been many times seen, 
 for this picture is not of a day, but of rolling 
 years, those who came to know him casually, 
 called him the Monk of Ghertstein, and some 
 said that he either worked miracles orjiad the 
 philosopher's stone, for he had done such 
 noble deeds of charity, rescuing at times 
 whole families from ruin, and casting peace 
 broadcast about many an humble fireside, that 
 he was deemed to possess more than human 
 power. But he mingled not at all with socie 
 ty ; sometimes in disguise he was said to visit 
 the .town, and learn where and how he could 
 best do good, and it was not long after that, 
 the deed was done, often so singularly as to 
 leave it in doubt as to who had been the lib 
 erator of necessity. But the neighbors always 
 on such occasions whispered the name of the 
 Monk of Ghertstein !
 
 CHAPTER LVI. 
 
 A LAPSE OF TEN YEARS. 
 
 O, Time ! thou beautifier of the dead 
 And owner of the ruin comforter 
 
 A.nd only healer when the heart hath bled 
 Time ! the corrector when our judgments err, 
 The test of truth, love, sole philosopher ! 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 TEN years have passed since the period de 
 signated in the close of the last chapter. 
 How fraught with incident were they to the 
 characters of our story, how full of develop 
 ment in the life-history of each and all of 
 those to whom we have introduced the leader 
 of these pages. On reviewing their history 
 after such a lapse of time, we feel almost at a 
 loss where to begin, there has transpired so 
 much of joy and quiet peace in the various 
 circles formed by each, there have occurred so 
 many events that to them were fraught with 
 so much of interest, and so important in their 
 results, that we hardiy know where to resume 
 the tangled thread. 
 
 The consummation of the kind-hearted Mrs. 
 Marlow's happiness by the return of Francis, 
 now General Marlow, seemed to act like a 
 charm upon all the rest, for no sooner did the 
 general declare that they should be united in 
 the bonds of matrimony at the little church of 
 Ilaredale, by Rev. Mr. Brandon, than Walter 
 and Lord Amidown intimated that they should 
 be most happy to follow suit, and before a 
 month had elapsed after the marriage of Ed 
 ward Manley and Fanny Hardway, the little 
 church at Haredale witnessed the union of the 
 three couples. 
 
 As time progressed, new faces came upon 
 the scene, and joyous little children knelt by 
 the mother's knee to repeat their nightly pray 
 er, while the proud father listened and was 
 happy. 
 
 Walter Manning and his wife, the Lady 
 Josephine, still graced those aristocratic circles 
 to which she was born, and both seemed best 
 to enjoy this manner of life. Her taste, as we 
 have seen, was formed like that of the gen 
 tle, but unhappy Lydia Gray ; yet it seemed 
 quickly to mould itself to city life after she 
 had once tasted its dissipations and its engag 
 ing attractions, and now these scenes and 
 minglings had become to her a second nature, 
 their excitement was apparently necessary to 
 her very being. Walter feeling the utmost 
 confidence in her tr.uth and honesty of purpose, 
 felt no regret at her mingling thus with the 
 gay world, and became himself in part a de 
 votee of this style and fashion, until domestic 
 ties in the form of lovely children, drew 
 their hearts and attentions more within the 
 home circle,where both became if possible hap 
 pier than before. 
 
 Edith and Lord Amidown were different; 
 both had seen enough of city life; besides Lord 
 Amidown took the hue of his desires and
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 30T 
 
 wishes from her he loved so dearly as the 
 chameleon takes its color from that which it 
 rests upon and her heart was &o made for af 
 fection, hergentlespiritloved retirement so well, 
 that she chose a happy country home, where 
 both - eemed blessed, and where, 
 
 " With secret course which no loud storms annoy, 
 Glides the smooth current of domestic joy." 
 
 A noble toy and gentle girl had been sent 
 them by Providence to engage their hearts 
 still more, and render happy their domestic 
 hearth. Walter named after him who had 
 been a brother to its mother was indeed a 
 noble child, with all the elegance of manner 
 and fine manly characteristics of his father, 
 and the beauty of his mother, while little Cla 
 ra named after her whom Edith had loved 
 so well, and with whom she had passed 
 through so many trials was such a dear, gen 
 tle, angelic flower, that Sir Robert seemed al 
 most to worship her. 
 
 But unalloyed happiness is not the lot of 
 mortals, and after twelve years of sweet com 
 panionship with her husband, a slow fever 
 threw him into a decline, of which he died. 
 The blow was less severe than it would have 
 been had a sudden illness deprived Edith of 
 her husband's society ; but they were all pre 
 pared by the slow consumptive symptoms that, 
 not unlike the gradual burning out of a lamp, 
 at last having exhausted the vital tide, gently 
 went out. And thus Lord Amidown quietly 
 resigned his life, with a joyous hope to meet 
 his loved and cherished ones again in heaven. 
 Sweet solace for the dying! 
 
 Now completely bound up in her lovely 
 children, who repaid her fond and jealous care 
 with the tenderest affection, Edith was calm 
 and even happy. It was now that Clara's 
 philosophy, or rather religion, became so im 
 portant a prop to Edith ; they were much, al 
 most constantly together, as of yore, and so ear 
 nestly did Clara labor for the happiness of her 
 dear friend, that her widowed heart found 
 such rich promise and hope as once more to 
 be cheerful and content. 
 
 " Ah ! dear, dear Clara, who could have 
 foreseen this, that j ou to whom I once acted 
 the Christian teacher's part, should now con 
 sole me when my affliction seemed harder 
 than -I could bear ?" 
 
 " It is only too much joy to think that I have 
 been reserved for this good to you, Edith, for 
 
 how much am I indebted to you for everything, 
 even the dear kind friendship of Sir Robert 
 himself." 
 
 " No, no, Clara, there you are wrong; it is 
 for yourself alone that Sir Robert loves yon,, 
 and he was from the very first drawn to yon,, 
 not by any connection with me further than a 
 mere introduction, but by the native and ever 
 present goodness of your heart, and the kind 
 ness of your disposition. Nay, you need not 
 shake your head thus incredulously, for he 
 has himself often told me these very words 
 that I repeat to you." 
 
 " Has he ?" asked Clara, with interest, " ah, 
 well, it is very, very pleasant to be loved, even 
 by strangers" 
 
 " Strangers, Clara !" 
 
 " That if, I don't exactly mean that, but by 
 those not attached to us by the ties of blood^ 
 she answered. 
 
 " No ties of blood ever could render yoo 
 more dear to us than you are already, dear 
 Clara," replied her friend, kissing her, and 
 holding little Clara forward also to imprint a 
 kiss upon the lips of its namesake, 
 
 " How sweet and innocent she looks, 
 Edith," said Clara, regarding the child intent 
 ly. " 0, may God spare her the bitter experi 
 ence of her whose name she bears." 
 
 " If heaven will but endow it with a saul&s 
 pure as thine, Clara, I shall be content, believe 
 me. But like you, I have often prayed that she 
 may never know the fearful experience even 
 of her own mother." 
 
 " Dear aunt," for thus the child called hen, 
 " what makes you cry ?" said the little girl, 
 struggling to leave her mother and get into 
 Clara's lap, and then laying her soft flaxen 
 curls and her little throbbing temples in Cla 
 ra's neck. The child loved her dearly, scarce 
 ly less than she did her mother, and so with 
 Walter, whose lips quivered as he saw the 
 tears on Clara's cheek, and with a struggle at 
 a manly tone, he begged her to come and ride 
 with him, as the horses had just been brought 
 to the door. 
 
 " Go, Clara, go. The air is delightful this 
 afternoon, and will revive you. Come, Wal 
 ter and Clara shall both go with you, and 
 drive over to Haredale, where you so like to go. 1 ' 
 
 " Thank you," said Clara, sadly, and turn 
 ing to the carriage with the children, she drove 
 away towards Haredale.
 
 308 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 This was Clara's position now ; she seemed 
 to have arrived only to the perfection and 
 prime of her beauty, though a slight consump 
 tive tendency that lingered about her constitu 
 tion not unfrequently robbed her cheek in part 
 of its bloom. She was still peerless in beau 
 ty, and no one who approached her, but was 
 forced to acknowledge the power of her charms. 
 In these twelve years past, more than one no 
 ble lord had laid his heart at her feet, but all 
 were refused, though with a gentle delicacy 
 and tact that only left them still more deeply 
 her admirers than they had been before. 
 
 " Such around her shone 
 The nameless charms unmarked by her alone, 
 The light of love, the purity of grace, 
 The mind, the music breathing from her face, 
 The heart, whose softness harmonized the whole 
 And, O, that eye was in itself a soul !" 
 
 General and Mrs. Marlow were at Marlow 
 House, in the sweet enjoyment of domestic 
 happiness. Sir Charles had deceased these 
 five years since, leaving all his broad domains 
 to that younger brother who had gone to India 
 through his unkindness an humble cadet, but 
 who had returned crowned with honor, and as 
 a general. No happier picture of pure domes 
 tic bliss could be drawn than that now reign 
 ing at Marlow House. The warmest and 
 most delightful intimacy was kept up between 
 Sir Robert and his family, and their early and 
 happy associations were unforgotten. 
 
 " I understand, Emma," said General Mar- 
 low, " that Sir Robert and Clara are about to 
 go to Italy. Her health of late has seemed 
 to be failing, and the physicians prescribe 
 milder air and sunnier skies." 
 
 " I am glad she is going," replied his wife. 
 " I have long hoped that she would try, if only 
 for the briefest period, a milder atmosphere. 
 Clara has grown pale and thinner, I have no 
 ticed of late." 
 
 " She is a very pure-hearted and noble girl," 
 said General Marlow ; " no wonder Sir Rob 
 ert loves her so well." 
 
 " She is indeed pure-hearted no one can 
 testify to that more truthfully than I. From 
 the first day that we removed to Haredale 
 from Sir Robert's town residence, Clara made 
 a study of pure and undefiled religion, and if 
 any human being has a heart entirely baptiz 
 ed in holiness, it does seem to me that Clara 
 is its possessor." 
 
 " You are an enthusiast, Emma, but I think 
 you speak only the truth in this case," he an 
 swered. 
 
 "If you knew her as well as I do, you 
 would not think me unduly prejudiced in her 
 favor. I was with her almost constantly from 
 the hour when she came to Sir Robert's, until 
 we were married and came here, and have 
 watched her progress as closely as though she 
 had been my own child." 
 
 "I remember the singular story which you 
 told me about her and Edith," he replied. 
 " It has seemed strange to me that she has 
 never married ; she might have allied herself 
 to some of the finest men in London, persons 
 rich not only in purse, but well endowed with 
 intellect." 
 
 Mrs. Marlow made no answer, but bending 
 over her little daughter, adjusted her flowing 
 curls with busy fingers, while her thoughts 
 were no less busily employed in another direc 
 tion. It had not long puzzled Mrs. Marlow, 
 with her affectionate assiduity and woman 
 discernment, to read the very soul within 
 Clara's breast, and her secret motives, though 
 sacred, were all known to her. 
 
 " Did Clara often refer to her early life 
 and associations ?" asked the general, after re 
 garding his wife in silence for a moment, dur 
 ing which a shade of the true feelings of Cla 
 ra's breast crossed his mind, and which he 
 seemed to read in the silence and manner of 
 Mrs. Marlow. 
 
 " Only at times, to say that no doubt, 
 as far as her present peace of mind was con 
 cerned, she would have been happier had she 
 been left in the obscurity where Edith first 
 met her." 
 
 " She was too sensitive to mingle with this 
 coarse world," replied the general, " and should 
 have rather been born to rank and station, or 
 have remained in obscurity. Doubtless, the 
 polishing of her native intellect by study and 
 gentle associations, was the sacrificing of her 
 peace of mind in this life." 
 
 " I have long realized that this is the truth 
 in relation to her." 
 
 " How was that matter settled between her 
 and Earnest Brandon ?" asked her husband. 
 " 0, time healed this second disappointment 
 of the curate's." 
 
 " Second disappointment ?" 
 
 " Yes, you remember the story I told you
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 309 
 
 about Lydia Gray, Lady Josephine's early 
 companion, and who sacrificed her own life to 
 her sense of honor ?" 
 
 " Yes, I remember." 
 
 " Some four years I believe after we left 
 Haredale, Mr. Brandon was at last married." 
 
 " You may well say at last," repeated her 
 husband, laughing. " It was the third choice." 
 
 " That is nothing extraordinary ; we have 
 another instance in our immediate circle," she 
 answered. 
 
 " Indeed ; and who pray do you refer to ? 
 Not Lord Amidown." 
 
 " No, but Walter." 
 
 " Was his a third choice ?" 
 
 " Certainly. At first he was perfectly de 
 voted to Edith, afterwards as much so to 
 Clara, and finally fell desperately in love with 
 Lady Josephine actually the third choice." 
 
 " Did not Edith return his first regard," 
 asked the general, not a little interested. 
 
 " Only as a sister, but she thought much of 
 Walter for all that." 
 
 " And how was it with Clara ?" 
 
 " Clara loved him, though she never ac 
 knowledged it to any human being. It was 
 her first and last love, but Walter received her 
 refusal, and not long after sought consolation, 
 as I have said, with his present wife." 
 
 " Did not Walter realize that she loved 
 him ?" 
 
 " I think not ; for his sake I could see that 
 she assumed a manner and tone that were 
 foreign to her heart. She was too conscien 
 tious to give him hope that she could never 
 honestly encourage." 
 
 " Noble girl," said the general, thoughtful. 
 
 ly. " And did Edith fully realize her friend's 
 situation ?" 
 
 " Hardly, for then her unhappy trouble 
 with Lord Amidown had just occurred, and 
 her own heart was bleeding too sorely to be 
 strongly impressed with even Clara's grief." 
 
 " Yes, I remember now how complicated 
 were the troubles of Sir .Robert's household at 
 that period." 
 
 ^ " All seemed to come together, and all were 
 very unhappy." 
 
 " Do you think Clara still loves Walter ?" 
 asked the general. 
 
 " No, I can hardly say that, because 1 con 
 sider that the train of thought in which she 
 has so long indulged has gradually weaned 
 her from all such affections, but yet when we 
 first went down to Haredale I used to think 
 that this love was still cherished in her breast, 
 though I might have been mistaken." 
 
 " Poor child of fortune," said the sympathiz 
 ing general. 
 
 Both paused, thoughtfully reviewing the 
 checkered scenes of Clara's life, and the inci 
 dents that had connected them all together. 
 It was a singular train of thought, a compli 
 cated image of life. 
 
 Their little daughter had sunk down upon 
 an ottoman, and now lay fast asleep, present 
 ing a sweet picture of innocent beauty, Mrs. 
 Marlow and her husband looked first upon the 
 child, and then upon each other with an ex 
 pression of most ineffable happiness beaming 
 from their eyes. Could the lot of the kind- 
 hearted and loving Mrs. Marlow be more at 
 peace ? Was she not very, very happy ?
 
 CHAPTER L VII 
 
 THE DEPARTURE. 
 
 Let's not unman each other part at once ; 
 All farewells should be sudden, when forever, 
 Else they make an eternity of moments, 
 And clog the last sad sands of life with tears. 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 IT was just twelve years from the period 
 when Karl Blaeius was confined in Newgate, 
 as we have described, that two persons, a male 
 and female, were executed in a like manner 
 with the scene before referred to. These two 
 persons were Hardhead and Mother Giles. 
 After the disappearance of Lancewood, as they 
 called the robber, Hardhead and herself form 
 ed a copartnership for doing business together, 
 and the tap-room became the scene of more 
 sin and wickedness than ever before, until a 
 bold and daring murder committed there was 
 fairly traced to them, and for this, having been 
 duly tried, they were hung together in New 
 gate. 
 
 The little Frenchman, whom they had call 
 ed the Chevalier, took the tap-room and kept 
 it from that time until his death, but it was 
 t never the riotous place that it had been under 
 Mother Giles. 
 
 It was on that very day that Hardhead and 
 the woman were executed, that Clara and Sir 
 Robert Brompton started for the genial skies 
 and balmy atmosphere of Italy. As time pro 
 gressed they had been more and more thrown 
 upon each other's society for amusement, and 
 several times Clara had nursed by the sickbed 
 of Sir Robert when he was suffering under 
 protracted illness, much endearing herself to 
 him by her self-sacrificing kindness and con 
 
 stant desire to serve him. Sir Robert's old 
 desire would sometimes come over him, and 
 he would wish at heart that he could know if 
 he was beloved even by Clara for himself 
 alone, and not from mere gratitude. 
 
 " Clara," said he, ' you have been very af 
 fectionate to me, and since I have lost Edith, 
 you have seemed to more than fill her place 
 in my heart." 
 
 " Dear Sir Robert, I could not love an own 
 father better than I love you," said she, truth 
 fully, as she parted the locks, now frosted with 
 gray, from his forehead. 
 
 She looked fondly upon him as she did so, 
 and she remembered that thus had he done to 
 her when they first met, and while he promis 
 ed her future protection. How faithfully he 
 had kept that promise ? How mu< h trouble 
 she had been in reality to him, and yet how 
 cheerfully he had humored her every whim ? 
 How liberally and how prince-like had he 
 poured forth his wealth for her, and above all, 
 how kind and affectionate had he ever seemed 
 to her who had no right to his regard or care ? 
 Clara thought of all this as she parted Sir 
 Robert's hair so gently from his forehead, and 
 looked affectionately into his eyes. 
 
 We have more than once alluded to Clara's 
 eyes, so peculiar and so beautiful. Sir Robert 
 loved to gaze at them, they were so like
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 311 
 
 Edith's, and hers were so much like the 
 strangely winning and fascinating ones of 
 her mother, the Lady Gustine. A resem 
 blance which had so singularly affected the 
 robber in relation to them both, years before. Sir 
 Robert could look into their deep, and slightly 
 saddened depths, and fancy himself once more 
 beside her whom he had so tenderly loved, yet 
 so unreasonably suspected. Her memory had 
 ever been fondly cherished by him, and was 
 still revered most tenderly. He often told 
 Clara of her surpassing beauty and excel 
 lence, her childlike vivacity and cheerftilness, 
 until she seemed to know Sir Robert's wife 
 almost as well as though she had indeed seen 
 and been intimate with her. And then the 
 enthusiasm with which Sir Robert described 
 her, became contagious, and Clara loved to 
 listen to, as well as her patron did to relate, 
 the many and often repeated excellencies of 
 the beautiful Lady Gustine. 
 
 " It was so unfortunate," said Sir Robert, 
 perhaps for the thousandth time, " that we 
 never had her portrait painted ; but there was 
 one of her in her father's possession, which, 
 though I have often tried through others to 
 find, since the castle was deserted, yet I never 
 have yet heard from. Perhaps in our visit 
 I may through my own exertions prove more 
 successful." 
 
 "I hope so, Sir Robert ; it would be such a 
 source of satisfaction to you to possess it." 
 
 " I thought when we had yours and Edith's 
 painted, that as she was about the same age 
 when hers was taken as Edith was, that we 
 should thus get a good picture of her, but I 
 was disappointed ; it did not call up my mem 
 ory as I had expected it might do." 
 
 " Let us hope to find the original, Sir Rob 
 ert, and that will be a prize for you indeed." 
 
 " Yes, I shall spare neither time nor labor 
 to reclaim it, and it will be a satisfaction to 
 have you see a faithful representation of one 
 who has so often been the theme of our con 
 versation. I can well remember how often it 
 has challenged my admiration from its won 
 derful likeness to her, and how her fond fath 
 er said when we left him for England, that 
 he should keep it to have her loved features 
 ever be r ore him." 
 
 " I feel much curiosity to behold the picture 
 of one so lovely in every respect as she must 
 have been. I think I should love it almost as 
 
 though it were human, after what you have 
 told me." 
 
 Sir Robert smiled with inward pleasure at 
 this remark, but made no answer to Clara. 
 
 Clara and Sir Robert, when they started for 
 Italy, had left Edith contented and happy with 
 her children at their country seat. The wound 
 that her heart had received in the loss of Lord 
 Amidown was nearly healed, that is to say, so 
 far as the immediate grief was concerned, and 
 she became so much absorbed in rearing and 
 overseeing the education of her two children, 
 that she had but little time for grief even had 
 she been disposed to indulge in it. Indeed 
 having become settled in life, and having also 
 a large experience of its ills and crosses as well 
 as its success and brighter spots, she was con 
 tent and happy to fill what seemed to her to 
 be her allotted sphere, while the sweet hope 
 often recurred to her that in the end all would 
 meet again in heaven. 
 
 The children whom she loved so dearly, in 
 herited her own remarkable beauty, and 
 though she could not be blind to the advantage 
 of this, yet she watched with far more jealous 
 pride and satisfaction their mental develop 
 ments, which gave rich. promise of a golden 
 harvest. 
 
 " Dear Aunt Clara," said Walter, as he was 
 bidding her and Sir Robert good by, " I could 
 almost as well spare mama as you ; indeed I 
 love you very dearly." 
 
 Clara pressed her lips to the boy's forehead 
 but could not speak, her heart was too full. 
 " Every one seems so kind, so dear and so gen 
 tle to me, why," she thought to herself, "^why 
 does this sadness hang about my heart ?" Kiss 
 ing little Clara a dozen times and quieting the 
 child's sobs at parting with her by ample pro 
 mises of soon returning to see her again, the 
 whole soon separated and Clara and Edith 
 with a long embrace, bade each other farewell. 
 
 " I know not why I dread so much to have 
 you leave us," said the latter, " some strange 
 weight oppresses me while I think upon it, and 
 I dreamed last night strange dreams, all about 
 you." 
 
 " 0, this is but fancy, dear Edith, the doctor 
 is certain that I shall be better for the jour 
 ney." 
 
 " God grant it may be so, Clara," answered 
 her adopted sister, looking sadly into her pale 
 face.
 
 312 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 " But if I should never return, Edith," she 
 whispered with an earnest but quiet mien, " I 
 hope you will think kindly of me, and some 
 times recall the happy hours we have passed 
 together." 
 
 " Nay Clara, talk not thus, you make me 
 feel wretchedly, you know how much I love 
 you, you know how much reason I have to 
 love you." 
 
 " Thank you, Edith, I believe you do love 
 me. But I must not detain Sir Robert, he is 
 already at the vehicle, and so now Edith, fare 
 well," 
 
 " One hurried kiss one last, one long embrace 
 One yearning look upon her tearful face" 
 
 and the two friends had parted for the last 
 time ! They were destined to meet no more 
 on earth. 
 
 Walter, mounting the Shetland pony that 
 Sir Robert, his grandfather, had given him, 
 rode with them on the way for a mile or more, 
 and then bidding them once more good by, 
 he turned back and at a hard gallop returned 
 to the house, almost as sad at parting with 
 Clara as he would have been at any untoward 
 event that his young mind could have conceived 
 of. 
 
 Sir Robert had directed their route so that 
 it should carry them by the way of Marlow 
 House, in order that they might see and bid 
 the family there good by, for he realized 
 the warm regard that existed between Clara 
 and Mrs. Marlow, and she had herself ex 
 pressed a wish to see her before she left Eng 
 land. With the kind Mrs. Marlow Clara 
 reviewed their old associations, and talked over 
 their long companionship, while she enjoyed 
 the hospitality of Marlow House, and the 
 cheerful, happy conversation of its master, 
 the general. After a day's sojourn here, and 
 after bidding them a warm and affectionate 
 adieu, the vehicle that bore them dashed 
 down the old lawn, and they were once more 
 on their journey towards another clime. 
 
 Sir Robert was travelling in his own car 
 riage, and his servant had selected from the 
 stable for the first few stages, a pair of 
 powerful bay horses, high-spirited, and which 
 had been exercised but little for some days 
 previous to this time, in anticipation of the 
 somewhat protracted service that would be 
 required of them. This being the case, the 
 horses were full of life and spirit, and on 
 
 leaving Marlow House, showed some signs of 
 being a little unmanageable, but being promptly 
 checked by the driver, they passed oh obedi 
 ent to the reins. As they came down into 
 the village through which the way must carry 
 them, the sight of a barking dog here, and 
 boys playing at ball in another place, and the 
 crack of a teamster's whip close by their very- 
 ears, again set them to prancing, and they 
 became almost unmanageable even in the hands 
 of their experienced and careful driver. 
 
 In this mood, they dashed through the vil 
 lage, and had reached its opposite outskirts, 
 when a sudden spring of the animals and a 
 jolt of the vehicle in an abrupt unevenness of 
 the road, threw the driver violently from the 
 box, and left Sir Robert and Clara in a most 
 fearfqL~jand critical situation. A hasty or 
 careless man would have leaped out, and per 
 haps have lost his life in consequence, but 
 Sir Robert only pressed his arm about Clara's 
 waist, to secure her as much as possible from 
 the jolting, and danger of being thrown out, 
 and also to reassure her ; for although Clara 
 spoke not a word, yet the paleness of death 
 had overspread her' features. Sir Robert set 
 his teeth firmly,^i|Ht. made no movement. 
 There was no posajpfe manner in which he 
 could better their situation, and he saw that 
 it only remained for them to await their fate 
 patiently, let it be what it might. 
 
 At this moment, with the horses at full 
 speed, and the vehicle dashing after them 
 with a terrific violence and noise, they passed 
 a neat little cottage, from whence Sir Robert 
 saw a man leap out, exhibiting the nimble- 
 ness of an animal, and rush with the speed 
 of the wind almost in the same direction as 
 themselves, every moment drawing nearer and 
 nearer to the affrighted horses, until his hands 
 rushed upon the harness and shoulder of the 
 near horse. Another moment and he had 
 leaped astride of him, and was gathering up 
 the check reins of both, and with a strong 
 arm gradually sawing upon the mouths of the 
 horses until the subdued animals, breathless, 
 and with smoking flanks, at last gave in to 
 his control, and were drawn up safely at the 
 side of the road. 
 
 There was probably no other possible man 
 ner in which they could have been stopped. 
 No arm could have stayed their course by 
 seizing the bit, and but very few persons could
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 313 
 
 have performed the feat that has already been 
 described, of leaping upon the back of the 
 near horse while under such headway. 
 
 Helping Clara to alight, Sir Robert turned 
 towards him who had thus been the means of 
 saving their lives. 
 
 He was a person of the middle size, dressed 
 in the clothing of one engaged about a farm, 
 and now stood with a hand on either of the 
 horse's bits, muttering some incoherent words 
 to himself. He did not seem to notice Sir 
 Robert or Clara at all, nor indeed to think that 
 he had performed any remarkable service, but 
 appeared to be intent upon observing the 
 horses, and muttering some unintelligible 
 words to the animals that might have been 
 one half of a reproof and one half of triumph, 
 to judge from the man's tone of voice and his 
 manner. To all of Sir Robert's reiterated 
 thanks he turned a deaf ear ; indeed he did 
 not look towards Sir Robert at first for some 
 minutes after he had spoken, but still address 
 ed hia' singular mutterings to the horses them 
 selves. 
 
 " What a singular being he is," remarked 
 Sir Robert, turning to Clara, and asking her 
 if she was harmed. 
 
 " I am only a little frightened, Sir Robert, 
 but have received no bodily injury," she re 
 plied. 
 
 " Thank Heaven for that. Thrice we were 
 on the very verge of the precipice above the 
 river, and I had little expectation, even when 
 that brave fellow leaped upon the horse, that 
 we should bring up again in safety." 
 
 By this time a number of the villagers had 
 come to the spot, and the driver, who had been 
 partially hurt by his fall, also arrived. From 
 these people Sir Robert received every kind 
 ness and assistance, and many of them re 
 cognized him, and remembered his service to 
 
 one of their number, Edward Manley, when 
 Sir Charles Marlow was about to wed Fanny 
 Hardway. Edward Manley was there, and 
 as he grasped Sir Robert's hand, he thanked 
 Heaven that no harm had come to him. 
 When Sir Robert sought the person who had 
 rendered him such important service at such a 
 critical moment, in order to remunerate him 
 pecuniarily, which he did in a princely man 
 ner, he was told that he was Cato, Fanny's 
 half-witted friend. 
 
 Sir Robert had thus dropped among a fresh 
 army of friends, who would scarcely permit 
 him to go away. 
 
 " Stay, if only for a few hours," urged Ed 
 ward Manley. 
 
 " Come and let me arrange your dress and 
 person," said the pretty matronly Fanny, who 
 had hurried up to the spot in a neighboring 
 wagon, hoping to be of some service. 
 
 " We will have a holiday, Sir Robert, if 
 you will stop," said a leading man of the 
 town. 
 
 Indeed half the village were urging them 
 to share their hospitality, but Sir Robert put 
 them off with some well conceived excuse, 
 declaring that his horses were now too nearly 
 tired out to become again unruly, and that his 
 arrangements were such that he must reach 
 a certain point that day. 
 
 " But on our return," said he, " we will 
 hope to meet you all." 
 
 Again he sought the half-witted fellow who 
 had been the means of saving their lives, and 
 taking his hand, and thanking him sincerely, 
 he commended him to the kindness of Ed 
 ward Manley, whom he ordered to draw upon 
 him for any means he might desire in taking 
 care of the half-witted man. 
 
 With a cheer from the friendly crowd, they 
 drove on in safety.
 
 CHAPTER LVIII. 
 
 THE MISTAKE. 
 
 Weave we the woof. The thread is spun, 
 The web is wove, the work is done. 
 
 GRAY. 
 
 POETS have ever found a fruitful theme for 
 their muse in the soft, genial climate and love 
 ly skies of Italy. Painters have immortalized 
 nearly every spot upon the shores of the 
 Rhine. Drawn thither by the two-fold pur 
 pose of improving the health of Clara, and 
 also renewing his memory of the past, and of 
 reviewing once more the scenes that were so 
 intimately connected with his early career in 
 life, Sir Robert entered earnestly into the study 
 of the objects about them, when, after an easy 
 journey of nearly two months, they stopped at 
 the little inn of Mornentz. 
 
 It was not often that the landlord had an 
 opportunity to serve guests who paid so liber 
 ally as Sir Robert, and the little inn became 
 the scene of the utmost bustle and confusion. 
 The bar maid was most assiduous to serve 
 Clara, and the host was full of talk and pro 
 fuse offers to Sir Robert. 
 
 " This is the Postilion, I believe ?" asked 
 Sir Robert, as he entered. 
 
 " Yes, sir, that is the name it has borne for 
 half a century and more." 
 
 " A goodly name, and I remember it well, 
 though it is many years since 1 was here." As 
 Sir Robert spoke he mused upon the recollec 
 tions of that period. 
 
 "I should have remembered the visit of one 
 
 of your class," suggested the landlord, inquir 
 ingly- 
 
 " Perhaps not. I was on foot then, travel 
 ling merely for observation. Eut things have 
 changed, for I can remember the tower thai 
 crowned yonder hill, but now it is gone." 
 
 " Ah ! yes, that was at the time of the civil 
 war. One of the factions tore it nearly to 
 pieces." 
 
 Sir Robert was well aware of this fact, for 
 thus had the castle of Ghertstein suffered, and 
 many fine specimens of the old feudal times 
 that had greeted his former visit, now lay in 
 ruins, adding a heightened but sad interest to 
 the scene. To Clara, all was so new, and so 
 fraught with romantic interest, that for a while 
 she had seemed to have forgotten her ill health 
 and physical feebleness as they advanced, in 
 the constant activity that she found for her 
 mind in the scenes and associations about her. 
 Sir Robert, in his large experience, explained 
 everything, and told Clara too of his adven 
 tures here. 
 
 And now for the first time in the course of 
 his explanations, Clara learned that the man 
 who had so long kept her and Edith in Lon 
 don, was this same Robber of the Rhine, and 
 when Sir Robert explained Karl Blasius's al 
 most frantic passion for the Lady Gustine,
 
 THE MISTAKE 
 
 showing the cause of his singular passion for 
 Edith by reason of her resemblance to her 
 mother, then all was clear to Clara's mind as 
 to the strange passion of Lancewood for her 
 self as well as Edith, since by some freak of 
 nature they both possessed eyes so much 
 alike, besides other resemblances. 
 
 As they went on towards Bronts, a ruin 
 was ex| lored here, and a lofty tower there, 
 reviving in Sir Robert's mind potent memories 
 of years long since gone by. And finally they 
 found themselves settled for a period in pleas 
 ant quarters in the city itself, and from whence 
 they could visit the neighboring places of in 
 terest, and more particularly the ruins of the 
 castle of Ghertstein. 
 
 It was a soft summer's afternoon when Cla 
 ra and Sir Robert, after having mounted the 
 heights of Ghertstein in the vehicle, alighted 
 to wander over the moss covered stones, and 
 beneath the ivy grown walls of the old feudal 
 structure. A feeling almost akin to awe 
 seemed to come over Sir Robert, and he half- 
 whispered as he spoke to her who leaned upon 
 his arm. Clara herself realized a feeling of 
 strange interest as they paused now and then 
 to recognize the divisions of the castle. 
 
 They had strolled thus among the ruins but 
 a few moments, when they heard footsteps 
 coming from a deep arch of the walls, and 
 pausing, observed the form of one bent by 
 care, age and sorrow, leaning upon a staff, 
 while his gray beard and matted hair swept 
 his breast. 
 
 " This must be the monk of whom they told 
 us below," said Sir Robert, to Clara, who 
 seemed inclined to turn and leave the spot. 
 " Surely, we have no cause for fear, Clara." 
 
 " No, Sir Robert, but I had rather ^o away. 
 I had rather not meet him. What eyes he 
 has ! They make me shudder," she said, 
 suiting the action to the word. 
 
 " Why, Clara, you are growing "nervous 
 lately," said her protector, pleasantly, endeav 
 oring to reassure her. 
 
 Clara said no more, for already had the 
 aged hermit, as such his appearance bespoke 
 him, approached them too nearly for either 
 party to pass by in that place without speak 
 ing. 
 
 Sir Robert approached and addressed the 
 venerable appearing man, who started, and 
 drawing nearer to him, looked deeply, as it 
 
 OF A LIFE-TIME. 315 
 
 were, into his face, and then turning to Clara, 
 he bent a no less penetrating glance upon her. 
 He appeared to be overcome with a strange 
 emotion, and scarcely able to support his tot 
 tering frame, and yet he totally rejected the 
 proffered arm of Sir Robert, and all the 
 while seeming to be struggling for utterance. 
 
 " Sir Robert Brompton," he said, at last, 
 " you have come to revive my early memory, 
 and to review the scenes of years gone by." 
 
 " You know me then ?" 
 
 " Ay, and know you not me ?" 
 
 " I do not." 
 
 " It is strange." 
 
 " Your voice and eye haunt my memory, 
 but I cannot recall any thing to fix the name." 
 
 " Do you not remember the fortune-teller, 
 the burglar, the pirate whom you met in the 
 Spanish Indies? Remember you not Karl 
 Blasius, the Robber of the Rhine ?" 
 
 " Is it possible that you are Karl Blasius ?" 
 asked Sir Robert, in utter amazement, while 
 Clara shrunk back and hid her face in her 
 hands, as she recalled the person of him who 
 stood before her ! 
 
 " I stated to you in my letter, written at 
 the time I left London, that this was my des 
 tination, and that here 1 should watch and 
 pray." 
 
 "Your letter?" 
 
 "Ay, the one in which I explained the se 
 cret I had so long withheld," he replied. 
 
 "I received but one letter from you, and 
 that was relating to the money I held for you 
 in trust. That letter 1 answered, though I al 
 ways wondered that I heard no more from 
 you." 
 
 " Is it possible that the letter miscarried af 
 ter all my precaution?" said the ex-robber, 
 thoughtfully, and then suddenly, as if remem 
 bering himself, he continued : 
 
 " Then you know not even to this day that 
 which I would have revealed ?" 
 
 " You have never given me the promised 
 information," replied Sir Robert, calmly. 
 
 " Your mistake has remained undiscovered 
 then to the last?" continued the ex-robber. 
 
 " In relation to what ?" 
 
 Your child !" 
 
 " Edith is well and happy in the bosom of 
 of her family." 
 
 ' And you have ever until now believed 
 that Edith was your daughter ?"
 
 316 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 
 
 " Gracious God ! what do you mean r* ex 
 claimed Sir Robert, in the utmost amazement. 
 
 "I mean * that your child, flesh of your 
 flesh, and blood of your blood, now stands by 
 your side. Clara is your daughter!" 
 
 " Know you this, and can you prove it ?" 
 said Sir Robert, in a hoarse whisper. 
 
 " Upon my hope of salvation, what I have 
 spoken is true." 
 
 "O, God, what a strange, life-long mistake 
 is this. Clara, are you indeed my child ? 
 Speak to me. But stay the proof, the proof, 
 I want, and must have that." 
 
 The excitement of the moment, the charac 
 ter of this startling revelation, the singular 
 emotions induced from the first moment that 
 Clara had realized who the singular being be 
 fore them really was, all proved too much for 
 her tender physical powers, and she fell faint 
 ing into Sir Robert's arms. He thought her 
 for a moment to be really dead, that she had 
 breathed her last, but following the direction of 
 him who had just made so startling a revela 
 tion, Sir Robert bore her beneath the arch 
 from whence they had first seen the repentant 
 man emerge, and there he laid her down upon 
 a rough couch in an old cell of the castle 
 which Karl Blasius had long occupied. Here 
 both adopted every means at hand to recover 
 to life again the delicate form before them. 
 It was a fearful struggle of nature before she 
 once more found power to breathe, and even 
 after that, many serious moments were passed 
 by Sir Robert in watching for a return of full 
 consciousness. 
 
 At last, however, it came, and raising her 
 self upon one arm, Clara looked about her as 
 if to fathom the mystery of her situation, then 
 suddenly she paused with her eyes resting 
 upon the opposite wall, where the dainty light 
 that came from the lofty window of the wall, 
 played upon a picture of surpassing beauty. 
 She did not speak, but pointed Sir Robert to 
 the spot where her eyes rested. 
 
 " It is the long-lost picture !" he exclaimed, 
 gazing with the deepest interest. 
 
 " Ay, it is her picture," said Karl Blasius 
 " my only, my constant companion. Look 
 upon that face," he continued, " and then upon 
 the picture, and you will hardly need the fur 
 ther evidence of the truth of what 1 have tolc 
 you, but which I shall presently give you." 
 
 Sir Robert did gaze first at Clara, and then 
 at the almost perfect picture of her who had 
 >een his dearly loved wife, and conviction was 
 written upon every line of his face. He sat 
 down upon the side of the couch, and taking 
 one of Clara's hands within his own, he cov- 
 red his face with the other, and breathed like 
 one whose emotions defied the power of 
 ordinary utterance. 
 
 In that exciting moment the facts flashed 
 across his mind like a meteor, and he reviewed 
 minutely the position that Clara had held in 
 his household and his heart, from the mo 
 ment when he discovered her standing amazed 
 and wondering at the rich drawing-room into ' 
 which Edith had conducted her, until the 
 present hour. He recalled he'r as the poor 
 outcast who had befriended and cherished his 
 adopted child ; he saw her, young and beauti 
 ful, struggling with her delicacy of feeling, 
 while she shared his protection arid bounty a 
 protection that was hers by right. He review 
 ed all these things in the light which he would 
 be supposed to do now that he knew 
 all, for he believed the robber's words, and the 
 evidence of that strangely faithful picture of 
 his wife. 
 
 He pressed the feeble hand that rested with 
 in his own, and Clara raised his silently to her 
 lips ! No words could truthfully describe that 
 moment, no language honestly depict the 
 workings of those two hearts. Sir Robert 
 felt as though he hardly dared to speak and 
 break the spell that rested upon them, and 
 Clara only pressed his hand silently to her 
 lips. She remembered that he had been in 
 deed a father to her from the first, and could 
 have been no kinder even with this present 
 knowledge, save in the sympathy of blood. 
 He had, as we have before shown, explained 
 to Clara, when he thought Edith to be his 
 child, and during the fearful aberration of 
 mind that followed the disclosure to her, the 
 emotions that had led him to adopt the plan 
 which was suggested to him by Mr. Howard, 
 his agent, so many years now past, and thus 
 Clara saw her father in no unnatural light at 
 the present moment, for the secret of his life 
 was known to her. 
 
 " Ah, Clara, Clara, how shall I speak to 
 you w hat can I say ?" whispered Sir Robert, 
 leaning over her. 
 
 " Only that you love me as well as before
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 this change came over us," she answered, in a 
 gentle voice. 
 
 " You need no assurance of that, my dear 
 child ; but I must seek for an explanation at 
 once from this man, as soon as you are well 
 enough to return to the town." 
 
 " Can it be ?" asked Clara, after gazing for 
 a few moments in silence upon the picture, 
 " can it be that that beautiful being was my 
 mother so fair, so noble, so angelic ?" 
 
 Sir Robert's heart was too full for speech ; 
 he gazed in silence, only turning now and 
 then from the picture to Clara, that he might 
 mark the wonderful resemblance which existed 
 between them, and then regarding once more 
 almost with awe the life-like representation 
 that the artist had left of the original. 
 
 Clara could not suppress an involuntary 
 shudder, when Karl Blasius offered her some 
 wine ; there was so much of alarm and dread 
 associated with the memory she had in her 
 own experience of him, and so much more in 
 the extended knowledge of his life gained 
 from Sir Robert, that she could not bear to 
 look into his face. Karl saw this, and only 
 sighed he read her feelings exactly. But 
 Sir Robert pressed the wine upon her, and 
 she drank of it, that she might be able to fol 
 low him to their residence in town. 
 
 Having partially recovered, he led her to 
 their vehicle, and driving back to Bronts, he 
 left her, promising to return again as soon as 
 he should have revisited the ruin, and ob 
 tained the explanation that was of so much 
 interest to both him and Clara. 
 
 With this purpose, Sir Robert once more 
 sought Karl Blasius. The robber was expect 
 ing him, and as he entered his humble abode, 
 he first addressed him, saying he knew the 
 queries he would make, and then drawing a 
 rough seat near to where Sir Robert had plac 
 ed himself, he explained the mystery. 
 
 It required but few words between them to 
 show Sir Robert that nearly all had turned 
 upon the fact of the strong resemblance each 
 bore the other, and the singular likeness that 
 both presented to his departed wife. Karl 
 Blasius, who had long since fathomed and 
 ferreted out the whole affair from motives that 
 the reader can easily comprehend then show 
 ed Sir Robert that he had at the outset been 
 on the right track, and that he had actually 
 discovered the woman to whom his agent had 
 
 317 
 
 consigned the cnre of his child ; but when he 
 attempted to follow out the thread of direction 
 that this woman gave him, instead of its 
 bringing him in contact with Clara, the true 
 child, he met and thought he recognized Edith, 
 and from that hour and moment, his grand 
 mistake was commenced. 
 
 The woman had been visited in disguise by 
 Sir Robert, and had not the least knowledge 
 of who he or the child might be, but consid 
 ered that his endeavor to recover her might be 
 the result of his aroused conscience, and 
 therefore received his liberal remuneration 
 and told him all she knew. Indeed she 
 told him, truly too, that the house in which 
 she lived, humble as it was, had been robbed, 
 on the supposition that she had gold secreted 
 there, and she was herself wounded, and left 
 for dead, while the child was taken care of by 
 some chance hand, until she happened to dis 
 cover it again but she was too poor to take it 
 home, and support it, without any prospect of 
 remuneration. 
 
 Of course Sir Robert had never called again 
 on this woman, because he had no desire to 
 expose himself in relation to the matter, and 
 having fully repaid her services, and at a price 
 that astonished her, as coming from one appa 
 rently so humble, he never again sought her 
 presence. 
 
 " When I by chance met with Clara," con 
 tinued the robber, " her singular resemblance 
 to the Lady Gustine challenged my interest, 
 and I inquired out her history, but it was 
 unsatisfactory. I could hear little or nothing. 
 Chance, as you will remember, led me to find 
 where Edith was, and I bore her away from 
 your house, and placing the two together, I 
 was confounded. I knew that one or both 
 must be the child of Lady Gustine. I was 
 sure of that; for though I learned that 
 the one you had ever supposed to be hers 
 had been shipped to India, yet I felt sure 
 some secret lay at the bottom of it all, 
 and I determined to fathom it; but it was not 
 until after they had both escaped from me 
 that I succeeded in establishing beyond a 
 doubt which was Lady Gustine's child. When 
 you visited me as the fortune-teller, I had 
 found this out, and also had possession of a 
 small memorandum in the hand-writing of 
 your agent, a small book in which he had
 
 318 
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 kept his account with the woman in cnarge of 
 the child, and in which also was his name 
 and reference to a package of papers relating 
 to the same business. This book he had one 
 day dropped at her house ; indeed I believe it 
 was the very last time he was there. The 
 woman could not read, and when I offered her 
 pay for any information she could give me, 
 she said she had this book, which I might 
 have if I liked, and thus 1 became possessed of 
 it, and of your secret. 
 
 " This book also contained in pencil the 
 copy of two letters, which he had evidently 
 sent to you while you were in India, relating 
 to your purpose and plan as it regarded your 
 child. Of course, possessing these papers, I 
 felt that I could, should the time arrive when 
 I should require your aid, command it. And 
 it was also that little book which enabled me 
 to speak as I did to you when you came to 
 consult me as Madame Duval. I promised, 
 for the service you rendered me in relation to 
 the Hardhead trial, to give you valuable in 
 formation that nearly concerned you and 
 yours. This was the explanation I had in 
 tended to make to you, and which I did put 
 in writing, and presumed 'that you would get, 
 but my very caution defeated itself." 
 
 " What a strange story is all this," said Sir 
 Robert, musing. 
 
 "Are you satisfied with the explanation 
 which I give ?" asked the repentant robber. 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And yet perhaps in so delicate a matter 
 it were better to make assurance doubly sure. 
 The book I retained with my' other papers and 
 valuables that I brought here with me, partly 
 from an idea that it might perhaps some 
 day serve some purpose that I could not then 
 foresee, and partly because I did not wish after 
 all to send it to you at the risk of its being 
 lost, and perhaps making the whole affair pub 
 lic, and injure your position. Since I have 
 had it here I chanced one day to examine it 
 more minutely than I had done before, and 
 found this item, which I will show you." 
 
 Saying which, he produced a well-worn and 
 somewhat decayed memorandum book, from 
 which he read to Sir Robert as follows : 
 
 " Perhaps it is needless, but I have thought 
 best in case of accident to myself, or of the 
 occurrence of any unforeseen casualty, to have 
 the identity of the child placed beyond the 
 
 possibility of mistake. I have, therefore, ex 
 amined the child and find on the back of its 
 head, beneath the line of the ears, a bare place 
 of the size of a sovereign, produced by some 
 severe wound." 
 
 " It was incurred when she was a little 
 more than a year old, I remember well, by 
 a fall." 
 
 " Of course, 1 have no means of knowing 
 whether the scar is still there or not, but you 
 can easily satisfy yourself by examining when 
 you return to Bronts," said Karl Blasius. 
 
 " You will give me the book, will you not ?" 
 asked Sir Robert. 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " Then I have all necessary evidence to sat 
 isfy myself in the matter," he replied. 
 
 After a few more words relating to the 
 strange fortune which had led them so often 
 to cross each other's path in life, since their 
 first meeting at the little inn of Mornentz, Sir 
 Robert bade the so called monk of Ghertstein 
 farewell, and sought once more the presence 
 of his child. t 
 
 He found that the exciting scene through 
 which she had just passed, was far too much 
 for her delicate state of health, and the change 
 that had come over her features, frightened 
 him. She noted well the expression of his 
 face her own was calm and collected. She 
 had been at prayer before Sir Robert came in, 
 and had now risen and lay upon her couch, 
 with a quick heaving of the breast from the 
 exertion, but with an expression that bespoke 
 all within to be peaceable and happy. 
 
 Sir Robert told her all that had pissed at 
 the ruin. On examination, he found the scar 
 upon the back of her head. There could be 
 no further doubt ; he was perfectly satisfied. 
 
 " But, Clara, you look more feeble than I 
 have seen you for many days," he said. 
 
 " I have long felt that I was slowly ap 
 proaching my end. Perhaps now that I have 
 been made so happy, I have scarcely a wish 
 remaining ungratitied." 
 " Dear, dear Clara." 
 
 " And yet there is one thing T would pray 
 you to satisfy me in." 
 
 "Anything, Clara, anything in this world, 
 that I ran do, even to the sacrifice of my life." 
 " Edith thinks that she is your child she is 
 satisfied of that." 
 
 " Yes, we have all been deceived."
 
 THE MISTAKE OF A LIFE-TIME. 
 
 319 
 
 " Then promise me never to undeceive her. 
 It would make her wretched. I shall die more 
 in peace to know that she will live in the hap 
 py delusion." 
 
 " But" 
 
 " Nay, if you love me, father !" 
 
 "AhJ Clara that word!" and Sir Robert 
 bent over and kissed the pallid cheek before 
 him!_ 
 
 " You promise me that she shall not be un 
 deceived ?" 
 
 " I promise !" said Sir Robert. 
 
 " One more request," she continued. 
 
 " What is it, Clara ?" Sir Robert pressed 
 her hand and leaned over her to hear it. 
 
 " Bury me by my mother's side will you 
 not?" 
 
 " 1 will, I will," sobbed Sir Robert, weeping 
 like a child. 
 
 He watched with her all that night. At 
 times she conversed almost like one inspired 
 with divine grace. She said she was more 
 happy than ever before in her life, and so she 1 " 
 evidently was. Her only wish now was to 
 join her dear mother in heaven. As the morn 
 ing light struggled across the mountain top, 
 and lighted up the broad valley of the Rhine, 
 she kissed her father's cheek, and murmured 
 in a low, sweet voice : 
 
 " I go, dear father, to meet her, my mother, 
 among the blest." 
 
 " Hark ! they whisper, angels say, 
 Sister spirit, come away ! " 
 
 Edith never knew of these strange revela 
 tions, but lived happy in her unconscious mis 
 take. The robber soon slept his final sleep 
 among the ruins, while our other characters 
 wended their way peaceably and happy, one 
 by one, and in due season to their final 
 home. 
 
 Sir Robert lived on, a more thoughtful man. 
 He withdrew almost entirely from the world, 
 only striving to do as much good with his 
 princely means as was possible. He cherish 
 ed his adopted child, Edith, and in his heart, 
 the memory of the two who were gone before 
 him to the spirit land. He brought Clara's 
 remains and laid them, as he had promised, 
 beside her mother's ashes, and here, when 
 unobserved by the busy eyes of the world, he 
 often resorted to weep and pray. In his will, 
 he endowed Edith's children largely, and he 
 was buried as he desired, by Clara's side. 
 
 And thus was consummated THE MISTAKE 
 
 OF A LlFE-TlME. 
 
 THE END.
 

 
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