y ) TN | Jy iy Nips Mi OY WN) Gi ie Mae) a) ve yy 7 Ny ry : o 3 y } - Pe | 4 r 5 wre i Fy ~¥ » 2 Wy ¥, i (ng o i Sg ss | j : t ; 2 ‘ ; tat . a »& ” wi ; 3 oll : ut : 2 t a Ni (iy @ bw & i , s hae Ye a othe 2 seg Os yy 387 ir . i \ ; i) 4 4 ; : | : £ sf ahs 4 $3 p? 4 bal *Y igh! . 3 ¥ j . cs 43 ‘ ; i } : paP’d,, ’ iw ; f 4 a aT ies ir) cS Phir ath : BAY L: fake | See Mie >) , ices + TH fg Nn ! mence—prolonged beyond all power of cessation— a Babel of voices that rang through the house with a million of echoes; music that, with its clashing sounds, only now and then made itself heard above the wild rout of noises; now and then the angry tones of quarrel, the screams of those entangled in some brawl; those of the softer sex, who were as well represented, so far as numbers went, in the busy scene; whirling, dancing figures, half-mad with excitement; the blaze of lights; the aroma of rich wines; the ‘sparkle of jewels; the clash of swords; all made up a confusion and riot that, up to the hour of three o'clock on the morning of the 2nd of February, showed no signs of flagging or abating. Many of the maskers had changed their cos- tumes twice and thrice in the course of the even- ing, so that the confusion in false recognitions, and the jests, and the disputes consequent there- upon, kept up that strange roar of sounds which could be heard, like the subdued murmur of the sea, at some streets’ length from the busy scene. The wine, fiery as it was, and indiscriminately indulged in, did its demoniae duty, and by the time we mention—three o’clock—intoxication be- gan to add its vague terrors to the scene of mental excitement. Then arose still wilder laughter from the whirl- ing throng; still louder shouts—still fiercer brawls and quarrels. Swords were drawn, and more than one sudden quarrel was as suddenly ended in bloodshed, The shrieks of dismay that would then arise rang high above the music. All order was lost. The throng became a mob; the dancing ceased ; the music was hushed. Officers, Turks, Indians, fiends, grotesque ani- mals, dominoes,—all were mingled up together in one dense mass with an army of dancing-girls, flower-sellers, ‘ballet posturers, mythological divi- nities, and, in fact, every possible and impossible representation of real or supposed existences in and above or below the world. Roaring, shouting, screaming, and yelling—ecry- ing for more wine, crying for more musie, for more dancing, in a place now so full, that not a Square yard could have been found unoccupied ym] even the remotest corner Then the patrons of the entertainment began to get alarmed. Then those present, who still retained any sense and sobriety, sought to escape from the Bedlamite throng. A contest. began which threatened to become serious, Some two or three hundred people were making efforts to escape from the place; and some fifty or sixty of these were so thoroughly alarmed, that heir efforts, without accomplishing their object, ade confusion worse confounded. something dreadful to look down from boxes upon the whirling, roaring, ex- 037 in the boarded-over area of pit and oxes were full; and fresh applicants space in them were each moment om the corridors and passages ‘up bodily from the pit. Then there were fights for places—fights almost for life. Several maskers fell headlong into the midst of the toiling mob below, from the boxes. Cries arose for constables—cries for the guards —summonses for help of any shape. And then—then at half-past three o'clock ex- actly, one voice raised a shriek co intense in its terror and distraction, that for a moment it had the effect of stilling all other sounds; and the motley throng was still. Still, perhaps, while you could have counted five moderately quick—still in voice, still in gestures; and during that brief period the same voice that had uttered the high and terrible scream, cried out, ‘‘ The chandelier!” A magnificent chandelier of heavy cut glass, carrying a thousand wax candles, depended from the ceiling. ( The agitation of the air, the concussion of the main supports of the building,/or some defect in the chain-work that supported it, or all these reasons combined, produced the effect. The chandelier was seen coming down. A massive chain with broad links appeared to be its principal support. These broad links were seen to collapse, and become narrow ones. The chandelier moved bodily down about two feet. Then a yell so awful, that it might be sup- posed the concussion of the air above aided the catastrophe, arose‘from the throng below. There was a wild, terrific fight to get out of the way of the falling mass. It was perfectly unsuccessful that fight to escape; not a soul could get out of the way. Those out- side the entrance of the pit fought them back into their places. Then down came the chandelier ! li seemed to grow larger as it came with an awful swing through the hot air! Crash! It was with a dull, heavy crash it reached the mass of heads beneath it! A roar of pain—a terrible cry arose from the killed and maimed people ! The house was suddenly darkened! Those thousand lights had, at one blow, shorn it of its refulgent splendour ! ; There only remained a few side lights in and about the stage, and in the corridors! And there, upon that arena which had glittered with youth, with beauty, and with mad delight, | lay a writhing, shrieking mass—a mass of bright colours—of broken glass—of blood ! Close the eyes, that they may not see those poor glittering worms of fantastic pleasure, in their gay and sparkling habiliments, seeking to writhe their way with broken limbs from the. catas- trophe ! Shut the ears against the groans—the shricka —the prayers—there were prayers then—of the wounded and of the dying! Then arose a new cry ! “« Fire |” “Fire! fire! fire!” shouted a thousand voices, ‘‘ Fire! fire! fire!” The dresses, light and gauzy, of some of those who had not been within the actual circle of death comprehended by the falling chandelier, had been set fire to! RRNA. EIS YS | RTRs ; THE DARK WOMAN. 3 sn aOR RE Cn =r rere The wax candles had been scattered far and wide by the concussion of the huge mass of glass that covered them, and had fallen, still ignited, ou many an inflammable costume ! It was dreadful to see these poor creatures shrieking in flames ! Those flames caught the light hangings with which the house was adorned for the occasion! Long wreaths of artificial roses caught light, and the bright flames ran along them with a rapidity that the eye could scarcely follow! The whole interior of the Opera House appeared to be in flames ! The heat was now suffocating ! ’ “Fire! fire! fire!” _ That was now the cry that stifled all others— the cry that came from all throats, and which struck like a death-knell upon all ears! Panting, bleeding, and with their gay dresses torn to shreds, and hanging about them in fluttering fragments, some of the maskers now began to show themselves in the open street! “They were of those nearest to the doors, and who had managed to escape! They lifted up their arms, and raised cries of joy as they felt the keen night air; some flung themselves upon the great heaps of snow, and rolled in the frigid mass. But within the house the scene of horror and dismay continued. ; And now, amid the scene of confusion, of semi- darkness and dismay, there began to come out into relief from the general throng, episodes com- pounded of suffering and of heroism. | At the first cry of fire, and when those few persons first emerged from the house, a young man had, from the colonnade, where he had been striving to keep himself warm in the ample folds of a thick cloak, sprung into the house, felling right and left several of the maskers, who were as anxious to leave the scene of terror as he seemed to be to enter it, and who would not let him pass. ; Door-keepers, check-takers, ana ticket-collec- tors, all had fled at that first cry of fire, and there was no impediment to any one seeking the interior of the building. So this young man sought it. He had flung his cloak not off, but behind him, ‘having the clasp still fastened round his neck, but he found it impeded him, so he rapidly wound it round him, and held it close with one hand while he dashed into the Opera House. Strong, agile, and lithe of limb was this young man, and he avoided the wild, desperate grasps of many who seemed to see in him one who came to succour, and who would only too gladly have seized upon him and appropriated all his strength to their own preservation. They were like drowning persons who made frantic efforts to seize upon some strong swimmer. But this young man shook them off and still vadvanced. “He stood amid the fragments of the chandelier, and he called out in a voice that rose high above all other sounds, ‘Marian! Marian! for the love of God, speak to me if you yet live! Marian!’ Marian! It is I, Allan Fearon, who speak to you. Marian! Marian!” _. Then there was a half-stifled shrick. It was not “&@ Dame—it was nota word—it was only a sound. But Allan Fearon knew it. It found an echo in his heart, and he at once strode forward in the direction of the cry. : But the object he had at heart—the rescuing of one whom he loved from that great danger—was, however, each moment more and more difficult, inasmuch as the house was each moment getting darker. The absence of the chandelier had made a won- derial difference, and now the isolated candles about the boxes, and corridors, and stage, had many of them burnt out. The flame that had ran along the hangings, and the artificial flowers that had been festooned from tier to tier of the boxes, had enveloped many of the wax-lights, and melted them to hot drops in a moment. . The whole theatre, then, when Allan Fearon strode forward in the direction of the sound he had heard, and which his heart translated into an answer to his summons, was but in a dubious twilight. Still he strode on—on over the dying and tho dead; for he could not pick his steps. With a shriek for help, 2 young girl clung to his feet. “Oh! gave me!—save me! I am burnt! Oh, God, be merciful tome! Save me!—save me!” She was very young—almost a child. Her attire was a light zephyr-like collection of brilliant colours; and, by the cap she wore, and the little silver bells to it and to ber sleeves, it might be supposed that she represented a ‘‘ Folly,” which was then a very common and popular masquerade costume. “Save me! Ob, do save me! God will reward you! Jam not wicked! I was ordered here— you will comprehend! I am of the ballet!” “T cannot!—I cannot!” **Oh, mercy !—mercy |” “‘Unhand me, my poor girl! If I can, I will come to you again. Why, you are on fire!” *T am!—I am!” She burst inte tears, and shrieked, and sobbed. Some portion of her pretty costume was in smouldering flame! Allan untwined his cloak from around him, and pressed it closely about the “ Folly.” — “‘T cannot see a mere child, like you, burnt to death !” “TJ am fifteen!” she sobbed. “ Alas!—alas! And in such a scene as this!” The girl cried bitterly. _ But her dress was no longer on fire: so Allan took his cloak from around her, and glancing about him, he said, “I will lift you out of this scene of terror into the box above us. From there you can probably escape.” Even as he spoke, he lifted the light figure, and half tossed it into the box that was nearest at hand in the first tier. Then on he strode, and he cried out again, “Marian! Marian !” The cry that he had heard before again replied to him, and amid the dust—the gleaming red light of the fire, which now began to cast a lurid hue upon the scene—he saw an arm raised, and waving to him, “*T am here!” he cried. Another moment, and he had reached a heap of dead and fainting people, and he had dragged from them a young girl. “Marian! Marian!” he cried. “Oh, Allan !” = dtu icone Zactnnannemennaaaeeemnenannaeaamaianeamiendbneatae nasi uaeaenemaemmenammmmmmemnnniid v ) P 4 THE DARK WOMAY | | ) She fainted at once in his arms! Then he saw that she, too, was dressed in the costume of a “ Folly.” There were little silver bells over her entire dress, and it was composed of the primitive colours —red, blue, and yellow—and was, like that of the young creature he had placed in one of the boxes, much torn and injured by fire and violence. The theatre was now tolerably clear of those who had strength to leave it. They had fought their way out into the winter beyond the hot walls. But the dead, the dying, and those whom terror or pressure had consigned to the temporary ob- livion of fainting, were still there. There was a strange red light, too, growing more intense each moment! The wood-work about the upper boxes was in flames ! But beyond groans, sighs, and sobs, the wild roar of sounds had ceased; and the roll of the drums of the Foot Guards, as they approached in a strong party to the house, could be plainly heard. ‘*Marian! my Marian still!” said Allan Fearon. “T will save you from all these horrors, or I will perish with you.” She lay like a faded lily on his breast. She might be dead! Oh! terrible thought for that young heart that beat only for her ! “Help! help!” he cried. Tt was aa inpulse that made the sounds come from his lips, for he felt that there was no present help but in himself; and with the form of the young girl clasped in his arms, he looked about him to discover the door by which he had reached the scene of terror and devastation, that he might as speedily escape with her as he had entered the theatre. : But he could not see it! Coming from the open air, he had found no difficulty in reaching the area of the house; but now that he would fain emerge from it with all expedition, he was puzzled and confounded by various entrances, and exits, and low doorways, that seemed to be on all sides of him. But to delay might be death! The theatre might really be on fire, and soon some of the heavier portion of its roof and deco- rations might begin to fall. Allan felt that there was no time to lose. “That is surely the door at which I entered,” he said as he darted through an opening that was near at hand. There was a hot smothering kind of air in the passage in which he found himself, and Allan hurried along it as quickly as he could. It took a turn to the right—then it presented to him a narrow flight of steps. Allan felt a cold perspiration start upon his forehead, as the conviction began to grow upon him that he was lost in the intricate passages of the great building. Marian was still insensible. The young man began to think it was a happy chance that she was 80. “‘T can die with you, my lost Marian!” he said. “You were lost to me, I fear, before now, since you thought proper to make one of the throng in this place. Alas! alas! that you, whom I thought all gentleness, all purity, and all virtue, should ae one of the riotous assemblage of a masque rade, There came a dull red Kght down the hittle staircase that was in front of him, and it fell upen the fair face of the young girl that Allan Fearon held in his arms, and tinged it with a more than mortal beauty. “Oh, Marian! Marian!” he said, “how this poor trusting heart has loved you!” His tears fell like rain upon the insensible face; and he kissed the still lips passionately, as he cried, ‘Speak to me!—oh, speak to me! and tell me that you love me still; for we shall not again look upon the light of heaven! Marian—my own dear Marian, speak to me!” The red light from the staircase increased, and the air grew hotter. A strange, mournful sound, like the sighing of wind, came upon Allan Fearon’s ears. What can it be? No cool breath falls upon his brow. Oh, heaven, flame — the roaring of flame! Surely, all is lost now! And yet what a death! What a death for the young, the strong, and the gifted, such as he! “No, no!” he cried; “I will not yield yet! Not yet! not yet !” He sprang some steps up the staircase, for he fancied that the hottest air came along the pas- sage where he was. Then, with a deep sigh, the young girl who was resting on hig heart opened her eyes. CHAPTER II. SHOWS HOW THE PRINCE REGENT WAS IN GREAT PERIL; AND WHO HE MET, AND HOW HE ESCAPED FROM THE OPERA HOUSE. Yes, Marian opened her eyes. The red glare pro- bably had awakened her—had chased away the swoon into which she had fallen. But to find herself in the arms of any one was to her a matter of profound surprise; but when she saw that one was Allan Fearon, the half- stifled cry she uttered was so much compounded of surprise and joy, that all his tenderness for her spoke in the few words he uttered. “ Be of good heart, my own dear Marian ; for I will live for and with you, or die with you!” “Oh, Allan!” ‘‘ush, dear one!” ‘You do not know.” “Yes, that you were in danger.” “And you—you ¥ ‘“‘ Have come to save you!” “ But how~-how, Allan—how are you here?” “Tt matters not. Ah! we cannot pass this way! The flames rise, and threaten us with destruction! We must descend again!” Allan had reached about twenty steps up the narrow stairs which had presented themselves to him; but he was met by a body of flame that let him see at once the necessity of a prompt retreat. Marian began to sob; and even as he would have striven to hush some child to repose, Allan Fearon held her to his heart, as he said, “‘ Hush ! hush, dear one! All may yet be well! The hand of heaven can turn aside these flames, so that they Poe — cng ia-onaher. na ybaeepipeams-peapte dish SS NR ten ee een” nt Te TE TO PERT TRL DORAL ETE RRR SS THE DARK WOMAN. 5 may not touch you. Let us hope yet—hope ever, my Marian !” “‘ But—but——” ‘Yes, dear!” “ Why do we not go out—out now, Allan?” “TI fear I do not know the way; but here is another passage.” “Oh, heaven! How selfish we are in our own dangers, and our own griefs !” ** Are we, Marian ?” There was a slight tone of reproach in the way in which this question was put. “Oh, no—no! Not you, Allan!—not you! It was of myself I spoke!” “And you did yourself injustice!” “No, no! Poor Annie, where is she ?” “Annie! Your sister Annie! She is not surely in this place?” “Yes, oh, yes!” “ Good heavens! she, too?” “It was to follow her—it was to try to rescue her that I came here, Allan!” “Ah! Then—then——” “* What would you say ?” “You were not attracted by the glare, the glitter, the false refulgence of this place --the pursuit of the phantom pleasure? It was not that which brought you hither, Marian ?” “Qh, no, no! Allan, did you think—could you think so of me ?” “No! Oh, no, my dear Marian!” “*T followed Annie hither, because accident dis- covered to me that she had made an acquaintance who had induced her to come to this masquerade to-night. My object was to watch over her.” “A blessed object, Marian !” “You do not blame me, Allan ?” “Blame you, dearone? Oh,no,no! But—-—” “* Ah, there is a but!” “I was going to say that if you had confided in me—— “Yes, yes, there was ny fault!” “We will say no more of it, dear Marian!” “Ob, Allan, Allan, I am dying! The heat stifles me! IJ cannot breathe!” “Good heayens! Whither shall I fly with you for air? Hilloa! Help, help! Hilloa! To stay here in these close and stifling passages must be death! We will, at least, fly from them! ‘They cannot be endless!” The young man ran along the narrow passages, which did, indeed, seam endless; and still clasp- ing to his heart the object of his love, he occa- sionally called out for aid. “Help! help! We are lost in the passages of the house! Help! help! our way !” The air seemed to get hotter aud hotter. The darkness increased, for the glare of light from the area of the pit of the house was far from them, flame—of that flame which was consuming the air so necessary to their vitality. “ Farewell, Allan!” gaid Marian faintly. “No! oh, no!” “faint!” “Cheer up, my only one! help soon ! “TI die!” “Oh, heaven, no!” ST NS Ob, there will be ( } | } ~ t We do not know | and the only sound they heard was that terrible | roar which signified the close neighbourhood of | He felt the weight increase upon him, and he was sure that she had either died or had fallen into a swoon. Then with frantic vehemence he again shouted for aid, but no one seemed to hear him, and de- spair began to creep over the heart of the young | man. There were others, too, still involved in the dangers of that awful night, and it is necessary that we should pay immediate attention to the proceedings of those others, although we leave Allan Fearon and Marian Gray, of whose history and attachment we shall soon know more, in so unenviable a situation. At this grand and attractive masquerade at the Italian Opera House on the first day of February, in the year 1814, were present the Royal Princes. His Royal Highness txeorge Prince of Wales, then Regent of this kingdom, in consequence of the more noticeable insanity of George the Third, was present. His Royal Highness the Duke of York, too, graced with his presence the festive scene, as the newspapers of the period said; and with them came the swarm of parasites, and panders, and flatterers, who made up the Court of the royal brothers, and particularly of the Regent, who was present on a special mission. Some few moments before the fall of the great chandelier, the Regent, who was masked and attired in a Persian costume, which was made all in one piece, and under which he had an ordinary evening dress, spoke rather impatiently to his then “ Master of the Pleasures,’ Sir Hinckton Moys. “Well, Moys, where is she? Where is she? I only ask you that for the second time.” “She should be here!” ‘Should be?” ‘“* Aud she will be!” é¢ B tee “ By Jove!” “What is it?” | “There she is! Why, she is in domino!” ““ Where? where?” “There, close by that column with the roses all round—the red and white roses.” ‘Oh, ah! but I can’t see her for that domino cloak she has about her; and I begin to suspect, do you know, Moys, that she is not much.” “* Oh, your Royal Highness will speak differently when you see her. Ha! ha! There now!” The young girl in the domino, of whom they | had been speaking, at that moment let her cloak fall from her, and she, too, appeared in the pic- turesque and fanciful costume of a * Folly.” She was young and fair, and singularly hand-~ — some; but there was just that indescribable something about her look, and air, and manner, _which betrayed the ill-regulated, unstable mind of which the votaries of pleasure partake, And yet she was then innocent and pure. How long would she remain so, with such eyes | upon her as those now bent upon an investigation | of her charms? ‘““ By Jove!” said the Regent. “Ah!” said Sir Hinckton Moys, rubbing his hands together with satisfaction. “ By Jove!” said the Regent, again. “J thought you would say that.” “Thin?” * Eh?” “ Rather thin, is she not ?” “Thin? She thin? Oh, oh!” “‘ Well, perhaps it’s the dress ?” *‘ Of course it’s the dress.” “No doubt.” ‘‘ Not the slightest.” “Very good.” “Your Royal Highness is pleased ?” “To be sure I am.” “Then I will go to her now. for me.” “‘ Your plan remains the same?” | “Tt does. She is bewildered by this wild riot.” “By Jove, it is a wild riot. I shall not be sorry to get away, do you know, Moys ?” ‘‘Nor I. I will bring her to the Park entrance, and Willes, your valet, must be there ready.” ‘“‘ Oh, yes.” “T have promised to marry her.” “To be sure.” “ And now that your Royal Highness has seen her, and approves, why it is all settled.” It was at this moment that that awful cry, which stilled all the other sounds, arose, and in three seconds more the chandelier had fallen. The moment it fell, the Regent heard, or fancied he heard, a voice close to him say, ‘ Se- cure !” A couple of hands were then laid violently upon him, and he was forced backward through a small doorway at the side of the pit, close to the royal box, and the door closed. The Regent was in utter darkness. The fear that came vver him was at once in- tense and ludicrous. He raved—he shouted—he called for help—he swore! But the cries, groans, shrieks, and yells with- out the place in which he was, and which he thought was a cupboard or closet of some kind, ney She is looking effectively drowned his voice; for all that terrible uproar, of which we have endeavoured to give , Syme idea, and which followed the fall of the chandelier, was at its height. “* Hilloa! Heip, here! Hoy! I say, the Regent! me out of this place! What the—-a—deuce der !” , No one paid any attention; but the wild cries in the pit of the house were beginning to subside, and then a deep-toned voice apparently close to I am the Regent! Guard—guard! Let Hoy! hoy! Moys, Isay! Hoy! Murder! mur- him, said, “George, Prince of Wales and Regent of England, your cries are vain: you are at the mercy of one who bas already shown that feeling.” “Eh, who is that? At mercy? “ Are you dead?” ‘’ Dead? dead? No! Don’t speak to me of being dead! Open the door! ‘There is a door! there was a door!” “Then you are spared!” “ What do you mean?” * You live!” ‘ *« Of course, I live. By Jove! Open the door at once! I command it—opén the door!” “Nol Beyond that door. is death—death in auch terrors, that you may well fancy you are specially watched over, to find yourself where you are.” Murder !” THE DARK WOMAN, “But I don’t comprehend ?” “ Follow !” A small light, so small that it looked like a star of the third or fourth magnitude orly, appeared in the intense darkness of the place in which the Regent found himself. But that star-like light, small as it was, seemed at once to let him know that the place he was in extended further than he thought. “Ah, then,” he said, “this is not a cupboard ?” ‘‘ No,” replied the voice, “ Follow!” “ But I think I would rather go out by the way I came in.” “There is death, I tell you, there. By the | accident that has happened, many a poor wretch | who came to this place for pleasure has found agony and death!” ’ “But I don’t see what this is to me, so long as I get away in safety.” “There spoke George, Prince of Wales !” said the voice. “ What?” “Self! self! self!” ‘Well, I fancy I am not peculiar in that; but if by following you, whoever you are, I can be safely led out of this house, you may count upon a reward.” “ Follow !” The little star-like light slowly receded, and the Regent, holding his arms out as far as he could, slowly followed. at That he was in one of the numerous passages that abounded at the back of the boxes and stage of the theatre he had now no doubt; and well he knew that without a guide who was acquainted with their intricacies it would be impossible to find his way. ‘“‘ Recollect,” he said, in a voice that betrayed some flurry and fear—‘ recollect, that you will get a reward if you conduct me in perfect safety out of this place. Always recollect that.” *‘ Follow!” was the only reply that the voice vouchsafed to make to this speech. The Regent thought that he saw, now that his eyes were getting accustomed to the darkness, a dark shadowy figure walking before him, and holding aloft above its head the small star-like light which he was told to follow. To say that he felt at ease, or that he had full confidence in his conductor, would be far from the truth; and yet he had, perhaps, fewe hensions than many an ordinary person: courage than he possessed would have This arose from the sort of educati ture he had had, From earliest childhood, he had alway that everybody about: him was inten iy forming some service for him; and, there concluded that this shadowy form with th enigmatical as was the language it used, end by humbly showing him ont of the House. ¥ He was mistaken. ¢ The passage through which the Regent followed the mysterious figure with the star-like light ¥ long and tortuous, and took so many W i that it seemed as though it must have g way round the entire building. Suddenly, then, the light stepped, “Halt!” said the figure. “Well, but I don’t see the way out!” Ly THE DARK WOMAN. q Even as he,spoke, the Regent sawatall, narrow; ‘I do know it!” door opened ; and there issued through the open- - ing a faint light. The dark figure appeared now much more distinctly; and the Regent saw that it wore a cloak of some black-looking material that trailed on the floor, and that a half-mask covered the upper part of the face, while a fringe of black lace reached from the lower rim of the mask to the chin, and so completely disguised the features, — This person, too, wore a black hat of a peculiar, conical-looking ‘shape from which one long, droop- ing feather, which was either black, the Regent thought, or a very dark blood-red, depended, Bt Enter!” said the voice. i fe To there?” en ob Enter y ‘ a ft mo you. “will find that® at armed.” ter : . @ voice was so . calm in its tones that the ~ Regent said not another word, but ee through he doorway, and entered a smal room, dimly Tighten d. by some apparently reflected. light that 4 came. through a curtdin that was) drawn over one side of the room. _ This reflected light’ was of a reddish colour, which it borrowed of the curtain, which was of crimson silk, through which it passed. . “Ab! said ns ee “T know where I am!” * i ‘You do?” saif't Be voice. “This is the ante-room to the King’s box.” “Tt is.” sist Bees “And bey ‘that curtain is the box.” Bev TE is 80.7, aa * @T will oe “Hold, FY your life’s sake !” The Regent had been about to push aside the crimson silk curtain that divided the ante-room he was in from the royal box, by which he would at once have seen into the house; but he paused at the sound of that warning voice, and drew back. ‘““Why should there be danger ?” he said. “There is !” “Ah, I hear! Iam safe!” From the pit.of the theatre below some sounds met his ears. “The fire is out!” said one. “ Quite,” replied another voice. flambeaux high.” “* Yes, sir.” “Now remove the bodies carefully.” “Halt!” then said another veice, in a decidedly military tone. ‘Pile arms!” There was a rattle of muskets. ‘Mr. High Constable,” added the voice that had given the military orders, ‘‘ my men will help you now in your work,” “TY am much obliged to you, Captain.” “ Ah,” said the Regent, “‘I have nothing now to do but to go into the royal box, and they will help me from it into the pit; and I can leave the house with an escort.” “And so expose your presence here,” said the voice of the cloaked and masked figure, “I don’t care a bit for that.” “ And possibly,” added the voice, “the object of that presence, which was, by the assistance of the infamous Sir Hinckton Moys, to deceive to her destruction, Annie Gray.” “How do you know that ?” “Hold your “ Well, I will take my chance,” The Regent again advanced to the rte and drew it aside a few inches, He recoiled in terror, Two men faced him, and the gleam of two dagger-like weapons glittered before his Pye, ag their points touched his breast. ** Assassins!” ‘You see them ?” said the voice. The Regent was as pale as death. “Take all I have, and spare my life!” he said. “TJ will give a thousand pounds for my life! Two thousand pounds for my life!” “* Peace |” “Yes. I—a—I will say no more; only——” 7 Peace, I say ! Is there anything, however distant, in my voice which awakens a memory ?” Well, I fancy “ Awakens a memory? I—a I have heard it before.” ‘You fancy so?” ‘I do, certainly. But you know, if I call out, you will be taken into custody.” ee 6. ed Well, then——~” “One moment! Your dead body will be found here at the same time!” CHAPTER UE. THE DARK WOMAN. MAKES A PROMISE TO THE % REGENT, Turse last words ofthe mysterious person i in the cloak and the mask appeared thoroughly to break down the last effort at resistance which the Regent could muster courage to make. With something ‘between 2 gtoan and a sigh, he leant against a console-table in the ante-room, and resigned himself, as well as he could, some disagreeable termination to the. singular adventure of the night. The figure in the cloak and mask then slowly permitted the cloak to fall to its feet. Then re- moving the singular-shaped hat, the contour of the head at once showed that it was-a female who had been so disguised. The mask still, however, remained. “ Do you know me now ?” she said. “T seem to know the voice.” “ Oh, heart !—oh, human heart !” There was a world of agony in the tones in which these words were uttered. They had hardly been spoken when, by a touch, the mask was pushed upwards to the top of the head, and the features of its wearer were exposed to view in the strange, dim light of that apartment. ‘¢ Behold!” she said. Then the Regent seemed as if he shrunk within himself, while his eyes only increased in size until he absolutely glared in the countenance of the mysterious person before him. ‘““You know me now!” she said, in a fear- fully strange, gasping manner. “‘Lindal” said the Regent. “ Lin——” He would have repeated the name, but his tongue refused its office, He felt parched and mer eirre ty aegraine arent OCR i ae PL SET OE LEN ee tn mre er RE ND A AOS ET 8 THE DARK WOMAN, ReeilNN CAYO RTT NII} — ty Way hut STH \ r ee < (ll hot, and in such mortal fear that his knees smote each other, and he could scarcely keep his feet. ‘Yes, I am Linda! I am more, too!” “Oh, no! no!” “Yes, 1 am!” “Don’t! don’t! dead—dead !” The word ‘ dead” seemed to him easy to pro- nounce, or he felt a pleasure in repeating it, as if by so doing it would go somewhat towards ac- complishing a death he would have been so glad of. “No, I live!” “‘ Let—let—me—go! I thought—the poison— they told me—you had taken it,” “T did!” “ And if “Tt did not kill me. Iam here!” “You -——are—here! You— you want—you svanted to live—to vex me.” ‘No; to question you. I thought you were dead— I am © Oh, don’t—oh, don’t! Somebody may hear.” * Your——” “Hush! hush! you are mad “ Wife!” ‘““There, now—you go on in that way, bat you don’t know what you say, Linda. It was so long ago. Nineteen years now.” “This day!” * This Eh?” ‘“‘ This day nineteen years ago.” “Oh, was it? Well—I—a—well—you know that a marriage contracted by me is null and void, because the—a— Royal Marriage Act requires 199 4G . 5 ¢ | the consent of the Crown to my marriage.” “You brought me the written consent of the King, your father.” ‘“‘ Yes, but that was a—little ruse.” “A forgery! Iknow it now; but you will perhaps not like to admit so much, in order to get rid of my claims, should I make them.” “Come, come, Linda; you know you used to be 2 ’ a! H | , | \ \ \ i} 1\\\\ } i i l {| | y FY i i ] 1 . | \ YH ite | } | | \ { } j | Wh \ Wha H \ ih | i % ‘| | : | fj h i y \\ \ }| \ i i \ i 1 AR 4 | s. h | y 1 { \ { \ \ | | | i igi | Pay Ele | i ee RN | . | (a SR A: AIS ae red Sle as SEES a a ae ee as Se ee eas Ne a a ee ; THE DARK WOMAN. 9 sensible. Come, come! I will settle something on you, and you can go home—to Dover Court—to your friends, you know.” * No!” “ But—but what is the use, now, of plaguing me? I have, a3 you are well aware, contracted a royal marriage, and a nice one it is, too!” “ George !” “Hem! You are familiar.” ‘‘ George, there is one condition on which I will not only release you from all persecution, but bless you—yes, I will still bless you!” ‘Indeed, Linda!” “Yes! yes! I need not, surely, remind you that I had a son?” The voice of this strange female shook and melted into sobs as she uttered these words, and the Prince Regent at once felt his advantage, or fancied he did so, for he said, ‘‘ And what then? What then ?—eh ?” “Tf you, George—if you will but tell me what has become of him—if he be alive or dead ;—if you will, in some solemn way, so that I may beliove you, tell me what became of that dear, dear, little one, whom I held to my heart once —only once—before if was torn from ine! Oh, i 4 heaven! Oh, heaven!” - “Ah! Hem! Well, my good woman, I don’t know! So there is an end of that !” ‘Oh, yes!—yes! Iimplore you! I will pray to heaven to soften your heart! Steeped in selfishness and indulgence as you are, I will pray for you, if you will tell me what became of my son—my child! I was so very near death; but I heard some one say, ‘It is a boy ;” and then the whole air was red as blood about me; and when I recovered I was in a cell—the ceil of a madhouse; and they said I had been there for ten long years !” | “Why, they told me you were dead!” “That was to conceal that I escaped !” oe Ah py “ One year since, I escaped! From that time to this I have followed you--I have dogged your footsteps—I have been as a shadow to. you— because I resolved upon asking you this question ° ‘Where is my son?’ I ask you now !” “Then I don’t know anything about him!” ‘Then you die!” -“ Die? die? Linda!” “Vengeance long delayed cometh at last! I Say that you die! When your desertion of me was manifest, I took poison. It did not kill. You see I am here, and I ask you where is my son? You do not know—you, the father—or you will not know—you the careless sybarite, who cares for nothing, loves nothing!” “Stop! stop! I think I can find out what you want to know. In fact, 1 knowI can. But if I am murdered, you will never know.” ** You shall, live then!” “Ah! yes!” The Regent drew a long breath of relief. “You shall live then, George, Prince of Wales; but until you give me this information, and I am convinced that it is truthful, I will haunt you !” “Haunt me?” “Yes! At bed and board, sleeping and waking; in the inmost recesses of your palace ; when you are at the revel with your associates— when least you expect me, I will rise up before No. 2.—Dark Woman, en et NT EA en ere ‘poor heart, and placed there in its stead strange } him not, and [am your shadow—your destiny ! » Farewell! “have a clue to what became of the boy.” your eyes, and I will say to you, ‘Where is my son?’ One year I will give you to answer me.” “One year ?” “Yes ; one year!” ** And what then ?” ‘* We will conclude he is no more!” “Conclude that now ?” “* Do you assure me of it 2?” “Well, I—I suppose if I do, you and I are done with each other ?” “No! We will go together!” ‘*Together? Where?” “To another and a better world than this, to seek him!” “Mad! mad!” “Tt may be so, but that is my determination. Find him for me, and I forgive you; and he and I will never cross your path again. Otherwise E.am the enemy of you, and all belonging to you. The gift of prophecy is upon me even now. You have a daughter.” | “ Charlotte!” “Yes ! She will wed with onewho, as an adven- turer, will not have the audacity to seek her hand, but she will offer it to him; and from trouble and poverty he will rise to kingship, but not here-— not here! She will perish ! There shall be mourn- ing in the land, for she will perish! I sea it all now, as if in a glass.” * “Stop, stop — Linda, you were once so dif- ferent—so very mild and gentle !” _'“*T was, until you stole the suashine from this fires. Find.me my son, and you are free! Find We shall soon meet again. I will give you some time to find the answer to the ques- tion I ask of you.” “Stop! stop, Linda! I—a—stay—I think I * Ah!” “Which I will investigate, and if he yet live is “Oh, heaven !” . “Tf he yet live, I will, on condition of your silence, provide for him.” “No! no! To me—-to me! He must come to me. To me, ever and ever—my compensation !” “Well, be it so. But you must let me know where to find you?” “In the air!” “The air ?” “Yes, go forth into the air and speak a mes- sage to me: I shall hear it.” “To you, as Linda Mowbray ?” “No, I am called something else now.” “ What 2. what?” “THe DarK Woman!” CHAPTER IV. re THE REGENT MAKES ACQUAINTANCE WITH “PAUL'S CHICKENS,” AND HAS TO FIND RANSOM. No sooner had Linda uttered the name with which she concluded her interview with the Re~ gent, than she left the royal box with an abruptness that almost looked like a magical dis=. appearance, ; eee Eterna te tee Ee SE The Regent cried out after her, “Stop! stop! I don’t comprehend. I don’t at all understand what you mean? Oh, you won't stop! You will _ be off, will you? Well, we shall soon seo! Ha! yes, we shall soon see!” He once more approached the curtain that shut out the royal box fromthe ante-room in which the singular conference had taken place, and this time, when he moved the curtain aside, he was intensely gratified to find himself alone, and quite unimpeded by any one in what he meant to do. The pit of the theatre was in possession of the party of Foot Guards, and the Regent cailed out in aloud voice, ‘‘ Who is there in command? Who is there? © Who-is the officer in command ?” ‘‘ Captain Greenworth, now,” said a sergeant. “Then let every door be guarded, and arrest any one who attempts to leave the house. I am the Regent !” Captain Greenworth thought it very strange that, immediately upon making this speech, the Regent should utter an odd sort of howl and dis- appear from the front of the box. But, from the pit, it was not possible to see that two powerful men had suddenly pounced upon him, and by main force lifted him from the box and carried him back to the ante-room, and from the ante-room to the passage beyond it. “Help! murder !” “ Another word, and you are a dead man!” ‘‘Y amthe Prince of Wales! Treason! treason! I am the Prince of Wales!” “‘ We know it,” said the same voice. “And I tells you what it is,” said the other man who had hold of him. ‘We are Paul’s Chickens—that’s what we are.” “Paul's Chickens? Good gracious!” “Ah, you have heard of us, no doubt.” “Murder! That’s my watch you are taking— my purse—my rings! Stop! Murder! Help!” There was a scuffling sound, and his Royal Highness found himself slipping down a narrow staircase, not in the natural feet foremost way, ' which he would have preferred, but head fore- most, and with a celerity that he would fain have arrested, but could not, until he came with an alarming bump to the landing below. Then he found himself alone; but he was minus his purse, his watch, rings, and the dia- mond stud-buttons of his waistcoat. “Murder! Help! Murder!” “ Hilloal” said a voice. ‘Ara you, too, lost in the mazes of this house.” “Eh? Who are you?” ‘*My name is Allan Fearon. For the love of heaven, I pray you say if you know of the route out of this place ?” “‘ But are you a Paul’s Chicken?” “A what 2?” “A Paul’s Chicken. Because if you are, I have nothing left—not a guinea, By Jove, they left my diamond shoe-buckles!” So impressed was the Regent with the idea that every one he met was intent upon plundering him, that now he was aware of the fact that his diamond shoe-buckles had escaped the ‘two men who had made him pay ransom, his great object was to escape from Allan Fearon. But the young man dashed forward and caught him by the arm, just as he was on the point of THE DARE. WOMAN. ascending the stairs that he had so recently fallen down. “Do not—oh, do not go, if you can guide us from this place, sir!” he said. “I cannot—I cannot!” ‘And yet you would fly from here with speed !. You, perhaps, know where this staircase leads to. There seems to come a dim light upon it from somewhere. I do not ask for myself, but here.is a young creature whom I would fain save from, a sad death.” “Don’t trouble me! don’t trouble me! What's that tome? Keep off, will you?” “No! I willnot keep off! I will follow you! She may yet live!” Allan Fearon lifted poor Marian in his arms, and dashed after the Prince, who ascended the stairs that led to the royal box as rapidly as he could, calling out as he went, ‘* Help !—help, here!—help! Captain of the guard, I say! Help, here! Thieves! Murder!” They all reached the royal box together—the Regent, Allan Fearon, and the miserable Marian, in his arms. A cry of joy burst from the lips of Allan Fearon when he saw the open area of the theatre before him, and he called out, “Saved! saved! We are saved! Ob, my own dear Marian, look up, if it be but for one moment, for you are in safety now.” The Regent was quickly recognised by the officers who were in the pit superintending the removal of the dead and the dying. The fire had made no progress in the substantial portions of the building, and had died ont. The pit, though, was well illuminated by a number of flambeaux which had been brought into the place. A short ladder was soon elevated to the royal box, and the Regent descended. “That will do,” he said. “Held! hold!” said Allan Fearon. “Friends of your Royal Highness?” asked the Captain of the guard as he looked up at Allan and his fair companion. ; “No, no. Not at all—not at all.” ‘*‘ No,” said Allan Fearon, as be held the ladder firmly and descended with Marian—‘ no, we are not friends of his Royal Highness. We are saved with him, but not by him. Courage, courage, dear Marian; all is well now!” Allan dashed out of the theatre, but the moment he reached the vestibule he saw that there was a good bright fire burning close to the box-office, and that several of the sufferers from the con- fusion within were stretched on couches brought from the saloons by it. Some surgeons from the immediate neighbour- hood were at hand, and Allan, as he placed Marian tenderly on one of the couches, said, ‘ Pray, - gentlemen, for the love of God, tell me if she be alive or dead ?” One of the surgeons looked in the eyes of Marian and placed his hand upon her heart, “Tt is but a swoon.” ‘‘ Thank heaven !” Shouts and cries at this moment rent the air, and several of the dead were carried out in the arms of their relatives. Then with a sudden rush, a tall stalwart man made his appearance in the vestibule, and holding his hands above his head while every feature of nnn his face was convulsed with grief, he said, ‘Who has seen her? Who has seen my child? Buta child yet. Sprite, they call her. Who has seen her? Oh, God! speak to me, some of you. You need not heed who or whatIam. A bold, bad man, you will perhaps say, and some of you may know that there is a price upon my head. But I now ask you for my child! Who has seen her? A ‘Folly.’ One of the poor girls who came here as a ‘Folly,’ so they told me. Ah! she is here! here! Ha! ha! She lives !—she lives!” With a bound, this man darted forward to the couch on which Marian was reclining. It was her dress as a “ Folly” which had attracted him— the bright colours of the fanciful costume—the silver bells that hung from all parts of it. He thought it was his daughter; but one glance at the face disabused him of the idea. With a deep sigh, he clasped his hands over his eyes, as he said, ‘Not mine! Not my little one! Lost!—she is lost! Killed! Well, sir, look you! There is a reward of a couple of hun- dred pounds for Jack Singleton, housebreaker and highwayman. They call me Sixteen-stringed Jack, at times. Take me!—I am sick of life! Take me now; and [ ask but for one thing, and that is, that you will jay me by the side of my child! Take me who will! Take me!” There was something heartrending, and yet noble and great, about the appearance of this man, as, with his arms extended, he thus, in so public a place, proclaimed who and what he was. But no one stepped forward to lay a hand upon him. Then a sudden thought struck Allan Fearon, and he darted forward to Jack, as he said, ‘“* T—J—can tell you !” “You are young and slight,” said Jack, as he scanned the figure of the youth; ‘‘ but you may as well have the two hundred pounds as any one else.” “No, no; I don’t mean that!” “What then? Do you want to kill me?”- “No, no! But tell me, was your daughter a slight, fair girl, with long ringlets ?” * Yes !—yes !” “ Looking not above fifteen years of age ?” ““ Yes—she was! Qh, that word ‘was!’” “ Dressed as a ‘ Folly ?’” “Yes !—yes !” “ A gentle voice?” “Like a young bird!” Sixteen-stringed Jack bLarst into tears. “Come with me, and I will take you to where, I hope, I placed her in safety.” A shout of joy burst from the robber’s lips, and, in another moment, he dashed into the theatre after Allan Fearon, who, as he passed Marian, just had time to cry out, ‘ Rest in safety, dearest, for a few short minutes, and I will again be with you! 1? |. Into the pit of that vast building plunged the ‘ housebreaker and Allan Fearon, and the young man strove to recollect in which direction his face had been when he swung the fainting young girl into one of the first tiers of boxes. - “Ah, I know now!” he said. this, or ‘this 1 Jack Singleton, by an exertion of strength and agility which was all the more extraordinary in ® man of his height, placed one hand only on the “Té must be Tn en ee re cen cE TE Ae RE RN a en THE DARK WOMAN, i — edge of the box, and vaulted, not into it, but on to the front ledge of it. ““Here!—here! She is here!” he cried. dear little one! My own dear Lucy!” The “ Folly,” with all her fanciful and pretty costume, had lain faint and unable to move in that box since the time that Allan Fearon had rescued her from the trampling throng below, and placed her init for safety. Now she was tenderly held in her father’s arms, and the rough robbers tears fell like rain upon the fair childish face. ‘‘' Your poor mother is dead and gone,” he said, ‘and I have left you to your own devices, my little one; and you took to the stage, while I was on the road, or cracking a erib, or crying, ‘Stand!’ on the broad Mall of the Park; but I did not forget you, Lucy,—your father never forgot you, my dear.” The childlike eyes of the “Folly” looked in the face of the housebreaker and highwayman, and the little silver bells tinkled ey as she moved to see him better. She did not know him. When an infant, he had left her to the chance care of the world, and she did not know him. He had watched over her in secret, and knew where she was and what she was about; but he had hesitated to damp the spirit of the young heart by letting her know that she was the robber’s child. It was only on this occasion, when he had thought her dead, that, forgetting all caution, all reserve, all care, he had flown to seek her, and when he held her in his arms he forgot that she knew not she had a father. But the look of fear and surprise that now came over the face of the young creature brought all the past back to him. He leant gently forward, and lifted her into the pit of the theatre, as he said, “‘ Miss,—that is, my—that is, I mean, miss—I am glad you are safe. Iam your—that is, a poor fellow, you see, who loves, who admires your pretty dancing and your pretty face, and likes to hear the tinkle of the little silver bells about your dress. God bless you, my dear! Good bye, miss—good bye !” “Oh, joy!” said the ‘‘ Folly.” “Iam saved” “* Good—good bye!” “ Joy!—joy! And I am not hurt! I shall dance again, and sing again!” She picked up, from among the fallen spangles of the huge chandelier, a “toy,” as it was called. It was one of the little wands that the “ Follies ” had with them, and which were covered with silver bells. She shook it in the air, and twirled round and round in a dance that was so gracetul and beautiful, that the rough soldiers, and the men with the flambeaux, and the police-officers, and the workmen of the theatre, burst into applause. “Tm a ‘Folly! Ha! ha!” she laughed,—“ I’m a ‘Folly,’ and I dance, and I sing! Ha! hai Well, poor man, who are you, eh?” It was to her father she spoke. “And you, eh?” That was to Allan Fesron. “Thoughtless butterfly,” said Allan. “Yes, Lam. Oh, I thought I was kised!” There was at this moment a rush of three men into the area of the pit, and one of them cried out, as he held a gilt staff in his hand. and pointed out to Sixteen-stringed Jack, “Seize that man, in the King’s name!” ce My Ha! hal’ So cesneeetietaanen Eine lice lebieeneateteneeteaeeedal a (AR A en a a NR A RN A I SN THE DARK WOMAN, nN Jack stood up in the front of the box, and said im quite a different tone to any he had yet spoken in, “* Ah, Mr. Chesterman, is that you ?” “Jt is, my fine fellow, and you are nabbed at last.” ** Am 1?” “Yes, you are. Out of the way !” The “ Folly” was rudely pushed aside. gave aslight cry, and seemed hurt. Allan Fearon with one well-directed blow sent the officer reeling some paces off, and then he fell with a crash among the fallen chandelier glass. ““ Whatever duty you may have here,” said Allan, “it need not be accompanied by brutality towards a young girl.” “Seize him! seize that fellow!” said the officer. “ He is an accomplice of Sixteen-stringed Jack.” ‘Get away,” whispered an oflicer to Allan; “you only served Chesterman right, and we don’t want to take you. Get away while you can.” She —a es CHAPTER V. SHOWS HOW THE DARK WOMAN RESCUES SIXTEEN- STRINGED JACK FROM THE OFFICERS, Tue pretty little “ Folly ” screamed aloud now; and going close to the front of the box, in which was Jack, she held out her little wand with the silver bells on it, as though that would be a suf- ficient protection against the assault of the officers. Allan Fearon might easily enough have profited by the fall of Chesterman, the constable, and at once made his escape; but he did not choose to do so; it was not in his nature to provide for his own safety, while any one in whom he felt an interest was still in danger. So Allan Fearon remained: but he stood on his guard against any sudden assault by the constable, who was scrambling to his feet. ‘In the King’s name!—in the King’s name!” cried Chesterman. “I call npon you in the King’s name !” The officer of the Foot Guards had by this time got his men in order; and instead of going to the constable’s assistance, he called out, ‘* March !” The soldiers began to stride out of the theatre. ‘‘Stop, Captain! I call on you to assist me !” “ Are you a magistrate ?” vets CS “Then you have no power to call on me to assist; and I will trouble you to take your hand off my sleeve, or you may have another fall among that broken glass.” ‘ “Very well!” cried the constable.’ “Then I call upon you, my fine fellows—you with the flambeaux; and if there are any other constables here, besides my two mates, I call upon them. That is Sixteen-stringed Jack, the notorious housebreaker, highwayman, and footpad; and I call upon you all to aid and assist me in his cap- ture. Now, come on! You will all share in the reward, you know !” This last argument seemed to be worth all the others, for until it was used no one seemed much inclined to stir in the matter; but as soon as it was uttered there was a general rush towards the box in which was Jack, to capture him. cc ne ES ACSC oe Si OCS “T have the pleasure to bid you all good night, gentlemen,” said Jack. He turned as he spoke to leave the box by the door which opened into the lobby; he tried it, but that door was locked. “We have him!” cried Chesterman; ‘we have him !” “Well,” said Jack, ‘since this is shut up I will try the next storey.” Quick as thought, Jack jumped on to the edge of the box ; and saluting Chesterman with a kick that sent, him backwards among his companions, he climbed up the column that connected the box he had been in with the next tier above him, and was out of reach. The officers were now getting angry. They had a force of about twenty men in all, and Chester- man called out, ‘‘Shoot him like a dog, if he won’t be taken alive. I know the theatre well, and will soon go round and hunt him down to you, who will stay below here.” The little ‘Folly’ screamed now, as Chester- man drew a pistol from his pocket. One of the men who had been in the theatre when Jack had come to seek his child there, whis- pered to Chesterman, “ Bless my heart, Mr. Ches- terman! I know how to make him give himself up in half a minute.” “You do?” “To be sure!” “ How Oe “ How much shall I have?” “Twenty pounds !” “Done! That's his little girl!” 79 Ah bg ‘ ‘‘ His daughter !” “ Good !” Chesterman made a dart at the “ Folly,” and catching her by the arm, he whirled her round once, and then as she half crouched at his feet and screamed, he cried out as he held the pistol to her head, ‘If Sixteen-stringed Jack don’t give him- self up in half a minute, I will blow this girl’s brains out” ‘** Hold, villain!” cried Jack. **T will count thirty seconds.” ‘“‘No! no! I come!” “T ‘thought so!” “ Harm her not, on your life!” “He shall not! He dare not!” cried Allan; but before he could make a dash at Chesterman, he was seized by half a dozen of the officers, and he could not shake them off. “ Are youmen?” he cried. ‘' Would you see a mere child like that murdered in cold blood before your faces 2?” “Ha! ha!” laughed Chesterman. ‘Ha! ha!” ‘“‘T come! I come!” cried Jack, as he clambered rapidly down the sides of the boxes. ‘ Harm not ahair of her head! I come! I come!” He alighted with a bound in the bit. ‘Seize him!” shouted Chesterman, as he let go his hold of the girl. “Seize him, and clap the bracelets on him.” The “ Folly ” tiled shrieking with fear; and the little silver bells jangled strangely. ‘“What’s that ? What? what?” cried Chester- man, as he shaded his eyes with his hand. One of those singularly lustrous crimson lights that we see at the theatres in the last scene of spectacular pieces, suddenly lit up the whole vast ame Ay, ere This light came from the area of the house. royal box; and when all eyes were directed to- wards it, there appeared quite in the front of it a figure in a female dress, but masked, and with a conical shaped hat and feather on her head. The crimson light behind her threw the figure into strong relief, and Chesterman, the moment he saw her, called out, ‘It is the Dark Woman!” A shrill whistle sounded piercingly in the air, and from boxes—stalls—from behind columns— from the back of the stage—and from every pos- sible hiding-place, there rushed out men; and Sixteen-stringed Jack at once called out, ‘‘Saved! —gsaved! ‘These are ‘Paul’s Chickens,’ or I am much mistaken !” “Then I will have some revenge upon you!” said Chesterman ; and he levelled his pistol at the Dark Woman, and fired. She did not move in the least, nor did she speak ; nor did any of the men, to the number of about thirty, who were called by Jack ‘*Paul’s Chickens,” make any further movement than merely appearing in the house. Chesterman must have been mad, for, in his rage, he drew another pistol from his pocket, and seemed on the point of firing at Jack; but he changed bis aim; and seeing the ‘Folly’ in a corner—whither she had flown for protection—he fired at her, saying, ‘‘ That will be most mis- chievous, I take it! Now, my men, ‘escape’ is the word; for we are outnumbered, I fancy, here!” The Dark Woman made a slight gesture with her left arm towards Chesterman; and the thirty “men who had so mysteriously appeared made a rush towards him, and he was captured. Jack had flown to the young girl, but she was unhurt; and he stood a few paces from her, re- garding her with looks of ineffable affection. The Dark Woman made another signal, and then there was a screaming cry.. A noose had been fitted round the neck of Ches- terman, and, as the vivid crimson light died ont, he was run up to one of the pillars of the boxes, and hung twenty feet from the floor. The torches and flambeaux were dashed out, all but one, and then a voice cried, in strange, high tones, ‘Follow, all who would look upon the morning sky once again! Follow!—follow!” Whoever it was that bore that one torch ran quite round the whole arena of the stage and pit with it—apparently for the purpose of collecting all the persons who were then present; and they were all so collected; for they streamed after the torch-bearer in an excited throng, until they found that he left the interior of the house, and sought the vestibule, — Another moment, and all were gone except Allan Fearon, who, once more in the vestibule of the house, after the exciting and strange scene he had witnessed within it, looked eagerly for Marian. “Marian !—Marian !” he cried. ‘ Where are you? Where—can any one here tell me ?—is the young person in the costume of a ‘ Folly,’ who was here, in a swoon, on a couch ?” “Oh,” said the young man, “you mean the young ‘ Folly’ you brought out of the house ?” “'Yes—yes!” “Oh, her uncle took her away.” “ Her uncle ?” “Yes. In a coach.” “Her uncle? She has no uncle!” (—%. THE DARK WOMAN. 13 ‘‘He said he was; and lifted her up, and took her off with him.” “‘ She was still insensible ?” “Oh, yes!” “Lost! lost! Oh, heaven, my Marian! Lost for ever tome! Marian! Marian! Marian!” Allan Fearon rushed out into the street. It was broad daylight, and he stood, stunned and bewildered, beneath the colonnade of the Opera House. The events of that one night were over. CHAPTER VI. TAKES THE READER INTO THE VAULTS OF ST. PAUL'S, AND RELATES TO MOST MYSTERIOUS PROCEEDINGS, EVENTS crowd upon us. The strange and mys- terious events, of which these pages are the authentic records, involve so many circumstances that, at the period of their occurrence, occupied the attention of the highest and the noblest of the land, that we are compelled, ia a somewhat frag- mental fashion, to catch at the more salient points in the strange drama of real life which we pour- tray. Our scenes will range from the highest to the lowest; from the Court— from the bed-chamber of Royalty to the squalid habitations of crime and poverty; and now it is to that subterraneous structure which lies beneath St. Paul’s Cathedral —almost a church beneath a church—that we must direct attention. To those gloomy vaults, in which repose many of the illustrious dead, but which, then, for a long period had been deserted—for it had happened that the old Abbey of Westminster had come more into fashion for the reception of departed greatness than St. Paul’s. London, at the period of which we write, had been for two years—or rather more—subject to depredations of so extraordinary a character that the utmost vigilance of the police authorities had not been sufficient to fathom the mystery. All that was known fo the police and the public .was, that there was some association known by the cant term of St. Paul’s Chickens, or simply Paul’s Chickens; but what was the extent of the association, what sort of people it contained, and how to strike a successful blow at it, were matters that had hitherto eluded all the strength and all the power that had been brought to bear upon the questfon. It is’for us to render that clear now which was so mysterious then. The time is midnight! The date is the second of February—the night after the strange events and the sad disaster at the Italian Opera House; and the brief winter's day, which had been gloomy and threatening, had subsided into a night of black and terribly increased frost. The Thames had already been frozen ove for more than three weeks. A quantity of blackened and dirty snow lay upon the streets of the City. Huge bonfires had been lit here and there, in order that the destitute and shivering wretches in the streets should not actually die of the cold. ORS ee a Ce ee eee ae ee rr ns Op tee . 14 THe DARK WOMAN. The dim oil lamps which were around St. Paul’s Churchyard shed but a faint and sickly light around them; and, in many cases, over the town, as well as those in the City, the oil would coagu- late, so that the lamp would either go out alto- gether, or burn with alight not exceeding that of a pin’s point in size. Twelve o'clock on this night of cold and wretchedness then sounded from the clock of St, Paul’s, when a man, with a careless, easy gait, walked slowly along by the railings of the old cathedral, opposite to Doctors’ Commons. All that side of the way—if side of the way it might be called, for there was no footpath—was involved in the deepest gloom; but there was one part, in a sort of recess made by the shape of the fore court of the cathedral, where the darkness was so intense you could scarcely have seen your hand before your eyes. It was into this darkness that the man we have mentioned seemed to go, as if he had entered a _ Cavern. He disappeared there. In a few moments another man came and went in the same way. Then two; then one alone; and so on, in twos or threes sometimes, but mostly alone, thirty men strolled, within half an hour, round the railings of St. Paul’s, and all disappeared at that dark—that more than dark place in the massive iron-work about the fore court of the cathedral. And now we change the scene. We are in the vaults—those dismal vaults which depress the imagination, and seem to thicken the air which languidly circulates in them. Supported by thick stunted columns, there is a space of about forty feet square; and far away, beneath*other clusters of columns, there stretch vaults and passages, which traverse the foundations of the place in every possible direction. In this space of about forty feet there is a strange spectral kind of light, by which its stone flooring, and its gloomy walls, and low ceiling, are all faintly visible. _In the very centre of this open space there stood a sedan chair. The use of such vehicles, if they can be called such, in the open streets, was going rapidly out at the period of our story, but they were not so entirely obsolete as they are at present, when it would be difficult to find one even A3 a Curiosity. This sedan chair, then, stood there without poles or bearers, as if some of the dead who lay buried beneath tae flagstones of those dreary vaults were expected to. rise from the cold ob- struction of the grave, and to sally out in it for the purpose of striking terror into the hearts of the living. Not a sound until twelve o'clock struck was heard in the vaults, and then there hobbled from a remote vista of columns an old man who carried a lantern. The lantern he hung upon ‘a nail behind one of the columns, so that it shed some light about it, but did not bewilder by its glare; and then he, in a bent attitude, approached the sedan chair, and when he got close to it, he seemed to humble himself before it like some devotee before a shrine, “Hem!” he said, “ may poor old Zachary Bolt hope that madam is well 2?” “Well!” said a voice from the interior of the sedan chair. ‘Hem! there is no news. Canon Holmes, he sent for me, and he says, ‘Zachary,’ says he, ‘do you know why all the—a—the—-a May I speak, madam?” “Yes!” “*Why,’ says he, ‘all the thieves and vaga- bonds in London now go by the name of Paul's Chickens?’ says Canon Holmes. ‘No,’ says I,‘ your reverence,’ says I, ‘no. Since I have been sexton here, which is a matter of thirty years,’ says y Ge * Silence!” “ Yes, madam. “* Well?” “‘ This is the second of February.” ‘* Well 2” ‘‘Ah, madam, do you not remember that my son Abel on this very day last year was saved by you? He was a wild boy was Abel—a very wild boy; but he rests in peace now. Yon, madam, though, saved him from the hangman.” ‘““No more!” said the voice from the sedan chair; “‘no more! They come! To your duty !”, “Yes, madam, yes; I will open the south door —I will open the south door.” Zachary went fearlessly enough about that, gloomy place, and he opened a small door in an obscure corner which led from the churchyard to the vaults. Then the first man who had so mysteriously disappeared by the railings opposite Doctors’ Commons tapped at that door. | ; “Who and what?” said Zachary. ‘(A farmer,” replied the man. “‘ What duty?” said Zachary. “To count the Chickens.” “That will do.” Zachary admitted the man, who then stationed himself just within the little doorway as a senti- nel who was to let no one pass without a watch-> word. Soon, then, there arrived one who tapped at the: small door, upon which this map who was within looked through a barred grating that was in it, and said, ‘‘ Who knocks ?” “A Chicken.” “Whose Chicken ?” “ Paul’s.” “ Come in.’ This process of question and answer was re- peated until twenty-nine men had passed the small door, and then he who had been the sen- tinel of the night fastened it and came down the stone steps that led to the vault, in the centre of which was the sedan chair with the mysterious and hidden occupant. These thirty men stood in a throng round the But, madam ?” sedan chair. They had a strange spectral-like appearance, -and they were profoundly silent until the same voice that had addressed the sexton, Zachary Bolt, said, “ Are all present ?” ‘* All,” murmured the voices of the thirty men. “Who wishes to speak ?” “T,” said one. * Speak, then !” “T want to propose that Jack Singleton, whe is commonly called Sixteen-stringed Jack, should be admitted a member of the association.” ene ea AEA NE EC ASE RMI THE DARK WOMAN. % “Ttis agreed, if he will be true,” said the voice from the sedan chair. ‘ Where is he ?” “He stands by the third lamp-post from the corner of Ludgate Hill.” ‘“‘ Fetch him, but let him give the first promise to be silent as the grave.” T'wo of the men left the vaults, and there was a death-like stillness until they returned, leading another man with them, who was blindfolded, and kept so for some time longer. ‘“‘ He is here,” said one. “Yes, I am here,” said Sixteen-stringed Jack, “though I hardly know what for.” ‘‘ Listen!” said the voice from the sedan chair. ‘‘ With all my ears,” said Jack. “This is an association composed of persons, all of whom have the sense of gratitude for some personal favour received, or some rare protection afforded to him. Some have been taken from prison—some have been saved from the rope— al) have the protection of such power as I wield, and which is great and secret!” “ And,” said Jack, ‘ what are we all?” _ “ We are called ‘ Paul's Chickens!” ‘“‘ Ah!—-we crack cribs, stop coaches, and do such daring things as a strong force alone can do, by acting together and understanding each other. I know what we are now.” “We redress some wrongs,” added the voice from the sedan chair. ‘‘ We punish guilt and gave innocence at times. We use the power we possess against oppression; and I who govern this assembly permit not. its meanest member to perish, if it cost a prince’s crown in wealth to save him! You know me all!” The front of the sedan chair was fiung open, and the Dark Woman appeared. A murmur of satisfaction passed from lip to lip, and every head was bowed, “‘ John Singleton, will you be one of us ?” “T hardly know. You say that all are bound by some personal feeling of gratitude. Now, I am not aware of that in my case?” “ Do you so soon forget ?” “‘ What am I to remember ?” “That there was one who stood in a glare of crimson light to save you and yours.” “Are you that one ?” “ Unbind his eyés.” The bandage was at once removed from before the eyes of Jack, and he saw by the dim light in the vault the Dark Woman, even as he had seen her, and a3 she had been recognised by the police officer who was left hanging in the Opera House. “Yes,” said Sixteen-stringed Jack, “I know you now again, but I wished you to declare your- self; and all I can say. is that I am yours, heart and soul.” “ Be it so! And now for action! There is | work to do to-night !” “‘ We are ready!” said the Paul’s Chickens, as with one voice. “One moment,” said Sixteen-stringed Jack,— “one moment. Hear me.” “ Speak !” “I feel that not only my own life was probably saved last night by this association, but my child was rescued from great danger. That feeling binds me to you all, and I am glad to be able to return you in some way the favour you have done tome. I have some information to give to you all.” “Stop!” said the Dark Woman. “Very good,” said Jack. “Before this information is given, I want to speak to Merlin, to Keys, to Shucks, and to Brads.” Four of the association stepped forward and bent down their heads to the Dark Woman, who whispered something to them in a very low tone. They then glided away in the darkness. ** Proceed,” said the Dark Woman—“ proceed, John Singleton. I will hear you now!” ‘* Then what I wish to say is, that a strong force of constables is collecting in the cathedral above, and that I feel pretty sure we shall all be pounced upon like so many rats in a trap before another hour is over our heads.” There was a visible commotion among the assembly. ‘‘T know it,” said the Dark Woman. A half-stifled ery came from some distance off, and the four men who had been whispered to by the Dark Woman came forward, carrying some- thing, which, when they cast it down at her feet, appeared to be Zachary Bolt, firmly gagged and tied. “T knew it,” added the Dark Woman; “and this is the traitor !” Zachary kicked convulsively. ““T have no doubt, whatever,” added the Dark Woman, “ but that the whole churchyard is well watched and surrounded to night, and that there is a large force of constables in the cathedral above.” There was an uneasy movement among the Paul's Chickens. “This man,” added the Dark Woman, as she put her foot on the prostrate form of Zachary Bolt, “has betrayed us to Canon Holmes. He told me so.” ‘The Canon ?” said Jack. “6 Yes.” “You know him 2?” ‘I know everybody !” Jack drew back and whistled faintly. ‘“‘T¢ seems,” he added, ‘ we are in a fix.” Gh No 7 Jack made not af all a bad bow. ““No!” added the Dark Woman. “It is my duty, as it is my pleasure, to save you all, for have I not saidthat there is work to do to-night ?” There was a breathless stillness. The Dark Woman continued: her voice was deep and impressive; there was, too, an unusual wildness ef tone about it, as though she spoke under feelings of strong excitement which she could scarcely control. ‘' Yes,” she added, “I tell you all that there is work to do to-night— you all I tell, for whom I have toiled—you whom I have rescued from difficulties, from dangers, and from death.” A confused, strange sound was now heard in the cathedral above. It must have been a loud noise, too, to reach the ears of those persons who were assembled in the gloomy vaults. It resembled the heavy shutting of some ponderous door more than anything else. “‘ You hear?” said the Dark Woman, “ You hear, all of you, that sound? It has a meaning!” “What meaning 2?” said Sixteen-stringed Jack, in his bold, careless way. 16 THE DARK WOMAN, A marble slab that cevered a flight of steps descending to these vaults from the body of the old cathedral had been raised, and suffered to fall back most heavily. “Then,” said Jack, danger, mates!” He took from his pocket a pistol as he spoke, and began to pat it on one side, to shake the priming well into its proper place. There was a sensation among the thirty Paul’s Chickens. Zachary, the sexton, gave a few more convul- sive kicks and plunges. A dull, rattling sound now came from above, and then there was another heavy blow upon the pavement of the cathedral. “he thick iron grating that lies beneath the marble slabs in the edifice above has been unlocked and removed!” said the Dark Woman. “Then they come?” said Jack Singleton. “Yes, they come!” “Well, my good comrades, we can but have a fight for it!” “No, no; you will all of you remain here until you hear from me again. I will save you all; and there need be no fight—there shall be no fight! I have well provided against all this, because I knew it! Who will have faith in me, and stir not, speak not, let him hear or see what he may ?” There was a general cry of assent. Jack Singleton alone had not joined in it. “ Look you here, madam!” he said. ‘‘ I am one accustomed to look after myself, and to take my own part, and I would rather do so now, if it’s all the same! 1 have my horse waiting at the corner of Bridge Street; and if I can only reach it, I will let them come after me if they like!” “Then you cease to be one of us!” said the Dark Woman. ‘And you forget your child!” ‘My Lucy ?” “Yes! For her sake, I command you!” “ For Lucy’s sake 2?” “Hiven so!” ** But——-” “Ask no more! TI tell you that the toils of the destroyer are about her! I tell you that the eye of the human basilisk has lighted upon her! But I will save her! And you will obey me, in order that I may save her !” The powerful man shook with emotion. ‘You know,” he said,—‘ you know (he bent close to her as he spoke)—-you know what is known to few—the secret of my life! My child! my own dear child! who does not even know that she has a father! You know that I love her better than my life—that I keep my existence secret from her, that she may be spared the pang that might otherwise, some day, be hers, when death closes my career !” “1 do know it. I adjure you by her name to obey me now!” ““Y submit !” A loud rumbling noise came from the cathe- dral above them. - ‘The Dark Woman stepped towards a long narrow passage that led from the vault. They all saw that she had a key in her hand, and before she disappeared from their straining eyes in that dim and dusky place, she spoke. “ That carrion!” she said. ““we are in immediate She pointed to Zachary the sexton. “‘ He is doomed !” “Death ?” said several. “ Ay, death !” The Dark Woman was gone. There was a stifled cry, and a short scnffe, and the dead body of Zachary Bolt, the unaer- sexton of St. Paul’s, was flung, with a heavy fall, into one corner of the vault. The rushing sound of carriage-wheels on the stony roadway without then came upon their ears, but no one spoke. One might have thought that assemblage to be one of silent spectres from tha tombs about and in the old cathedral. And now we must elucidate one of the mysterious actions of the Dark Woman. During that part of the evening which com~ menceéd at half-past eleven o’clock and terminated at one, a handsome coach, with richly-emblazoned arms on its panels, stood at the door of a lapidary’s shop in St. Paul’s Churchyard, a few doors from the principal entrance to Doctors’ Commons. The coachman, with his full wig, and his splendid livery, dozed upon the box. The two footmen leant negligently’ over the back of the coach, and fenced Janguidly with their long, gold-headed malacca canes, as they con- versed about the fashionable world. The noble-looking horses champed their bits, and pawed the pavement, but not very impa- tiently ; for coachman, footmen, and horses were all well accustomed to waiting many an hour at the routs and balls of the Court and the aris- tocracy. That equipage belonged to the Countess de Launy, the widow of one of the old French noblesse, who had perished amid the horrors eng massacres of the great revolution. So it was reported. And she was immensely rich. That was reported, too. And she moved in the first circles of London, and her residence near the parks was a scene of Fastern magnificence. The rich and the powerful men of fashion of the day crowded her saloons ; but it was remarked that there was a certain shyness in visiting her on the part of many per- sons belonging to the aristocracy of her country ; and she had not yet been presented at Court, although for two years and more resident in London. Why or wherefore the rich, charming, powerful, and fascinating Countess de Launy did not go through that indispensable preliminary to setting herself at ease with the fashionable world of London no one could guess. The lapidary, at whose door the carriage had stopped, seemed to be a poor man enough, although his wheel was heard hissing and whirring round ag he sat at work in the daytime. He was a man who spoke to no one, and appeared to live eom- pletely alone. But on this night he was alert and active. In the lower part of his house—in a dreary looking back apartment, half cellar, half kitchen, was the lapidary, on his knees, by what looked like a square opening in the floor; and it was what it looked like, for he had raised an iron door of about two feet square, “and was listening for any sound that might come up to him from the ? depths below. St pea a Nabe rnc Rinses chante pn ie hes Aeatth daantlleah Aah eat biett seh AND ALCAN ALAA OOD AR THE DARK WOMAN, Aaa | Hi il hl | Mh Mi Hl | ( Ha shh | | 2 ZY ZA <= — A hand-lamp was placed upon a miserable chair, which was the only article of furniture that the room possessed, and it shed a faint light around it, Twelve o'clock had struck, one o'clock had struck, and still the lapidary knelt there and listened. “* All still—all still!” he muttered. not !” But at length his attentive ears caught a sound, and he sprang to his feet. “ Now, now!” he said. Another moment, and there emerged from the small opening in the floor the head of the Dark Woman. There must have been some flight of steps neatly perpendicular, up which she came, for her appearance was spectral-like, and appeared to rise out of the floor, as if impelled by some power that required not the aid of ordinary means of ascent. No. 3.—Dark Woman. ‘ She comes aetna A tt mee et atresia tet eA TIT | Then the lapidary fell almost upon his face to the floor; and as soon as he could do so, he caught a portion of the outer dress of the Dark Woman, and pressed it to his eyes, his forehead, and his lips. ‘“‘ Mistress—mistress !” he said; “ only say that you will want my life, and it is yours!” There was a strong foreign accent in the words; and the Dark Woman, as she inclined her head in acknowledgment of this abject slavery, said, ‘Sadi, [ know your devotion; and I will call upon you, should I require it. All will be well now! Good night!” She walked rapidly from the wretched place, — followed by Sadi, the lapidary, who had snatched the light from the chair, and held it as high above his head as the low roof of the place would let him, in order to light the Dark Woman as she went. It was evident that she was quite familiar with Saat THE DARK WOMAN. the way she was proceeding, for she did not pause one moment. That she had a secret passage from the vaults of St. Paul’s to that house of the lapidary was evident; and that it was the route which she took in order to meet Paul’s Chickens, and to leave the meetings, there could be no doubt; but the most remarkable change that ever pantomimic pre- sentation knew was taking place in the Dark Woman as she preceded Sadi, the lapidary, to the upper part of his house. With nimble fingers, she loosened from round her neck the outer robe, or dress, that she wore, and she let it roll off her, and fall to her feet. Beneath, she appeared in a splendid dress of pearly satin, richly embroidered with roses. A touch brought then away from her head the peculiar hat she had worn, and the mask was re- moved from her face. A mass of beautiful ringlets of light brown hair, with just sufficient warmth of colour in it to redeem it from the common- place, fell about her neck and shoulders. Costly jewels sparkled on her fingers, as she disclosed them by casting aside dark-coloured gloves that she had worn. Her neck was en- circled by a row of costly pearls, each one of which must have been worth a thousand pounds. Diamonds glittered in her hair; and, take her for all in all, as she stood in the little shop of the lapidary, a more brilliant and beautiful being than this mysterious personage could not have been found. The lapidary flung his door wide open. ‘The coachman of the superb carriage wakened up thoroughly, and gave his horses a slight twitch with the whip, to let them know that they would be wanted to move soon. The two footmen sprung from the perch behind, and opened the carriage door. With a sweet and gentle smile, the Dark Woman stepped forth from the lapidary’s house. “You will see,” she said, ‘that the rubies are well set. I would make the most of them.” “J will, my Lady Countess!” Sadi bowed very low. The two footmen stood waiting for orders. ‘“‘The cathedral,” she said. ‘I see lights in it, and I fancy there are persons there.” “ St. Paul’s, my lady ?” “Yes. Or, stay. Go and see what is taking place there, and bring to me any one who is in authority.” “Tf you please, my lady, there was some one passed the carriage awhile ago, who said the City Marshal was in the cathedral, and that some thieves and housebreakers were about to be ap- prehended.” The Countess smiled sweetly-——she won so many hearts by that smile. “You will goto the cathedral,” she said, “ and you will say that I am here, with an order from Lord Ilchester, the Home Secretary.” ** Yes, my lady.” The footman ran towards the cathedral, and the Countess de Launy sunk back on to the soft cushions of her carriage, as the coachman slowly walked his horses after the footman. CHAPTER VII. THE COUNTESS DE LAUNY SHOWS HOW NATIONS ARE GOVERNED, AND KEEPS AN APPOINTMENT WITH THE REGENT, THE footman, who ran off to St. Paul’s, in obedience to the command of his mistress the Countess, found every door he went to guarded by a constable, who refused him admittance; but, at length, he ran against a tall, gentlemanly looking man,.who hearing him gay that the Countess de Launy was at hand, with a message from the Secretary of State, spoke hastily, saying, What is that you say? The Countess de Launy ?” “Yes, sir. She wishes ‘A see some one. in authority here directly.” “Well, I fancy Iam in authority! I am ‘the City Chamberlain!” “ Will you come with me, sir?” “Ts it far?” ‘Oh, no, sir; close at hand!” The Chamberlain accompanied the footman to the carriage; and the Countess, who had wrapped carefully around her delicate form an ermine shawl, handed out to him, with her sweetest smile, a small folded paper. The Chamberlain bowed, as he said, “Is this an order I have the honour to receive from the fair Countess de Lanny ?” “No; it is from the Secretary. of State.” “Ah! Indeed!” The Chamberlain opened the paper, and read :— “Whitehall, February 2, 1814. “To all whom it may concern. It is ordered and decreed that all proceedings in connexion with the supposed presence of disorderly and criminal persons in the vaults of St. Panui’s be at once suspended, and the outlets left free. This order is for secret purposes of State. ‘“ TLOHESTER.” “You comprehend ?” said the Countess. “ Perfectly, madam. I will go and speak to the City Marshal, and the order shall be instantly obeyed.” “You are very good; and your promptitude will not be forgotten, you may depend.” “Oh, madam!” The delighted Chamberlain bowed, and ideas of knighthood came over him; for he knew well that the lovely Countess de Launy was omnipotent with the Secretary of State. “Tichester House!” said the Countess to the footman who was by the carriage-door, waiting further orders. The carriage whirled off towards the West End of the town. Ilchester House, the residence of the Secretary of State for the Home Department, was situated in Pall Mall; and, as good luck would have if, © Lord Ilchester iust reached his own door from Windsor as the equipage of the Countess drove up to it. Now, my Lord Ilchester was a bachelor, and a man of fashion and gallantry, and he had been wonderfully smitten by the charms of the doubtful and rather mysterious Countess de Launy. To see her carriage, then, stop at his door at Ce Ls el Se 7) EES THE DARK WOMAN. nearly two o’clock in the morning was to him a most pleasant surprise. He made but two steps to the carriage-door, as he said, ‘“‘Am I, and is Ilchester House, the fortunate goal of your lady- ship to-night ?” “Oh, my lord, is that you?” “ It is, fair Countess y **T am so dull!” ‘Then, let all the world die of ennui! You have been to the Duchess of Gisweile rout, I fancy ?” A s Yes, and no!” _ *An enigma?” _ “Just so! Itook a friend there, and I brought iend away; but, as I have not yet, yon know, esented at Court, I had no invitation.” t, my dear Countess, it is so cold out here! A es of about twenty degrees! Will ‘you not honour my humble house by stepping into its library, where, to keep the old authors warm on their shelves, we are always sure of a good and pleasant fire ?” **¥ will—because-———” ‘* Because ?” “You will have to send me to prison !” “What? You?” “Even I!” .. : “Ha! ha! I will go with you, if you go!” Lord Ilchester very gallantly helped the Coun- tess from her carriage, and, placing her arm be- neath his, he went with her into his house. The library was warm and pleasant; and the Countess sunk into the recesses of an easy chair, while Lord Ilchester, with a bright light in his eyes, regarded her with admiration—an admiration he did not attempt to conceal. **My lord!” . “My dear Countess!” “Stop; you do not know me!” ‘We may not be intimate with an angel ; we can see the glory of its beauty!” “Ah! pretty well. But I have something, do you know, to say to you, and something to ask of but you, which will tax your good-nature to the | utmost.” **No, no! I here promise that, let it be what it | may that my power may command, it shali be yours Y” “Do not be rash, my lord !” “T repeat my promise |” _ “And you won't send me to prison !” * To prison ?” “Yes. Listen! fo set forme. They are almost beyond all price, I was anxious about them, and I went to him to-night.” “ Yes.” “ To the City. To St. Paul's Churchyard.” ** Dangerons !”” “Indeed! Well, I will tell you. The man was in a fright—pale and sickly with apprehen- sion. His house had been robbed!” “Ah! It must have been by. that atrocious gang of housebreakers who are known by the name of Paul's Chickens!” “ Just so.” ** You know it, Countess?” “He told me so. But the most remarkable thing is, that when he told them the rubies he had were mine, they said that they thought me 80——s0—80-——” My jeweller has some rubies* *' So good ?” ‘No, so pretty.” ‘“‘ They were right.” ‘““And so good, too, since, one ‘day, I saved from death one of them.” 6s You 2” “Even I? * But how 2?” “T¢ is too long a story ; but the result was that they would not take my rubies, and they were all safe.” “* Magnanimous thieves !” “Very! And, then, as I never receive a benefit without being perfectly unhappy until I have returned it in some way, I did something for them.” “ You did ?” “Yes; for which you will send me to prison.” Lord Ilchester smiled. “Oh, no, no!” “ Well, you shall hear.” “And you, too, my dear Countess! Do you know that your rubies—uuless it be your lips— will be in no more danger from that terrible gang of housebreakers that has infested on so long? They will all be taken to-night. I am telling you the secrets of my adminisiration.” * And you hesitate!” ‘“t No, no!—by heaven, no!” Lord Iichester took one of the lovely hands of the Countess in his own. She didnot withdraw it. “You must Know,’ he added, “that we have T certain information that this extraordinary gang of housebreakers, highwaymen, and robbers are underithe’ complete command and control of a woman.’ ‘Ah, my lord! Do you, the most gallant man |- in Europe, wonder at that ui “Ob, no, no! But “Well?” “She is old, plain, masculine, cruel, and vin- dictive, and she goes by the name of ‘The Dark Woman.’” «The Dark Woman ?” “Just so.” “She must be a dreadfal person!” “She is a dreadful person! If you knew all, you would say so, again and again. She commits murder without hesitation. She stops at no crimes to carry out her purposes, which appear to be plunder on a large scale. Ob, Countess! when I look at you, in all your feminine beauty, and contrast you with such a person as that Dark Woman, I wonder how nature can produce two such opposites, and that they should be both called woman !” | “Ah!” “We had information that she and they were to meet in the vaults of St. Paul’s. My young secretary, Algernon de Grey, had an interview with some man—a sexton, I think he was—of St. Paul's, who betrayed the whole matter this morning. By the by, he is a lover of yours, I believe, Countess.” ) “Ts he?” ‘‘ Ah, that charming look! ‘Well, the thieves and robbers are all taken !” “ Alas, no!” “No?” “T sa had retu no! I told you I never rested until J ned a favour !” | | 20 — ~ ‘‘ Yes; but I cannot!” ‘** Cannot what ?” ‘“* Let them go!” “TI do not ask you, my lord!” **Pardon me; I was afraid that was the request which was about to come from those charming lips.” ‘Oh, dear, no! “You?” “Yes, I!” “But # ‘Send me to prison at once. I thought you loved me; so—so—I took the liberty to use your name, and ordered that they be allowed all to escape. I thought, you see, that you loved me !” ; The Secretary paced the room twice. ‘“‘My dear Countess !” ‘* Dear Ilchester !” She sobbed in the lace folds of her handkerchief, from which she scattered the most delightful per- fumes. “Compose yourself, for the love of heaven. I am not angry with you. I would let all the thieves in the world, and all the desperate Dark Women escape, rather than one tear should dim those eyes.” “Do tears dim them ?” “Ah! no—no! There is heaven’s light in them !” The Countess looked in his face, and smiled. “Come, come !—think nothing of it.” “You forgive me?” “ With all my heart. But how did you do it ? Did the authorities take your word ?” I have myself let them go.” “Oh, no! I told you!” “No?” “J did! I told you that I wrote an order, and signed your name to it, and you said it was clever, and you forgave me.” Ayia 1 2” *¢ Oh, cruel! cruel !” “Nay! nay! Don’t say another word about it. I am quite willing to take all the responsi- bility of the affair on my own shoulders.” ‘That's settled, then,” said the Countess. . * T suppose it is.” She rose and bowed. “Oh, Countess, if you only knew—if you could only guess how much I love you!” ““T do know.” “ You—you—do ?” **Yes, my Lord Ilchester. And my feelings towards you are, by this night’s interview, con- siderably advanced in the direction you wish. You have been very generous, and I have been very bold. Accept my thanks.” “No, no!” “You will not ?” ‘JT would rather not, because that would cancel the obligation.” “Ah, Isee! You would have me your debtor!” “YT would, indeed!” . ‘Be it so, then. And now, good night; for I am weary, and would fain go home.” Lord Ilchester bowed low, and handed the Countess to her coach. “Home!” she cried; and the splendid vehicle whirled away, as the church clocks struck three, from Lord Iichester’s house. “J have saved them!” cried Linda to Herself, — ut re THE DARK WOMAN, “J have saved them! But now some other place of meeting must be found. Now for the Palace!” ee CHAPTER VIII. DESCRIBES THE PROCEEDINGS OF A NIGHT IN, ST. JAMESS PALACE AND CARLTON HOUSE, AND RESCUES ANNIE AND MARIAN GRAY FROM EXTREME PERIL. THE house of the Countess de Launy was ina very faghionable quarter; but, partly owing to the inclement character of the season, and partly owing to the town not being very full, although there was an extraordinary session of Parliament going on, in consequence of the disturbed state of Continental affairs, the street was quiet, and everybody in it appeared to have retired to rest. It was half-past three o’clock, then, when the door of the Countess’s house opened, and there glided out into the open air a dark figure. There were the cloak, the mask, the hat, and all the outward aspects of the Dark Woman. : The beautiful, fair, and glittering Countess de Launy was, so to speak, no more; and the Dark Woman, stern and vengeful, had taken her place. Who, indeed, as Lord Hehester had said, could have supposed that two such opposite personages could both be called woman? But what would have been his wonder if any one had whispered to him that they were one and the same persons? And through the cold, bitter cold streets she now made her way with a swift step; and as she went, she muttered to herself the secret purposes of her soul, “This night—this night,” she said, “I will wring the secret from him, or I will do a deed at which the rulers of nations shall tremble! I have acumnlated a power which I will now use! He shall live—that bold, bad Prince—if he will place the hand of my son in mine; but if not, he shall die, a terror and a warning to all such as he! What has it cost? Ob, what has it cost? Blood —wealth untold! What has it cost to fling open to me this night the house of the voluptuary? Yes, I have now the power of stepping into the palace of England's King, and crying ont aloud to him who wears the circlet of sovereignty, and calls himself the Regent, that I will have justice or that I will exact retribution! I ama Dark Woman! They call me so because my heart is dark—because my purposes are dark; but the daylight may yet ring with the deeds that Iwill do! To the Palace! To the Palace! Ay, now to the Palace!” As she walked on and thus communed with her- self, she made strange and furious gestures; and one affrighted passenger that she met fairly fled and turned with thankfulness down a back street. And so she went on until she reached a narrow street in Westminster, close to the Birdcage Walk and St. James’s Park, and there she paused and placed her arm for support against a wooden rail that belonged to a butcher’s shop. “This is the place!” she said. fail me! He has the paper!” There came a gliding, shadowy-looking figure towards her, and a voice said, ‘‘ Here!” ** Merlin ?” 6 Yes.” “ Merlin will not THE DARK WOMAN, 21 Then another figure approached, and then an- other, until four had come, and they answered to the names of Merlin, Brads, Keys, and Shucks. These four men stood quite still, as if waiting for orders from their leader and mistress. “Follow!” she said, ‘To the Park! route clear ?” “‘ Tt, will be, if I lead!” said Merlin. ““ Watch!” said Keys. A watchman turned a corner, and came grumb- ling and cursing along. “Past four, and a cold night! Past Ah, I think Tl go home! This is a pretty night to keep a Christian out in, and no good to be done— not even a drunken gent to be helped along, eased of his watch, and then knocked down for being drunk and disorderly! Past four, and Eh? Hilloa! Who are you? I'll take you up, and then knock you down !” “ Will you?” said Merlin. ‘There you go!” Another moment, and the watchman lay stunned against a door-step. Merlin stepped on. The Dark Woman followed him, and the three thieves came after her. “Tell me,” she said, “‘ was the message given to Singleton that he might join us this night ?” “It was,” said Merlin; “but he would not come. He said that our secrets were safe with him; but that he could not work but by himself, as he had been used to do, and to-night he had business yet on hand.” ‘Be it so. He will not betray us?” ‘Oh, no, mistress! Sixteen-stringed Jack is safe enough.” ‘*A bold spirit !” “There is not a braver fellow in all England than he is.” Into the Park, through a gap which Merlin made by the removal of a rail, went this strange party; and there they seemed to be swallowed up into the cavernous-like darkness of the place. We must leave them there for a brief space, while we proceed to depict events which were taking place in a very different atmosphere, The warm, soft atmosphere of a palace. It was just twelve o'clock at night, on this same second day of February, when a carriage with four horses came at a dashing rate up to Carlton House. The sentinel on duty presented arms, and the Regent, leaning heavily on the arm of Sir Hinckton Moys, alighted and passed through the gate into the palace. Carlton House, at that time, was the known town residence of the Prince of Wales, and closely adjoining it was a range of outbuildings which connected it with the old Palace of St. James’s. Is the The Prince had been to Windsor, where a con-. sultation of physicians had taken place, concern- ing the state of mind of George the Third. He came home worried and wearied, and after passing through a range of apartments, he flung himself | on a sofa in the last one of the suite, and made a royal remark. The royal remark was comprehended in ona word only. Brandy! “ Willes ! Willes !” cried Sir Hinckton Moys, at the door of the apartment. ‘‘ Where are you, Willies ?” a a rr en 2 ete ee ‘t Here, sir,” said the Prince’s confidential valet, making his appearance; but looking so pale—so absolutely white—that Sir Hinckton Moys was startled at the sight of him, and forgot to order the brandy. “ Why, what on earth is the matter with you, Willes 2?” “ The—a—matter ?” “Yes; you look half dead!” **T am not very well, Sir Hinckton. “Brandy!” said the Prince. ‘I believe that I am kept waiting for brandy!” ‘Do you hear?” said Sir Hinckton Moys,—“ do you hear, Willes? Your conduct is disgraceful!” Willes ran off for the brandy. “He gets careless,” said Sir Hinckton Moys. “Your Royal Highness will have to get rid of him.” ** Bother, no—he knows too much! I suppose supper will be ready soon ?” “ Certainly, your Royal Highness.” “T will try those lobsters boiled in port wine to-night. Brummell mentioned them, and says that Louis the Eighteenth found out the recipe. Where is that bran Ah, here itis! Ah, Iam better—better now. Ah! what’s the matter with you, Willes, eh?” “Nothing, your Royal Highness—nothing.” ‘You don’t look well.” “T am always well enough to attend to his Royal Highness.” Bt ‘“‘ Willes becomes quite a courtier, Moys !” ‘‘ He does, your Royal Highness. I have some- thing to say to your Royal Highness.” “You may go, Willes. When do we sup ?” ‘At one, may it please your Royal Highness.” “Very well. Now, Moys} what is it?” ‘‘ Your Royal Highness is aware that since you set your royal eyes upon that young girl, who we found was a theatrical wardrobe-maker, and oc- casionally appearing as what they call a super at the theatre, all other beauties have appeared to you not worth the looking at.” “ Ah, goon! We hear you!” “Your Royal Highness condescended to go to that disastrous masquerade at the Opera House ?” ‘‘ Disastrous, indeed! That dreadful woman! Go on—go on! Well, go on!” ‘Then you saw her again?” ‘‘ Yes. In the dress of a ‘Folly, as it is called. A sort of feminine mime, with cap and bells, and parti-coloured apparel! She was charm- ing |” I cannot dispute that opinion. She was, in- deed, most charming! But what an awful scene of confusion ensued upon the fall of the chan- delier !” “ Awful, indeed ! more, Moys.” ‘‘No more, your Highness ?” ‘Not a word. I know all you would say. You mean to come round to the row, and the fire, and all that sort of thing, as a kind of excuse. All I can say is, that it is well I serve myself better than I am served by others. That is all!” “I do not understand ?” “Oh, oh!” *‘T have not the honour to comprehend.” “Then say no more about it. You missed the girl. That is all. Perhaps you could not help it. I don’t say you could. You missed her; while I—— Well! well!” And now you need say no | | head.” 22 LLL LLL LALLA ALLA ELAN LALA Rae ete THE DARK WOMAN, “But, your’ Royal Highness, may 1 say a word ?” “* What is it?” “Notwithstanding all the confusion—all the riot—all the danger—all the fire—all the———” ** Good gracious, Moys! come to the point. Don't go on in that absurd way.” “T carried the girl off; and she is now in the care of Mrs. South, in the blue rooms.’ ** What ?” “Tn the care of Mrs. South, and has been since two o’clock on last night.” “Tn the——” ““Blue rooms, your Royal Highness.” “No?” “As I live!” “ Moys 2” “Your Highness |” “OF all the liars “ Your Highness !” “Well, I won’t use strong language, but I tell you that you having completely failed—you having fled, and left me to no end of dangers and difficulties in the Opera House—you giving up, in, no doubt, the panic that took possession of you, all chance and hope of securing the girl—I had to take her myself!” “Yourself, your Royal Highness ?” “ Myself iY 66 Im pun 20 *t Don’t be rash, Moys. I have said it.” “YT beg your Royal Highness ten thousand pardons. Of course, anything becomes possible the moment your Highness says it, although impossible before. But—but “Well?” “Tam ready to take my oath that I caught up the young creature after she had fainted in the midst of the first rush of people, and carried her out of the house, and put her into a coach, and had her brought to the blue rooms, and put into the care of Mrs. South.” **You did?” ** Honour !” “Well, when I did get out of the house, which I never thought to do with my life, I found the very girl lying on a couch by the fire in the ves- tibule, and I had her carried off and brought here at once, insensible as she was. And here she is!” “True! Beware, sir!” Sir Hinckton Moys bowed almost to the ground, and then he uttered a sudden cry of inspiration. * T see it now—I see it all!” “What? what?” “* The sisters !” “i Ah!” “ Your Royal Highness has carried off one, and T the other.” The Regent, for once in his life, very neatly whistled. It is doubtful if the Regent could whistle, but he screwed up his royal lips as though he were about to attempt the feat, although no sound came forth. “You idiot !” he then said. “T, your Royal Highness ?” “Yes; because you have brought the wrong girl here—the one about whom I don’t care a pin’s sb No, no 1? “But I say, yes. ie ? Isay, yes! & Foll y- > “They were both se dressed.” “Then they are both here?” ‘* Both.” ‘‘ What is to bé done, Moys? Im afraid there will be some confusion—some—some uproar. You know that the blue rooms are quite plainly fur- nished, and that Mrs. South is a genteel- -looking person; and that, although there is a direct route to those rooms from here, they seem to belong to a house next to the old Palace, and I always say Tam a Mr. Brown.” “* Yes, yes!” “In this case, I meant to say that, finding the young lady insensible, I had brought her to Mrs. South’s house—my aunt,—becanse she could not tell me where she lived. But it will be awkward, the two of them.” “Very, your Royal Highness.” ‘Unless you, Moys, get one away off the pre- mises in some way, don’t you see?” “T will try.” “You must succeed—I order it !” “Tt shall be done.” “I will have no delays now, Moys. You be off at once, and settle this affair. After supper, I will come round and speak with the right one.” The door of the room in which the Prince of Wales sat was now slowly opened by Willes, who, with a profound bow, said, ‘‘ Supper is served, your Royal Highness.” ‘Very well. Now be off, Moys, and see to it.” “T am your Royal Highnéss’s most humble servant.” Sir Hinckton Moys bowed low, and opened a door that was very well concealed in the wall of that room, and passed through it. The Regent followed Willes, who at every three steps he took called out, ‘‘ Way for his Royal Highness the Prince Regent !” How the Prince supped—how he drank—how he laughed—and how he played practical jokes— and who were his associates on that night, when his father, the old King, was watched as a maniac—is foreign to our story; but at half-past two he was in that room again where he had conversed with Sir Hinckton Moys, and his features were red and swollen by intemperance, and his voice was thick. ““Moys! Moys!” he cried. ‘ Where is that rascal Moys?” “‘T am here, your Royal Highness,” said Sir Hinckton Moys, as. he darted into the room by the concealed door. Willes stood, pale and trembling, by the other door. There was evidently something on Willes’s mind by the state of agitation he was in, and the attitude of painful listening that he had not power to control or conceal. “They have locked themselves in a room, and won't come out!” cried Sir _Hinckton Moys. The Regent steadied himself by the back of a chair as he said, ‘What does the fool mean? What is the idiot talking about, eh?” ‘'The sisters.” “The who?” “The two ‘ Follies.’” “Ah—oh! I begin to recollect. Hang the Lafitte !” You venture to contradict It was the one in the dress of . SL tt OC LLC LL LL don’t like ill people about me. The Regent passed his hand several times over THE DARK WOMAN, veneer attet LSS CEL LLL L AAALAC ALLL LA LAA - 23 eed “Yes! The Prince had four studs! One was his eyes, and then he muttered, “ Lobsters boiled. | a brilliant worth six hundred pounds; the other a in port! Good—good! but heavy—very heavy! What did you say, Moys?” ‘Ha, ha!” cried Willes, suddenly. The Regent started. Sir Hinckton Moys looked aghast. Willes wiped the cold perspiration from his brow, as he then said in a faint voice, ‘May it please your Royal Highuess, but I thought I heard a voice; and so—and so—and so [—I thought I heard a voice.” “ Bat,” said Sir Hinckton Moys, “is that any reason why you should add to it ?” ‘No, I—that is—oh, dear!” “'The man is mad, or ill,” said the Regent. ‘I You comprehend that, Willes? You will please to get well directly, er you will at once quit my service {” “Yes, your Royal Highness.” Willes made a great effort to appear composed, but he couttered to himself, ‘‘Oh, that I had not promised! Oh, that had not given her the key! Oh, what will become of me!” ‘Now Willes was in a state of mind that very nearly bordered on distraction. The fact was, that he had been on the day previous suddenly sent for to Pall Mall, tospeak to a lady who wanted to see him, and was there waiting in ber car- riage. This was a summons that Willes had cheer- fully obeyed, but when he reached Pall Mall he saw 2 plain chariot without arms, and the coach- man and footman in black liveries; and in the chariot there was a lady, dressed completely in black, with a mask on her face. “* Willes,” said this unknown personage, ‘step into the carriage, I want to speak to you most confidentially.” Willes obeyed her, with curiosity in his looks. What harm, he thought, could come to him in the open daylight in Pall Mall, with people pass- ing every moment, and the sentinel at Marlborough House within twenty paces of him? So Willes had got quite unsuspectingly into the carriage, and the lady then said, ‘‘ You are the confidential valet of the Prince of Wales, Mr. Willes ?” “*T am, madam.” “And in that capacity you have a key to a small private door opening from the garden of Carlton House, and with the garden likewise, by a door in the wall!” “Madam ?” “Hear me out. The opening from the garden into Carlton House leads through some circuitous passages direct to those four rooms which compose the private snite of the Regent!” “‘ Madam ?” “‘T want the key!” Willes was astonished at the woman’s imperious- ness. He did not say so, but he was. He only smiled at her gently as he said, ‘What you ask of me, madam, is impossible, unless I had the command of the Prince.” “No!” ‘Oh, madam, I assure you it is quite impos- sible! I have the honour to bid you good day, madam!” “No, Willes; I haye something more to say!” More?” ) ruby, worth more; the third an emerald, worth a thousand pounds; and the fourth an opal, worth five hundred pounds!” “Good heavens!” gasped Willes. ‘The emerald is lost!” No, nol” “T say, stolen!” “ By—by—by———” “You, Willes! Come,now! I have preserved this secret for a month! Do you think that, hav- ing kept it for so long, I cannot keep it longer,—~ ay, for ever?” “Oh, madam!” “* Willes ?” ‘** Yes, yes!” “T want the key that will pass me from the Park to the private rooms of the Regent!” Willes, with a deep groan, produced a small but beautifully finished pass-key. ‘‘ That is it, madam.” “Thank you. Good day!” “Oh, madam! What—and when——” ‘Go on.” “T was going to say, what are you going to do, and when ?” “Perhaps to-night! But no murder! I have, you see, answered your questions, but reversed them; and now, good day! I have no more to say to you!” This it was, then, that had, so to speak, sat hea- vily upon the soul of Willes, the confidential valet of the Regent; and when he suddenly laughed aloud in that strange idiotic and irreverent fashion, it was that he thought he heard a noise that might be indicative of the arrival of the mysterious per- son who had procured the key from him. Sir Hinckton Moys now looked very suspiciously at Willes. He could judge that the excitement and indisposition under which the valet was la- bouring was mental, but he could come to no con- clusion in regard to what it really arose from. .» CHAPTER IX. RELATES TO THE FATE OF THE FAIR SISTERS, ANNIE AND MARIAN GRAY}; AND DETAILS HOW THEY CAME TO BE CAPTIVES, Wuen the insolent and abandoned Sir Hinckton Moys had cast his unhallowed eyes upon Annie Gray, and thought that she might be an accept- able victim to offer up to the Regent, he was not long in setting to work to undermine, as far as was possible, the better feelings of the young girl. The two sisters, Annie and Marian Gray, were orphans, and they resided in a small street that connected old Covent Garden Market with one of the adjoining thoroughfares. Their sole means of support consisted in the work they got from the theatres in making dresses; and early and late these two fair girls would toil to procure a scanty subsistence by the manufacture of the rich and gaudy costumes which dazzled the eyes of the spectators of the Opera. Allan Fearon, who loved Marian with all his ene eee er ne | Pee TE CE A GC LR A Ct I I ne eee rem PT ENA A a CN LAE RR Bm : a ee a a a ee : l a Ce ee 24 heart, occupied a position which was scarcely de- fined, but might be called clerk, at a manufac- turer’s of gold and silver lace close to the Opera House. Now, it frequently happened that Marian Gray had orders to get certain quantities of lace from Allan Fearon’s employer’s shop, in order to make up the dresses she and her sisters were at work upon, and it was upon these visits that the young man had felt the soft influence of the gentle eyes of the young dressmaker. He had gazed upon her until her beauty had become the dream of his life. He loved her with all the ardour and devotion of his enthusiastic nature; and how could she fail to see that the youth looked at her as he looked at no one else, and that his eyes devoured her with love? At length he had told her that he loved her, and she had listened with such a glow at ‘her heart to the gentle words, that when she looked up in his face again and then at the world around her, she felt that she had never really Joved until then. There was no disparity in years—there was no disparity in condition. Both were orphans. Indeed, poor Allan Fearon did not know who his parents were, for he had been ‘ found.” Found on one of the seats in St. James's Park, by two boys, who took him to the workhouse. Still, poor Allan had a mind, an intellect, and a kind of grace and pride which soon helped him out of his abject condition. First errand lad, then clerk to the lace mer- chant, who was a kindly man, and so we have him loving, adoring Marian Gray. They were both so poor, too—except in love. What bonds of affection they had! Alas! Why could not their simple true loves ron smooth? But it was not to be. Some of the strangest episodes of human life were to befall them. And now, gentle and courteous reader, who may have gone thus far in this strangely chequered history, pray accept this young Marian Gray as one in whom it is well to be interested, for she is a creature of much grace and goodness. And Annie—Annie, her sister, was very beauti- ful, but she wanted the calm reasoning power of Marian, She was too.imaginative and romantic, and she thought it highly possible that some great lord might love her, and that her coach was yet to roll in splendour over the streets of London, It was therefore no great surprise and no great shock to Annie Gray, when, the day before the great masquerade at the Opera House, a mys- terious looking person slipped into her hand, as she was upon the threshold of her home, a billet, and then rapidly disappeared. The billet, which was read by Annie alone and in secret, ran thus:— FAIREST AND DEAREST, “There is one who loves you—one who will make you his own by all the holiest ties of heaven, and whose wealth and fortune will be yours, if you will but appear at the masquerade to-morrow evening at the Opera House. You are now making for one of the theatres some dresses to be worn in a ballet by a troop of ‘ Follies.’ Wear one, and be at the masque. The enclosed pass will admit you, and no lady in all the land will be happier than you, dearest, best, and most adored one.” nn TE | ee en el a THE DARK WOMAN, This was just the style of note that was likely to catch the romantic and yet innocent imagina- tion of Annie Gray. The moment she read it, visions of grandeur flitted before her fancy, and she was not long in making up her mind to be at the masquerade. How the writer of that letter could know that she and her sister were making up the dresses for the ‘‘ Follies,” Annie could not conjecture? But that appeared to her to be of no moment. She made up her mind to go. But Annie Gray was too ingenuous, and too open and simple in all her ways, for Marian not to observe that there was something on her mind; but Marian would not question her. Confidence, she thought, should come unasked; but yet she felt it to be her duty to keep a watch over her. And so, on the night of the masquerade, she had seen Annie rise up and dress herself in one of the ‘‘Folly” costumes; and as she was about to leave the house, Marian sprang towards her and flung her arms about her, and cried aloud to her, with tears in her eyes, “ Sister, sister, where are you going? Oh, Annie, will you not confide in me?” Annie’s heart was not made of impenetrable stuff, and she told her sister all, and showed her the note. It was in vain, however, that Marian implored ber not to go to the.masquerade. Annie could not’ forego her dreams of wealth and state; and at length Marian had said, abruptly, “ Be it so. I then will take another of these dresses, and go with you.” And this did not displease Annie in the least ; she was glad to have her sister 'with her: and so, both attired as ‘‘ Follies,” they had’ reached the Opera House. But they had only a pass for one. On the pass were these words,—‘‘ Admit a ‘ Folly,’” and then there was a sort of sign or mark which was not like a letter. Now, when Marian and Annie reached the doors of the Opera, they held each other hand in hand, and the ticket collector looked at them both, as he said, “ But which ‘ Folly ?? Who bears the ticket ?” ‘‘ Both,” said Marian. ‘‘Or neither,” said Annie. “ Then go in, both of you, at once.” And so they were both admitted to the wildly licentious and brilliant scene which we have given some idea of in our opening chapter. But poor Marian, while feeling that it was her duty to follow the headstrong and wilful Annie, even to such a place as the masquerade at the Opera, was not aware that the eye of affection which she had kindled was upon her, and might misjudge her pure and gentle motives. Allan Fearon found more pleasure in wandering about the house where resided his much-loved Marian, than, even in that inclement season, seek- ing repose; and it happened that he was close at hand, and saw both the sisters leave their home and repair to the masquerade. Full of astonishment and grief that his Marian should find any pleasure in a visit to such scene, he had followed them to the doors. But poor Allan had no means of getting aa mission to the masque, and so he waited—fretting and sighing—for them to come out, until the fearful catastrophe that took place within the house put an end to all order, and he was able, us aa nme Ima innmnptn a so a2 aa LE! a ———————E—E———————————— eee = J = = %z = id fo ———— ms SSS — => cS thi eke 2 = y ; = va or: mn — a a a AP LEAF” OT FA se —— ey A ew apy fom = | Key ‘ 4) if We itt 5 THE DARK WOMAN. Sy" ==&S “nt : [ we have related, to rush in and seek for her whom he loved. How Allan rescued her, and placed his beloved Marian on a couch in the vestibule, we know; and how he returned to the house with Sixteen- stringed Jack, on an errand of kindness, and how, when he returned, he found Marian gone, we likewise know. I¢ will be cur duty now to follow the fortunes of the two sisters on that night of peril and ad- venture. When the chandelier fell into the pit of the Opera House, Annie and Marian had joined in the general cries of despair and terror. Then a strong arm had seized upon Annie, and a voice whispered in her ear, ‘ Follow, to him who adores you !” “Ah! Did you write?” “Nol! I brought yon a letter !” * Yes—yes !” No..4.—Darnk Woman, ae “ This way—this way !” Annie felt herself Itfted from amid tha riot and uproar around her, by some one who made nothing of her light weight, and then she fell into a state of semi-insensibility, for she had received a blow on the temple from some of the fallen glass. She was not exactly in a@ faint or swoon, so as to be completely insensible to all that was taking place, but everything appeared to her as if it were in a dream. She was conscious and certain that she was carried through a number of rooms and passages, and then that she was put into a coach, which went off at speed. She tried to speak, but she was too faint for that, and she gave up the attempt, for she found that a more confused feeling took péssession of her from the efforts she made to command her voice. The coach went, sho knew not where. It en ee rennin rere rer 96 THE DARK WOMAN. stopped, and she was lifted out. She distinctly heard the silver bells on her ‘ Folly” dress jingle, and then she thought that she had sunk down, fathoms deep, into the earth, and was dead. Annie had nearly fainted at last, upon being taken into a very warm room, and laid upon a couch, by a woman of great size and strength, who bent over her, as she muttered, “ What can men see in wretched little girls like these, with their doll’s faces ?” And there we, for the present, leave Annie. Marian, it will be recollected, was more in- volved in the confusion incidental to the fall of the chandelier in the Opera House than was Annie, and when she was rescued by Allan Fearon she had no consciousness at all of passing events, beyond the first few minutes, And so he had left her on the couch in the vestibule, and when he came back she was gone. Now, it so happened that the moment young Allan had turned his back to go into the theatre again, there emerged from a side door into the vestibule no less a personage than the Regent. Terrified and excited by the scenes he had gone through, he was about to pass through the vesti- bule with what speed he could, when he caught sight of the “Folly” dress of Marian, as she reclined on the couch, where Allan had left her. An exclamation of surprise burst from his lips ; and then he said, ‘‘Moys is killed; or she has escaped him!” Now, the Prince was at the masquerade in most strict incognito, and a very plain chariot was waiting for him at the corner of the Colonnade. Into that he, in a few moments, had Marian con- veyed, on the pretence, to the people in the vesti- bule, on the part of one of his creatures, who was with the chariot, that they knew her, and would take her home. And thus was Marian conveyed to the same house, next to St. James’s Palace, where Annie was already an inmate. And then the Prince Regent thought he was much cleverer than Sir Hinckton Moys; and meant that he should not readily hear the last of the affair. And then Sir Hinckton Moys felt that he had done his infamous duty to his master, and lodged the young and innocent “ Folly” with the mascu- line woman, who wondered what men could see in “ dolls’ faces?” And thus were the sisters together again, let us hope, tor mutual protection. And thus was poor Allan Fearon in astate of distraction to know what had become of his lost Marian. The Regent had been to Windsor. Sir Hinckton Moys had been in attendance upon him. And now, we once again return to those rooms at Carlton House in which were the Prince, and Willes, and Sir Hinckton, at the moment that the somewhat awkward disclosure took place, that two ‘ Follies” would be found under the care of Mrs. Soath, in the house next to the old Palace, For a few moments the Regent stood in an frresolute kind of way, looking first at Sir Hinckton Moys and then at Willes; but when they neither of them proffered any suggestions, he said at random, rather, ‘I will go and see what is taking place—I will go now myself. Why didn’t you a right one ?” ‘‘ They would not separate.” “‘Pho, pho !” “They are locked in. I did not want to make a noise. If they both set to work screaming together, what could be done ?” “‘ Confound it !” Sir Hinckton Moys bowed. “Tf I might advise,” he said. well, what ?” “T think if your Royal Highness will go with me and Willes to the door of the room in which they are, and talk very loud——-” “« About what ?” “Injured innocence, and all that sort of thing. - If your Royal Highness will speak so that they may think you come to rescue them, they may open the door.” “Twill! I will! But I must be only Mr, Brown.” “ Certainly, your Royal Highness; and it would add to the delusion if you knock Willes down.”. ** T will.” “Or Sir Hinckton Moys,” said Willes, faintly. “Tt will look better to knock him.down.” “Suppose I knock you both down?” said the Regent. ‘‘Come on, at once! Come on!” Sir Hinckton Moys scowled at Willes, who looked defiantly at him, and the Regent passed through the narrow doorway, which would take him by a circuitous and intricate route to the house next St. James's Palace, in which a Mrs. South ostensibly kept a genteel establishment. The route was so familiar to the Prince, that - although his faculties at that moment were none of the clearest, he went at tolerable speed. Sir Hinckton Moys and Willes followed him. And now, as they go, we will take a glance at the two sisters, Annie and Marian. In a room, furnished very handsomely indeed, were these two young creatures, stillin the “‘ Folly” costume, It had been a inatter of much mutual surprise, when they both opened their eyes after falling into a deep sleep in that apartment, to see each other. It had been Jate in the day, after the fatigues of the masquerade, that they had so awakened ; and their mutual exclamations of “ Annie!” and ‘* Marian!” hardly passed their lips when they rushed into “4 other’s arms and both burst into tears. The first expression of feeling over, they began to look about them in surprise and consternation, and to wonder where they were. The costly character of the appointments of the room; their complete unconsciousness now of how they got there, and their uncertainty in regard to what might happen next in the chapter of sur- prises and confusions that had opened for them, filled them with a thousand fears. Annie screamed aloud. She was more impulsive and demonstrative than Marian. Those screams had brought to them the mascu- line-looking female, who did not come into the room, but opened a small wicket in the door, and uttered through it, in not very amiable tones, the rather rough inquiry of ‘‘ Well, what now ?” “‘Oh, where are we?” cried Annie. ‘**T implore you to let us go home,” said Marian. t get the wrong one away, Moys, and keep the | in " nn Ry te ec nr sn nnn nn heen AN on ine nA THE DARK WOMAN, 1» ‘‘Help! oh, have mercy upon us: Annie. “T demand that this door be opened, and that we may be allowed to depart,” said Marian. ““Oh, indeed !” That. was all the masculine Mrs. South said, and bang went shut the wicket in the door. ‘“‘ We are prisoners, it seems,” said Marian. Annie began to scream again. ‘‘ Hush, sister, hush! | We know not where we are, but help will surely come to us. No!” This “No” arose from Marian’s disappointment, after an examination of the one bow window which was in the room. It was barred outside, and only looked into a group of trees. Then Marian took a more deliberate and careful survey of the room, and she saw that a small side table, with a marble top to it, was covered with refreshments, in the shape of conserves and fruits. “Come, Annie,” she said; “it is something that we shall not be starved; and since they keep the door of this room fast on the outside, I propose that we keep it fast on the inside.” There was a brass bolt connected with the door, and Marian at once shot it into its socket. It was that bolt which had prevented Sir Hinck- ton Moys from attempting to separate the sisters, which had made him report to the Regent that they had locked themselves in. And now asmall door in one of the walls of that house was suddenly opened, and Mrs. South bowed to the floor as the Regent made his appear- ance, and was followed by Sir Hinckton Moys and Willes. “What is the meaning of all this ?” said the Prince. ‘There has been some blundering here.” “ Not on my part, your Royal “ Tush !” ‘*Mr. Brown, I mean.’ “Well, well; I must see these two youug birds: I will speak to them. Hum! Are they in that room ?” “Yes, Mr. Brown.” “Very good! Hum! Now, I will be virtuous and indignant. Hilloa! what the——” - Bang! came such a knock at the street-door of the house at this moment, that it was quite a wonder panel and knocker and all did not come through at once into the passage. A loud scream from some one in the street with- out in another moment mingled with the echoes of this knock. added CHAPTER X. SHOWS HOW SIXTEEN-STRINGED JACK ESCAPED FROM THE OFFICERS OF POLICE, AND DEFIED THE DARK WOMAN, Wuewn the Regent heard that hard dab of a knock against the outer door of the house in which he was, he made a movement to fly through the secret passages which would take him back to Carlton House. It was only for a moment, however, that he had that idea; and then he said, “It is only some drunken brawler in the street, that the watch will goon apprehend, | suppose.” “That is all,” said Sir Hinckton Moys. nn ep es anny as pmelerenen eee a ar rer nreertayne mene “We can see from one of the windows of the front,” said Mrs. South. “To be sure! To be sure!” said the Regent. ‘Let us see who and what it is.” Bang! came the loud knock at the street door again, aud then a female voice shrieked in terror, ‘Help! Oh, help!” The Regent had reached, with his companions, a front window of the house. A lamp was at the opposite corner of St. James's Street, and they were able to see, by straining their eyes a little, down to the door-stcp. Crouched down on the step was a young girl, and, to the astonishment of the Regent, she too was in the costume of a “ Folly!” A tall, powerfal man was stooping over her, and he spoke in tones that struggled with emotion as he said, “Think you I would harm you? Oh, God! no! I have followed you to protect—to warn! Qh, girl, girl! what brings you here at such an hour? Speak to me! Oh, speak to me!” . . “*T do not know you!” “No—no! But, yet—yet if you will have me: as a friend, Lucy! Y “No, no! I want no friend !” ‘But you are here! Here have I overtaken you at this house, the character of which I will know if 1 knock till morning! Oh, tell me, girl, what brings you here?” There must have been something in the tones of this man’s voice which touched the young girl's gentle heart, although she did not know—she, Lucy the Ballet-dancer—that it was her own father, Sixteen-stringed Jack, who spoke to her, and who concealed his existence from her that she might not some day have the pain and the disgrace of knowing the end he might come to, for she an- swered him more gently—‘ A dear friend of mine has been brought here!” ‘Who is he?” “It is a girl!” “ Ah! indeed!” “Yes. Marian Gray. You see, she was at the masquerade, and she was carried off by some people in a coach; and it was little Magsworth, the link-boy, who told me to-night, after the theatre was over, that he had got up behind the coach and followed it to this house, next door to St. James’s Palace.” “ Ah, I see!” “ And you—who are you?” ‘““ Why, I-was at the stage door of the theatre when you came out.” ““Why were you?” “To watch.” “Me?” “Over you--God bless you!” “ How strange!” “No, no!” “But it is strange! What am I to you, that you should linger about to watch over me?” Jack seemed to be half choking, for he could not speak for some moments, and when he did it was in a voice of great emotion. “Tt matters little,” he said, “so that you accept me as a friend,” “7 don’t know that.” ‘Oh, for the love of heaven, do! Iam but a rough sort of fellow; but I am old enough, Lucy, to be—to be a | rt Se Ses | | “What ?” “ Your father !” “My father!” said the girl, as she clasped her brinds over her eyes. ‘¢ Oh, he is dead—dead !” ‘Why, bless me!” said Willes, from above, at that moment; ‘that is Sixteen-stringed Jack, the well-known housebreaker !” “No!” said the Regent. ‘“‘T assure your Royal Highness!” “Then be shall be caught! Hilloa!l Guard! guard! watch! Hilloa! Seize that man!” The Regent had flung the window wide open. ‘““ What man?” said Jack. You--you—you ruffian! Guard! Seize that fellow! Itisa highwayman i “Ah! take that for your brawling!” said Jack ; and he fired a pistol right up at the open win- dow. Lucy screamed. The Regent fell backwards, and knocked down Willes. Sir Hinckton Moys made arush from the room, and meeting Mrs. South, he came into violent collision with that most masculine female, who immediately knocked him down. Sixteen-stringed Jack saw, from the guard- room at the gate of the Palace, several persons running ; and before, then, he had time to make up his mind what to do, the door of the house ntysteriously opened, and he half fell into the passage, To drag Lucy in with him, and to close the door again, was the work of a moment .to Sixteen- stringed Jack. Then he caught Lucy to his heart, and he said, im accents of deep emotion, to her, ‘‘ Girl—Lucy darling child! I can no longer conceal from you that I am your father !” The young girl screamed with joy; and twin- ing her arms round Jack’s Se she burst into a passion of tears. “ Wather, father—my own father ! own father, and am not alone—alone!” “ Never again—never again !” “So happy—oh, so happy! But where have you been, father, all this time? And is this your house 2?” “* No, dear child, no! ‘Yes, dear father !” ‘Do you really and at once believe that I am your father, Lucy ?” “Ob, yes!” “But any ons might say so!” “¥ seem to feel to know it.” ‘* Come, then, let us fly from this place at once ! We will part no more! They will be bold men who will seek to stop me !” Oh, but Marian ! “* Who 1s she 2?” “So dear a friend, and.cue who has been so kind and good to me!” “Then we will not be ungrateful, and if she be detained contrary to her will, I will rescue her, if it be possible. Ah! there seems to be danger without.” A furious knocking at the door now began, and Sixteen-stringed Jack not only listened to that, but be inclined his head towards the interior of the house, as she said, ‘‘I hear cries for help ia a female voice.’ “And 1!’ said Lucy. guard ! IT have an But, but-——” Poor dear Marian!” “Tt is Marian !” a 2 aE TAI AST RAT PSIG | | | | | 34 THE DARK WOMAN. “JY do know—I do know! Father, father! come to me, and let me rest upon your arm! Let me cling to your heart! Iam poor, and have been friendless, and exposed to much temptation; but I can look into your eyes, my father, and not dis- grace you! Youdo not wish me to purchase even your life with my dishonour ?” ‘* Can this be possible ?” said Jack. The dark woman almost cowered before the glance of Jack’s eye, as he flung his left arm round Lucy and confronted her. “By Jove! she is charming!” said a voice from the farther end of the room; but the sudden slam- ming shut of a door prevented Jack from seeing the face of the Regent. The Dark Woman turned, and, without a word, was leaving the guard-room; bnt before she reached the door Jack called after her, ‘‘ Hold, madam! one moment, hold! It will be my duty now, so soon as I am free, to acquaint those who fancy you work for and with them, that you are by far too intimate at St. James’s Palace for their safety. I defy, while I despise you!” The Dark Woman turned and looked at him for a moment, and then she gave a short, sharp laugh, as she said in keen, high accents, “ The rope is round your neck, and the kiss of the voluptuary will be yet on your daughter's cheek! Ha! ha! You do not know me yet! Guards! officer! look to your prisoners. Let them not escape on your utmost peril !”: ‘“‘ And,” cried Jack, “look to this woman! She is at the head of that fraternity you all have heard of—Paul’s Chickens! In her you behold the Dark “Woman!” | The officer stood aghast. “The Dark Woman,” said one, ‘ who is believed to have power over all the housebreakers in Lon- dox 2?” | “ Yes, that is the woman!” | The Dark Woman smiled. | “He raves, poor man!” she said. here-———” She held up the slip of paper the Regent had given her as she spoke. “By authority—Grorcr, Recenr!” read the officer. Another moment, and the Dark Woman had so] am stepped into the coach that was waiting for her, . and was gone, CHAPTER XIII. JACK SINGLETON ESCAPES WITH LUCY, AND TAKES REFUGE IN A CAVERN ON HAMPSTEAD HEATH, _ No sooner had the Dark Woman left the guara- room, than Lucy, whose feelings had been highly wrought upon, and her best affections terribly out- raged by the propositions that had been made to her, turned to her father, and, bursting into tears, she clung wildly to him as she said, ‘‘ Oh, no—no! It cannot be! God will not unite me to my father only thus to tear him from me again! It cannot, must not be! They will not kill you, my father ! Oh, tell me that they cannot and dare not ?” Jack was much affected, but as he bent his head down close to Lucy, he whispered, “Be of good cheer, dear child! Iam about to try a plan that, may save us. Keep close to me, and don’t ie% them separate us on any pretext!” ‘‘T will not. Oh, heaven, prosper the plan!” “Aush! hush! Mr. Larkins, I would like to speak to you alone.” “What is it, Jack?” said the chief officer. “None of your tricks, I hope.” ““Oh, no, no!” ‘Well, here I am!” “Mr. Larkins, step aside a moment. not afraid of me?” “Not I!” “ And you only do your duty.” “To be sure!” “Well, then, don’t let the others hear me. You know that I stopped Lord Bute’s steward at Ealing about a week ago?” “To be sure you did, Jack Singleton; and a good booty you got, I fancy ?” “ Tolerable !” “They say, a thousand pounds! ‘About that. Well, you see, Mr, Larkins, that, as I am now, there is no chance of escape for me, and I have got to the end, I fancy, of my life, un- less you make terms with me” “Once for all, then, Jack Singleton, I tell you that if you were to offer me twenty thousand pounds, I would not let you go!” “You really would not ?” “T really would not. costs, I can tell you! I am not the man to be bribed to let anybody go! No, no! Notif you could offer me all you have, which cannot be much; and, besides, as soon as I get you to New- gate I will search you, and you know what the custom is.” ‘“‘That the chief constable takes what he can find.” “Of course he does!” “Ah, Mr. Larkins, you don’t quite understand me yet, I see!” “ How?” “ That thousand otis I took from Lord Bute’s steward has never been touched yet! I have it in Bank of England notes.” “No?” ‘“‘T have, indeed; and I did hope that you might have shut your eyes, and made your men shut their eyes for a few moments.” “Hush, Jack! not so loud!” “Ts all right?” “ The money ?” “‘ Shall be yours !” “© You shall escape, Jack! Where is it?” “‘ Hidden where I alone can tell you.” “Ah! You don’t say so?” “Yes! Listen tome! There is only one per- son, as well as I myself, who can take you to it. That is a boy who is ‘in my service. He can be sent for, but if he has the least suspicion of foul play, he won’t come.’ *‘ Where is he?” “Not far off! And now, Mr. Larkins, let me tell you, that unless I see the boy, and give him my positive orders to conduct you to the place where the money is, he will die before he would stir a step.” “‘ But where is he?” You are 1? ‘“‘ At the corner of Bond Street, with my horse.” “Ah!” “Yes, and if I send for him, he wili come; but Ny x= ~ . : FEE TE ROE TEE (Tee ete «Or IRE Sa tr aan pmamemmnnmmeunmmmnnnslni il ; I will do my duty at all / a oe ; = a THE DARK WOMAN, if I do not, he will be off, and you will follow him ia vain. Now, the only way to get him here, is to make him think that I want the horse; and so I do, too—for in the saddle, concealed where I can just put my hands upon them, are three keys: ons of them opens a chest-——” “© A chest ?” “Yes, where the money is. The other key opens the door of a room. The third key is death to whoever puts it in the lock of the chest!” “‘ What do you mean?” “There was a lock, don’t you recollect, shown in Bury Street, that fired a pistol into the breast of whoever tried to open it with a wrong key ?” “ Yes, I saw it.” “T bought it!” “You, Jack Singleton ?” “ Even so; and I ‘put if on the chest that con- tains the very thousand pounds I took from Lord Bute’s steward.” ie) a “So that, you see, if is essential that you should have the right key ?” ““T see it is.” “Or you would pay too dearly and still not get it.” . “Jtis very perplexing, Jack!” “Not at all. Iwill send for the boy and the horse, and I will point out to you the right key, so that you cannot be in any danger.” — © But —but ie “ But what ?” “You will excuse me, Jack, but how do I know that you are dealing fairly with me? How do I know that after I let you go, I may not find my- self in possession of a key that will be of no use tome? In plain words, how am I to trust you, Jack ?” “ Just by not trusting me at all. I don’t want you to trust me, Mr. Larkins!” “ Ah, indeed ?” “No. You can go and get the money, while I stay here in the charge of your men.” “Ts it so near at hand, then?” “ Quite close. Look you here, Larkins; I will trust you. All you, or one of your men, have to do, is to go to the corner of Bond Street, and there you will see a boy holding a bright bay horse ; you must then spread out by the corners a red handkerchief and nod to the boy, and then you have nothing to do but to walk away, and he will follow you, for he will recognise that as a signal from me that he is to bring me the horse.” “ And then?” ~ “Then you can come down here with it, and I will point out to you the right key and tell you where the box is; and I will wait here while you go and get the money.” “Good, good! I will go myself, Jack, for the harse; and you may depend upon my intentions towards you. I will go myself at once, Jack!” ‘“And you will set me free, Larkins ?” “To be sure! To be sure! At the end of a rope,” added Larkins to himself. ‘Ha! ha! What a simpleton that Sixteen-stringed Jack is, after all! IJ shall get his money, and he will to- for the money, night sleep in Newgate, and there will be short: work made of him at the Sessions, which begin to- morrow! Ha! ha! This will be a good nighi’s work, I fancy! ‘Two hundred reward for Jack,— then what the Regent will give,—then this thou- Le en a See aN I me a ERIS a SS tat 0 ha 36 sand pounds! Good lord! Tama mademan! I will have Jack’s horse, too; and—and that is rather a pretty chit of a daughter of his! I think I will take her too! Ha! ha! Why, I am in luck’s way! It never rains good fortune but it pours!” Mr. Larkins ran up St. James’s Street as hard as he could go, after bidding his men to keep a close eye upon Jack and Lucy. Round his neck the chief officer had a crimson silk handkerchief, and that he took off as he came to the corner of Bond Street, and holding it up by the two corners, he wayed it about like a flag. “ Hoy! hoy !” he cried out. ‘* Where are you?” There was a trampling of horse’s feet, and a boy rode up on a bright bay horse. “Who are you?” he said. “* A friend !” “To whom ?” “To Sixteer-stringed Jack !” “All right! Ill follow you!” A gleam of exultation was upon the face of Mr. Larkins, and he ran on before the boy and the horse, towards the Palace again. The boy followed quickly, and the horse, with long, agile steps, which made it not at all neces- sary that he should trot, went as fast as either the boy or Mr. Larkins could possibly desire. Indeed, they both arrived at the gate of the old Palace tolerably out of breath, while the horse did not appear to have made any exertion. ‘““Now, my man,” said Larkins, to the boy, “you will wait here one moment.” “ For Jack ?” * Yes, to be sure.” “Tt must be all right,” said the boy, then; and he said it in such a tone as implied that he had some doubts on the subject. There were too many people about to please the boy, and from the style and look of Mr. Larkins he began to have an uncomfortable suspicion of his profession. Holding by the bridle of the horse, then, the boy, who was heart and soul in the service of Sixteen-stringed Jack, glanced uneasily about him, while the officers ran into the guard-room where Jack was a prisoner. The state of affairs had not altered there in the least. Jack was holding the hand of his daughter, and there was a look of intense affection towards her on his face. He had just been speaking to her, and there were tears on Lucy’s face. “You will know now, my dear child,” said Jack, ‘‘why I have for so long deprived myself of the pleasure of seeing you, and speaking to you; but the time has come now when I must protect you.” “Oh, yes, yes, father ; more!” “No more, I hope. You shall leave the stage, my dear, and I will provide for you !” “T will do what you please, father; but— bie “What would you say, dear?” “Tt is not—it cannot be true that you are what these men say ?” Jack turned his eyes aside for a moment, and then he said, ‘“‘ My dear, I am what { have been made to be. It is too long a story to tell you now; but I am what I must continue to be now. The hands of all men are lifted up against me, and my hand is against them !” and. we will part no — an en EC St IE OTN AAO OCB EE AAO COORD $ | | | | | | | | | | : : | ae TLE ELEN TEU ORION NARA RN Te sn Aree gem mel ae 36 “Oh, no—no, father! I am but young, you see, and am not strong; but neither age nor strength are wanted for me to be whatIam. I can dance, father, and the people clap their hands, and cry, ‘ Bravo sprite!’ as I appear, all spangles and glitter, by the footlights. Then I feel as if there were sunshine in my brain and eyes, and I could dance the whole night long. And I get money, too, for what, without it, would be such a dear delight, for I love dancing and music. I will dance, then, dear father, and you shall have the money.” ““My child—my child, this cannot be! You break my heart by such innocent talk! No, no! itis I who ought to work for you, and in my way I will do so!” At this moment Mr. Larkins made his appsar- ance, but before he could speak, Jack had whis~- pered to Lucy, “Be alert and watchful, to do as I bid you on the moment !” “Yes, father, yes!” “Well, Jack,” said Mr. Larkins, “here is your horse, all right.” “That is well.” “Come this way; but no tricks now, Jack, or it will be the worse for you.” “Mr. Larkins, I am quite surprised at you, for suspecting me. I only hope you are not about to play a double game. with me.” “Oh, no, no!” “Well, well! I trust you; and you shall have the proper key.” “Allright! This way! Clear the way, there! —clear the way! Jack Singleton is my prisoner! Don’t follow me.” As Mr. Larkins uttered these words, he gave a kind of half wink, half nod to several of the officers who were hanging about the spot, which let them know that he would not be at all dis- pleased were they to follow him, and that pretty closely too, to the gate of the Palace. There stood the horse. ‘* Now, Jack,” said Larkins, ‘‘ you stand where you are, and I will bring the saddle to you.” “Very good,” said Jack. Larkins went towards the horse, and placed his hand upon the saddle. ‘‘ Whoop! whoop!” cried Jack. Immediately the horse lashed out his hind feet in a most uncomfortable manner, and with its teeth laid hold of Mr. Larkins by the collar, and shook him to and fro, as if he had no weight in him whatever. “ Hilloa ! Murder ! mad! Help! Murder!” Jack sprung forward, and laid his hand upon the horse’s neck. The creature was quiet in a momeut. “Ah!” said Jack, “he don’t like strangers. Ever since his saddle was stolen once near Houns- low Heath, he has had an objection to strangers touching the girths.” “The deuce take him!” ‘ Lucy was close by the side of Jack, and watched his every movement. “Now you see, Mr. Larkins, how quiet and docile he is.” “‘ He has made his teeth meet in my shoulder.” “That’s a pity. Woa, now—woa, horse—good horse, woa!” Jack pretended to be busy about the saddle, } Help! The creature is THE DARK WOMAN. and the horse turned in a half-circle slowly round, and stamped with his hind feet, so that none of the officers liked to come near him. “ The saddle,” cried Larkins. saddle at once.” ‘ “Yes,” said Jack, ‘' and the bridle too.” Even as he spoke, Sixteen-stringed Jack made but one leap, and was on horseback. Then to stoop and fling his right arm round the slender form of Lucy, and place her on the saddle before him, was the work of a moment. _ “Good day, Mr. Larkins,” cried Jack. ‘ Better luck next time when you catch a highwayman.” The horse made a plunging start from the old Palace gate, which sent the mud and the stones in a shower about its heels, and then off up St. James’s Street it went at a tearing gallop. ‘‘ Hurrah !” shouted Jack. Mr. Larkins, for the first three or four seconds, was so absolutely choked with rage that he could not speak. He only stamped and fought with his arms like one in the agonies of suffocation. When he did find power to utter a sound it was a wild roar that had nothing human about it, and he ran up St. James’s Street at a speed that seemed terrific. He shouted as he ran, reward! Dead or alive! thousand pounds reward !” “ Hurrah !” cried Jack. He had reached the top of the street. Thera was a clatter of horse’s feet, and two grooms, well mounted, came along Piccadilly so as to meet him at right angles. “A thousand pounds reward!” yelled Larkins. “ Seize the man with the bay horse!” “For half the money,” said one of the grooms, as he made a snatch at the bridle of Jack’s horse. -‘“ Fool!” said Jack. ‘Let go!” “ Not if I know it!” Jack tore from the holster one of his pistols, and reversing it so that he got hold of the barrel, he struck the groom such a blow on the fore- head that he fell stunned from his horse. ‘“‘T won't waste powder and shot if I can help it,” said Jack. “Now, on we go! Hold tight, dear child !” “Yes, yes!” said Lucy. The other groom, on seeing the fate of his com- panion, turned his horse’s head in the direction whence he had come, and shouted out loudly, ‘‘ Sirs,’ sirs, it is a highwayman; and he has mur- dered Joseph!” There was the galloping of horses, and four mounted men rode up. Jack had crossed the way into Bond Street, aud was rapidly getting off, when these four per- sons, with the groom who had taken care of him- self, joined the pursuit after him. Mr. Larkins, too, with a courage which would have done him credit had it not been the result of mere passion and desperation, caught the horse belonging to the groom who had been felled to the road by Jack, and, mounting it, galloped after the four horsemen. ‘“‘ We are pursued, father!” said Lucy, and she burst into tears. “Be of good cheer,” said Jack; ‘all will be well. There don’t live six horses in all England that can overtake us.” Bond Street was passed through quickly, and ‘‘ Give me the “A thousand pounds Dead preferred! A Re ae te i et RN fn en rer si ae a THE DARK WOMAN. the Oxford Road was gained. Jack swerved to the left, and crossed the road, and took a lane that would lead him, he knew, by the back of the village of Kilburn, to the open country about Hampstead. The north side of the Oxford Road was but thinly built upon, and you could soon get into the open country if you went down almost any of the turnings west of what is now the busy and populous Regent Circus. The lane or road down which Sixteen-stringed Jack took his way had tall trees on one side of it and garden walls on the other. The soil was rather heavy, and in places there were heaps of stones which straggled right into the roadway. If this irregular character of the road, though, was a disadvantage to Jack, it was also a similar one to his pursuers, so that he heeded it not, but rode on at arapid pace right out into the open country. “We distance them, Lucy,” he said, “and they will only too soon be glad to give up the vain pursuit.” “Yes, father; but what a dreadful life it is you lead! What will be the end ?” Lucy sobbed aloud. “ Hush!” said Jack. ‘ What is that?” An odd clicking noise had come upon his ears, and in another moment he became aware that his horse had cast a shoe. “* We are lost!” he said. Lucy screamed aloud. “No, no!” added Jack; “I did not mean that ; but you see that we no longer make speed, and that the horse goes lame.” “Oh, yes—yes!” “Seize him!—seize him!” yelled now the voice of Larkins. ‘“‘A thousand pounds reward from the Regent! Seize him!—seize him! A thousand pounds!” Larkins appeared in sight, but he was alone. “He is mad!” said Jack, as he took from the holster a pistol, and halted his horse. ‘* The fellow is mad! He is alone, too!” ‘‘ Spare him !—oh, spare him!” said Lucy. “‘Ah, no! There is another horseman! My dear, it has come to a fight! Dismount at once, and go into the hedge. A stray shot might hit you, and I would rather it went through my heart !” Larkins at this moment fired one of his pistols at Jack, and the bullet grazed the neck of the horse, but did no further damage. “No, no!” said Lucy; ‘I must stay with you, father. . I will live with you or die with you.” “If you love me, do as I bid you. Stay here, and you destroy me. I shall be able to do nothing, in fear for you.” “T gol” said Lucy. She slipped off the saddle, just as Larkins fired again at Jack, who this time returned the shot with one of his pistols. “* Missed !’’ said Jack. “T have him!” shouted Larkins. He sprung forward, but as he did so, there was the report of a pistol from the road side, and he reeled back in his saddle with a yell of pain. The horse turned round twice in a circle, and then dashed off with its wounded rider at a mad gallop. The horseman who was close at hand after Larkins, seing how affairs were going, thought discretion was the better part of valour, so he quietly turned his horse’s head towards London again, and trotted back. ‘‘ Who fired that shot?” said Jack. “‘T did, father.” “You Lucy 2” “Yes! It was right that I should seek to defend you. I took a pistol from the saddle.” “Ah, I see it is gone. My gaHant Lucy, you fired well and truly; but how came you to be sufficiently acquainted with fire-arms to use a pistol so well?” ‘They taught me at the theatre, father. I hope I have not killed him.” “It’s not likely, dear. These fellows are like cats—they have nine lives, at the very least; and I dare say Mr. Larkins will live to be of some trouble tome yet. But we have got rid of our foes for the present, at all events; and if our horse can- not gallop, it can walk, and we shall soon be in a place of safety.” ‘6 Where shall we go, father ?” “To Hampstead Heath; I have a home there, which is only known to myself, and which has always afforded me a shelter, and will do so still. Come on, my own dear child; you must share your father’s fortune now.” At the wildest part of Hampstead Heath, then altogether a much wilder place than it is now, stood a ruined barn. The roof had partially fallen in, and the wind and the rain had free ingress from every side, through long broken spaces that seemed almost like the breaches that might be made by artillery. It was down a ravine-like route, between two high banks, that Sixteen-stringed Jack led the horse with Lucy upon it, towards this ruined barn. “We shall soon be what I call at home,” he said. ‘* You shall have some rest, my dear child, of which, I can see, by your heavy eyes, that you stand much in need.” “ T am, indeed, very weary. But this place is scarce a shelter, father.” ** You shall see, dear Lucy ; you shall see.” Sixteen-stringed Jack led tke horse into the barn, and*went at once to a corner of it, where lay a quantity of litter, in the shape of cuttings of bushes and trees, from the heath. This he cleared away, and then Lucy saw that there was a large square door, apparently in the flooring of the barn. Jack raised the door, and she perceived that there were steps, apparently made each frém a single block of stone. “Come,” said Jack, “this will be a secure enough home for us, so long as we choose to make it one. The secret of its existence was told to me by a dying gipsy, for whom I had done all the service in my power,” ““T will follow you, father,” said Lucy, who, from weariness and exhaustion, could scarcely stand or speak. “Nay, my child, you must go first, and I will come to you by another route. It is necessary that I should cover up this entrance to the cave, or the secret would soon be found.” “You will come goon, father ?” “Very soon; but this is so much easier an en- trance than the one I will come to you by, that I prefer it for you. Go, and fear nothing, Lucy.” “T can fear nothing when with you, father.” RR nn Ne er carne intn a A NA Re nN en RN SR er SA A A rr Ae inn asinriehastsroaerrwer Wee rf o 38 Jack held the exhausted girl to his breast for a moment, and then she went down the steps, and he closed the square trap down upon her. He co- vered it with the boughs and cuttings of trees and hedges, and the place looked as it had looked Before their arrival. Then Jack, leading his horse by the bridle, went out upon the heath, and took his way still farther down the ravine, till he came to an old weather-beafen cottage, at the door of which he tapped light?y. An old woman appeared at the miserable little latticed window. “Tt is I,” said Jack. “Itis I.” “Oh! what news—what news of my boy?” “None as yet, but we have hopes that he will get off. His trial comes on to-morrow. I have paid counsel for him, and all will be done that can be done.” *‘ Alas! alas!” ‘‘T want you to take care of the horse.” “Yes, yes.” “‘ As before, you know.” “J will—I will!” The old woman came to the door, and opened it; and Jack then, after patting the neck of his gallant steed, resigned the bridle to the old dame, who led it into the cottage. “T must come soon again,” has lost a shoe.” The cottage door was closed, and then Jack went towards an old sycamore tree that grew par- tislly on the side of the ravine-like place where the ruined barn was situated, and apparently in the most insane way in the world he clambered into the tree, and let himself right down into the trunk of it, which must have been very hollow indeed to receive him, and open to the atmosphere at about twenty feet from the ground, at ‘which height two immense arms of the tree went to the right and to the left. And so Sixteen-stringed Jack disappeared. said Jack, “for he CHAPTER XIV. DETAILS HOW THE DARK WOMAN BETRAYED NEW ASSOCIATES, AND LAID A SNARE FOR THE YOUNG AND THE TRUE, . Wuen Landa, the Dark Woman, left Sixteen- stringed Jack, after her unavailing efforts to in- duce him to join in her plans in regard to his daughter Lucy, she did not proceed home to the splendid house which she inhabited, as the Coun- tess de Launy; but, after a time, she proceeded on foot through the snowy and and frosty streets, to- wards Soho. Soho Square was, at the period ef which we write, a fashionable enough place, and the tall and spacious houses which not only it contains, but which characterize the immediate neighbour- hood, sufficiently testify to the fact that people of importance resided, or were expected to reside, in them. Indeed, it was not until the latter part of the reign of George the Third that Soho began to lose its importance and fashionable character, and to degenerate into what it is now. It was, then, towards this neighbourhood that, THE DARK WOMAN. the Dark Woman took her way: she halted oppo- site to a house in Frith Street, the whole of the ‘window shutters of which were closed, with the exception of a small portion, or leaf, of one of the shutters to a window on the first floor. From the other side of the way, the Dark Woman contemplated the house for some time; and as she did so, she muttered to herself and at times clenched her hands passionately, and stamped on the pavement, and spoke in such me- nacing tones, that whoever was the subject of her threats might well have been alarmed at them, could he or she have only heard them. ““T am deceived!” she said. ‘‘ I am cheated and deceived. #Oh! fool, fool that Tam! How could I believe, for a moment, that he knew aught of fate, or that which was to come? And yet he pro- mised so fairly, and so much that he said would happen, did happen! What can I think ?—what can I do? A dark deed—a deed which will place me in possession of still further powers! Yes, yes! I will—I must do it!” She trembled a little now as she thought that at the begrimed window, from which the portion of shutter was removed, she saw the dim outline of a human face. “Tis he!—’tis he!” she gasped. “Ha! ha! Can he prophesy what may happen if my purpose hold good? Can the stars tell him that some unfavourable conjunction to him is at hand ?” She crossed over the way, and stood close to the street-door of the gloomy-looking house. She rung smartly at a bell, the handle of which was almost concealed in the heavy moulding of the door-posts. Before she is admitted to that house it will be as well that, in a few words, we give our readers an idea of who was its occupant. At the time of our narrative there was a great sensation made in London by an astrologer, or fortune-teller, as people would call him, who chose to name himself Astorath, and who resided in. that house at the door of which stood the Dark Woman. It is true that there were then, as now, laws against fortune-telling, as there were laws against gaming-houses, and yet both of those things were openly practised in London. The West End of the town contained at least a hundred noted and notorious gaming-houses, and about this very neighbourhood of Soho, of which we are writing, there résided several of the most celebrated impostors, who professed, for a con~- sideration, to read the stars for any one who chose to consult them. This man Astorath, however, had a high repu- tation, and it was said that persons of the most exalted rank were in the habit of paying visits to his gloomy house in Soho, at which no one was ever seen but himself, and from wherein he issued his oracular sentences, sometimes without even letting the persons who came to consult him cross his threshold. It had happened that on occasions when some one had arrived and rung the bell of his house, in order to achieve an interview and ask a question respecting the future, that a solemn voice would speak from the other side of the door, saying, “Your question is known, and the answer of the spirits of fate is ‘ No.’” But what had Ry, raised thé character ea a AE SR TTR RIT ELIS TT CIOL ET AN OA tt lh eh ee EA I ee 7 . . THE DARK WOMAN. and fame of this astrologer was, that he had, to more than two or three persons, predicted the catastrophe that had taken place at the Opera House on the occasion of the masked ball. To be sure, like most oracular responses and predictions, it had been couched in such obscure terms as to be of no possible use in the way of a warning, since it was only after the sad catas- trophe that a key to the enigmatical language used was found from the fact itself. Astorath, the astrologer, had predicted that on the occasion of the masked ball at the Opera, ‘‘The stars that mocked the stars would fade in confusion, and that lamentation would mingle with laughter.” This was a wide prophecy, but folks said that the fall of the chandelier, with its thousand lights, was the fulfilment of it. _ It was on a visit, then, to this man, that the Dark Woman was bound, It is said that in all intellects, let them be as vivid or as powerful as they may, there is some weak point which, if discovered, is the vulnerable place by which the whole citadel of the brain may be attacked. That was true, in regard to this mysterious female, Linda. Superstition was her weak point—a credulous superstition, which placed her at times at the mercy of the suggestions of such charlatans as this Astorath, It was in anger, though, and with terrible _ thoughts, that she now sought him. The hand of the Dark Woman had hardly left _ the bell when the door of the dull and sombre- _ looking mansion creaked open. No one appeared, and she stepped at once into the hall, . The door then closed of its own accord. On one of the walls of the hall were traced with phosphorus the words, ‘* Ascend, and fear not !” ‘““T do not fear,” said the Dark Woman, as she advanced towards a couple of doors that shut in the further end of the hall and the staircase that led to the upper portion of the house. The moment she reached those doors, however, they opened spontaneously, and she passed through them. Then they slowly closed again, and she |° saw, amid the darkness of the staircase, a small . star-like light of a red colour, which seemed to ' run up the balustrades, while a voice said, ‘“ Fear not, and advance !” “Y do not fear, Astorath,” said the Dark Woman. “ You know that fear belongs not to my heart.” The voice made no reply, and the Dark Woman ascended a wide staircase. On the landing she _ paused a moment, and another door opened, and she passed on into a spacious apartment hung with Ee velvet, on which were embroidered silver Stars. ys The room had an imposing look. It was the consultation room of Astorath. In the centre of the ceiling there was a red light which appeared to come from the floor above, for it was close to the ceiling. It was vivid enough to cast a tolerable radiance over the room, which had its atmosphere loaddd with a sickly ener- vating perfume. he A chair covered with black velvet was in the centre of the floor, and the floor itself was covered with the same material. The chair was for those who consulted the oracle to sit in while they propounded their questions, and the answers were given in oracular language, from where they knew not, for Astorath. seldom condescended to appear himself; and there was by the door of the room a small altar-like table, on which those who came to consult the stars were expected to place a fee. Linda advanced towards the chair, bb she did not sit in it. oe “ Astorath! Astorath!” she said, «‘' I am here!” There was a flutter of one of the velvet hangings at the end of the room, and a tall man, attired in a robe of purple velvet, on which were the sigsis of the zodiac, made his appearance. ‘“‘Daughter !” he said, ‘sage sronld you 2?” “False Astorath, beware!s* | “Of what ? Beware, say youtéme? I say to you, beware!” bt, The astrologer stepped back a pace or two, and appeared only to lean against’the wall, and in an instant a low rumbling sound was heard, that was so like distant thunder, that it gave him the justification to say, ‘‘ Peace, oh, peace, ministers of vengeance! Your anger is not needed, Astorath can smile at the ignorant anger of a woman,” Linda was evidently startled. “Tell me, then,” she said,—' tell me why and how it is that failure has come instead of success, and that I am no nearer to my object than be- fore?” “‘ You are nearer.” ‘¢ Prove to me that, Astorath.” ‘The proof is in yourself.” “Nay, I see it not. Icame to you with rich gifts—my diamonds glittered on your altar for offerings—and I asked you of my son—I asked you if he lived 2” “ He lives !” “‘T would fain believe that. As often as I ask that question of my heart, it seems to answer me, and to say, ‘ He lives!” . “He lives for you!” added Astorath. “But I see him not! I have him not! I know him not! False prophet! malignant im- postor, I see him not!” ** You are impatient.” “Impatient ? Oh, heaven! is a mother’s heart impatient? Tell me rather that Iam mad, and I will believe you! Speak again, inexplicable man, and say what it is that the stars lied to you, or you to me, as their interpreter !” ‘These are wild words,” said Astorath. “They mean wild thoughts,” * What did I promise you ?” “That before twelve hours had passed away from the masked ball I should see my gon !” “Tt is true!” “No—no! False!” “T cannot say so, Linda; nor can you. not say that you should know him,” Ab?” “TY only said that you should see him; and I have as little doubt that you have done so, as I have that the bright planet, men call Venus, shines into human hearts, and makes wild passion there a master.” The Dark Woman shrunk back a pace or two, and then clasped her hands over her eyes, as she said, “‘I saw him? You say that I saw my son —my little child 2” I did meen toe 39 & 40 * You forget.” “* What do I forget ?” “That years have passed away, and that the son you speak of asa little child may be, and must be, almost, if not quite, a man. Be assured that the stars fail not, and never deceive. You must have seen him.” Linda shook with emotion. Had there been tears left to her she must have shed them then. To think that she had looked with her mortal eyes upon the son, to see whom she lived and hoped, and yet not to know him, was agony un- speakable. It was something between a sigh and a moan, that she uttered the words, ‘‘Oh, fate— fate! But this is terrible!” Astorath’s eyes gleamed with a self-satisfied, malignant expression at her. “Are you content?” he said. -“No—no! A thousand times, no!” “Say on! What would you now ?” “Ts your art so very poor that if can give me no means by which I may know the boy ?— no sign by which I can feel that he is my son ?” ““We will see. I will consult those purer spirits that sail between earth and heaven—denied the one, and scorning the: other. You can come again, and I will answer you.” ““No! Now!” “Tt cannot be! Hush!” Astorath bent his head in a listening attitude. “Tf am wanted. A devotee of my faith in the starry world is at hand. You can come again, and | will answer you.” Linda trembled a moment, and then she ssid, in low, deep accents, ‘One brief word I would yet say to you. I asked of you, when last here, if-you had the secret of that old poison which, by an odour, a taste, or a touch, is death.” “The aqua tofana ?” “Yes! That poison which cleared the way to thrones, and which filled the very air with terror when a Medici lived.” “T have it; but it is priceless!” “Nay, it has a price! You have but to name a price, and it is yours! I will make a nation weep, or there is no such thing as vengeance in the wide world!” The astrologer, or alchemist, for he was both, was silent for some moments, and then he said, in low, husky accents, ‘‘ It is true that I am in pos- session of one phial of that most subtle poison. I would not for a thousand pounds part with it; but for anything beyond that sum, inasmuch as { have experiments to make on the steepest sum- mits of the Andes, I would place even in your hands the phial.” “ Behold !” said Linda. She unclasped, from the upper part of her arm, _ a bracelet, which was composed of alternate rubies and brilliants. “You have heard,” she said, “that the Am- bassadors from Persia arrived in state in London one short week since ?” “‘T know it.” “ Well, their chief wore this bracelet! It was bis—it is mine—it shall be yours, if you place in my hands the phial you speak of !” “ What priceless ¢ems!” ‘* Ay, are they not ?” ‘Why, each is worth——” “More than the sam you demand.” is Ao eee te em rhe ce ne i ae fC a a nh ah en ene nieve anna mere: THE DARK WOMAN, ‘“‘ You shall have the phial.” “Yes, I shall have the phial! Haste, good Astorath—haste, for I can hear some impatient person at.your outer door!” “And I, too—and I, too!” said the astrologer, as he raised a portion of the velvet curtain, and hastily left the room. Linda flew to the window, and opened a por- tion of one of the lower shutters. She looked cautiously through the glass, and, standing on the door-step, she saw a man. The man went back to the kerb-stone of the pavement, and looked up at the house. Linda knew him. . “ Willes !” she said. ‘‘It is Willes, the Prince’s valet! So he, too, is in want of know- ledge! We shall s.e him soon!” “Tt is here!” said Astorath, ag he again emerged from behind the velvet curtain. CHAPTER XV. DESCRIBES THE DARK DEED THAT THE DARK WOMAN COMMITTED IN THE ASTROLOGER'S HOUSE, IN SOHO, TaE astrologer held in his hand a very small phial, carefully wrapped in blue paper, ‘and he seemed instinctively to shrink from it as he held © it at arm’s length. “Ts that the subtle essence of death?” said the Dark Woman. ‘““Hssence of death? Yes! It is a good name for it! There are five hundred deaths in this one small phial !” ‘“'You are sure ?” * Ag that I live!” let! Give me the phial.” “ Hide it!” “T will. Oh, this faintness again!” “ What faintness ?” “] have thrice before to-day felt it. taken food for many hours.” “That is indiscreet. I do not eat of common viands myself; but still, I have in the house that which, no doubt, will restore you-—some choice raisins of Muscat—or some of the golden wine, which is only to be procured where the sun knows no cloud.” ““Ah! IT shall be grateful.” “A moment only, and I shall ba with you.” The astrologer left the room, but soon returned with a crystal dish, on which was a silver tray with the raisins, and a small goblet, that seemed to be of gold, with the wine. “No, no; not the wine,” said the Datk Woman. “I dare not drink it. Already my brain throbs.” “Nay, it is mild and gentle. you its innocuous qualities.” The astrologer drank a small portion of the wine, and Linda partook of some of the raisins. “T saw,” she said, ‘‘ who your impatient visitor was, who still rings at your door.” ‘* Indeed !” ‘‘- Yes. He is the confidential valet of the Princs Regent.” ‘“‘T know him well—a knave, as well as a fool, * T have not I will prove to teenie dis nenee See aS mt eR eee ee a | : = Fn ng rt ee ‘Then, thera is the Persian Ambassador’s brace- o oe rer ER ee Oe ee LLL LLL LLL LLC LED LCL CCDC nce \\ j NY WH THE PARK \ \\ . ai RON | | Ti WOMAN, 4{ See ee em “THis name is Willes. He has a strange look about him, that I cannot comprehend.” “Ah! say you so? There may be some peril to me or to him!” fT am sure there is,” said the Dark Woman. As the astrologer went to the window to peer down on to the door-step to see his visitor, the Darx Woman rapidly withdrew the stopper from the bottle of aqua tofana, and decanted about two drops of it into the golden wine. Hiss! hiss! came a sound from the goblet. “What is that?” said Astorath. “t Hiss!” said Linda—“it is gone!” “Gone! what?” “A teasing moth. I am much better now, and | will leave you. You spoke of a journey ?” ** | did—it will be a long one.” ‘“* A very long one? Ah! you are fond of the golden wine you have praised so much.” “T am!” “T will taste it.” No. 6.—Dark Woman. —— ‘Permit me, then to fetch you some. 1 cannot ask you to drink from this cup, as I have com- menced it. I will not lose a drop of the delicious nectar |” The astrologer placed the cup to his lips, and drank the contents—then he uttered one awful scream, which seemed to burst both heart and brain—and he fell dead at the feet. of the Dark Woman. “He has not deceived me,” she said. ‘ The poison will do its duty.” She stooped, and dragged the body towards that part of the large room where the ast ologer had raised the curtain when he made his exits and his entrances. On raising the velvet curtain, she saw that a smaller room was beyond, in which a bright fire was burning; and on a table in which there was an ample repast, with a whole flask of the golden wine that had been the medium of his destruction. “This is well!” she said. ‘‘ Henceforth, I will nr oe rentenn Nneitrar eet ta rns nent et nn eR Neh PN et instr enn Sy henner stern suena 42 play the part of the astrologer of Soho. Astorath will be but another name that will well be- come me. Countess de Launy—Astorath—Dark Woman! A trinity of evil !” It would appear now that Willes, the Regent’s valet, was too anxious to obey a notice that was in small characters on the door-post of the astro- loger’s house, which was in the following words :— “Ring thrice, and then depart—for Astorath watcheth, and may not be disturbed.” He was mad to see the astrologer, and he had already rung twenty times. Linda took from the dead body of Astorath the mantle of mystery in which he was enveloped, and placed it over her own dress; then she went slowly down to the hall, for she was not yet ac- quainted with the secret means—mechanical, of course—by which the astrologer let in and out his visitors. she had time just then to give it would no doubt give her such information; but as it was, she went down to open the door for the Regent’s valet in the ordinary way. The hall was as profoundly dark as could be, and Linda had some difficulty in reaching the door, which, when she did, she opened, and the valet almost fell into the hall in his eagerness. The Dark Woman retreated towards the stair- case, as she said, in the hollow of her half closed hand, in order.most thoroughly to disguise her voice, “ Audacious mortal, dare you intrude on the mysteries of this mansion 2?” ‘‘ Excuse me, great magician,” said Willes ; “ I really must see you. I am half distracted. Everything seems to go wrong. Thereis adread- ful woman——” “You are pardoned.” “Thank you !—oh, thank you! Ihave stolen— that is, I have taken a seal, belonging to the Regent. It is worth twenty pounds; and I will leave it with you, good sir, #f you will be so good as to ask the stars what will become of me in regard to the Countess de Launy, who has found out about the studs in some way.” “Close the door,” said Linda. “Yes! yes!” “ Advance, and fear not !” “ Yes—yes—I—a—yes—but it is so very dark. I feel like one going into a cave—quite a cave.” “ Advance, and fear not !” Willes, at this moment, fell over the first stair, and cried out. Linda had ascended the whole flight, and stood on the landing of the first floor, from whence she again spoke. “* Follow—follow! There is nothing that will harm you.” Willes blundered up the stairs, and he drew a long breath of relief when he found himself in the large room hung with black velvet—for he had frequently been to the astrologer, and he knew the room quite well. Hesat down at once in the chair in the centre of the apartment, and then he said, “It’s very kind of you to see me now, when you seemed to be busy!” Linda had retired behind the velvet curtain, and she said, in the same deep, hollow tones, “Speak! I listen |” | “T-want to know what will be the end of a great perplexity. The Countess de Launy, as I have found out she is, although she tried to con- A more attentive examination of the house than | THE DARK WOMAN. ceal herself, knows all about the Prince Regent’a i studs—two of which I have taken now—and she made me give her a private pass-key that I had, to the royal apartments, which will admit her at | Vm | any time by the garden-gate to the Palace. in such a fright about it that I don’t know what to do. There is that Sir Hinckton Moys—if he were only once to find me out in anything, I~ should be sent off at once, though I know the Prince wants to keep me.” “‘ Peace!” said Linda. a“ Yes ~ ‘TY know all !” “ You—you do?” “Ido! The Prince is disappointed about the escape of the young girl dressed as a ‘ Folly,’ with whom, at first sight, he had become passion- ately enamoured.” “Oh, you know that?” “] know everything. You must not look upon the Countess de Launy as an enemy—she will befriend you; but the stars are in such a con- junction, that if you do not obey her in all things, and give to her all information she may require of you, Saturn will biseet Jupiter.” “ You don't say so?” “Yes, And the Dog Star will be in the seventh House of Capricornus ?” “Nol And—a m “That will be fatal to you!” “My dear Mr. Astrologer, only tell me what to do, and I will do it!” “Jt is simple. You have but to go to the house of the Countess de Launy at mid-day to- morrow, and in the fullest manner let her know that you are, and will ever be, her humble ser- vant. By doing so, good fortune will light upon you, and your days will be pleasant ones; but if you play her false, you will gladly fly to death as a refuge from suffering.” The knees of the superstitious valet smote each other, and his teeth chattered together with terror. “Say no more—oh, say no more!” he gasped. “T will do just as you tell me. I will go to the Countess, and I will tell her all she may wish to know, and I will place myself under her direction in all things. I will indeed !” “Yon will do well! Go now at once!” The valet made two very low bows in the direction where the pretended voice of the astro- loger had come from, and then he slunk out of the room, and left the house with all the expedi- tion he could. The Dark Woman immediately, then, stepped from behind the velvet curtain. There was @ baleful light in her eyes, and as she glared about her, she said, ‘‘ Why, surely now, all goes well! Surely, if there be such a thing as a fortunate star, which is mingled with the good and evil that besets’ certain persons, mine must now bein the ascendant! Ha! ha! I shall surely triumph now! gained, and they shall be gained, if I have to wade chin deep in blood to reach them. The Regent shall discover to me my son. He shall ennoble him, so that he shall take rank with the highest and proudest of the land; and I, too, will be, in some shape or way, acknowledged to be something more than what Iam! This girl, to whose immature beauties he has taken a regard, shall be placed in his power; for I will keep my _— My objects will ba | a a a a a aaa aaa nea erent d THE DARK WOMAN, 43 LLL LLL LLDLALLLL LL LALLA L LLL CCC OC word with him, and he shall have no excuse for breaking his with me. . I must now keep an en- gagement which may make or mar the fortunes of many who think that Iam more in their power than they in mine, We shall see—we shall gee |” The Dark Woman then gave a hasty glance around her, and left the astrologer’s house. She had found a key which enabled her to lock or unlock the outer door after her; and as she looked now upon the house and all that it con- tained as her own, by right of conquest and murder, she was very desirous that no one should be able to make way into the place. But this terrible woman, after all, had but a mortal frame, and she required rest. The over- strung nerves must be recruited, and sleep be- gan to press heavily upon her eyelids. She went to her house where, as Countess de Launy, she was the presiding genius of all that was tasteful, rich, and voluptuous; and on a couch that was covered with a satin coverlet, and gleamed with all the beauty that an Eastern loom could give it, she sunk into a deep sleep. But the Dark Woman had an appointment to keep so soon as the brief winter's day had again passed away. It was not to the vaults of Old St. Paul’s that she took her route, although her object was to meet once more those men whe went by the name of Paul’s Chickens. The attack which the police had so very nearly made upon the party in the vaults, and which had been only warded off by the singular audacity with which she (Linda) had made use of the name and authority of the Earl of Ilchester, the Secretary of State, was of quite sufficiently warn- ing a character to let her see that to continue to use those vaults as a place of meeting would be dangerous. a It was then to the house of Sadi, the jeweller, that she went on this occasion. One of the band of robbers, by name Shucks, had been commissioned by the Dark Woman to communicate with the remainder, and by the hour of midnight the whole party was assembled at Sadi, the lapidary’s house. Thither then the Dark Woman made her way; and as she went her heart was full of bitterness and rage against one who had only so far injured her that he had refused to lend himself, and to sacrifice his best and dearest feelings, to her objects. Sixteen-stringed Jack had certainly declined, so far as he was himself concerned, to be one of her abject slaves; and most certainly had he, with indignation, declined to barter the virtue of his child Lucy for the objects of the Dark Woman. A slight snowdrift was falling when Linda reached St. Paul’s Churchyard; and when she tapped at Sadi’s door, she was tolerably plenti- fully sprinkled with the white fleecy particles. . Sadi was, as usual, full of humility and abject, cringing submission. * Are all here?” said the Dark Woman. “Yes, honoured mistress,—oh, yes! All are here, There are thirty of them; and they wait your honoured presence.” “It is well. Conduct me to them.” The “Paul's Chickens” were assembled in a_ room, which, although it was the largest that was beneath the roof of the lapidary, was yet tolerably well filled by the robbers; so that when the Dark Woman appeared, she was in closer proximity to the members of the community than her dignity and habit of mysterious exclusiveness usually dictated. There was a sudden cessation of some murmured conversation when she appeared, and she thought from the tone that words of complaint and dis- satisfaction were being uttered. The silence, however, on her appearance became complete. ; She broke it by saying, in a low, deep, earnest voice, ‘‘ My friends, who have hitherto done my bidding well and boldly, I have thought that it would ba no longer safe to meet in the vaults of St. Paul’s; and my wish to see you all to-night was that some other and less suspected place of rendezvous should be selected.” There was a death-like silence still among the thieves. ‘‘ Who speaks, then?” said the Dark Woman. | “T will listen to all, or to any.” A tall, gaunt-looking man stepped forward. His voice was hoarse and husky, but his language betrayed a considerable amount of cultivation. “Madam,” he said, “we have held counsel together, and have come to a determination.” “Ah!” ‘‘Yes—it is to dissolve this community; and, in the name of those who think with me, I have to ask for a distribution of the wealth which is in your hands, and which belongs equally to all.” ‘* Indeed |” “ Yes, yes,” said several; “a distribution—a distribution !” “¢ Are all of this opinion ?” asked Linda. “ All! all! all!” ** No one dissents ?” There was no voice now to say ‘ Yes’ to this demand. Linda laughed scornfully, ‘Why, then, all is over,” she said; ‘and I comply at once with your demand !” “That is well,” said the speaker,—‘that is | well; and as there is a reason for all things, I may as well say that our reason is that we are thieves, and nothing else!” “ What mean you?” ‘We mean that we have seen Jack Singleton, and that we don’t like to mix ourselves up with those afiairs that be tells us you have on hand.” “ Ah, indeed? Jack Singleton? He is a pri- soner, I fancy |” “No! He is free!” ‘‘'Yes,” said a voice, ‘I am free!” The Dark Woman started back a pace or two as Jack stepped forward, ‘‘T am free, and my child is in safety, and I defy your power! I advise these men, who have worked with you so long, to break up the band, and separate from you, for your life is evil and your objects are bad |” The Dark Woman opened and shut her hands convulsively; but that was the only outward sign that she gave of what she felt. It was with — eee Rewer eS ee wonderful self-control that she commanded her voice, as she replied, “I am quite content that this fraternity should come to an end. It was one that was established for mutual advantage, and I do not want unwilling service. Be it ended!” ee ames 44 THE DARK WOMAN, “The distribution ?” said several voices. “ That shall take place!” ‘“‘ Now,—now !” “Fools! Do you think that I carry about with me twenty thousand pounds ?”. ’ “Twenty thousand ?” eepeatst several of the “ Chickens.” “Yes; you will have that sum among you, and I will bring it to you at this time to-morrow night, if yeu will.” There was a general clamoured “ Yes!” and then, with a look of ineffable scorn upon _ face, the Dark Woman left the room. “Look you!’ said Sixteen-stringed Jack; you can all do as you like, but I would not, for one, be here to-morrow night at this hour, if she were to promise me twice Kgexd thousand pounds all to myself.” There was, at this expression of opinion from Jack, a general confused look of consternation ; but one said, ‘‘She dare not play us false ” “No, no,” said several,“ she dare not. Let us have our money, and then keep clear of her !” ‘Please yourselves,” said Jack; ‘I have no- thing to do with it. That she will be to me an implacable foe I am well aware, and I will take good care to protect myself against her. Good night, and good luck to all!” Jack left the lapidary’s house, and mounting his horse, which was in the care of the boy, on whom he could depend, and who was the same who had brought it to him from Bond Street on the occasion of his escape from Mr. Larkins, he rapidly rode off towards the cavern on Hamp- stead Heath, where he had hidden his daughter Lucy. CHAPTER XVI. SHOWS HOW THE REGENT WAS DISSATISFIED WITH THINGS IN GENERAL, AND HOW SIR HINCKTON MOYS PAID A VISIT TO THE SISTER ‘' FOLLIES.” His Royal Highness the Prince Regent rose’ to a late breakfast on the morning following the events of that night on which he had been put to so much inconvenience, and had still failed in all his objects. It was about half-past twelve o’clock, and not until the illustrious Prince had regaled himself with some very hot coffee, in which was a modi- cum of brandy, did he feel in a fit state even to be abusive to the creatures of his will, who were about him. Then his eyes brightened somewhat, and ‘the pallor of his face gave way to a more wholesome colour. He was recovering from the excesses of the previous night. ‘Moys!” he cried,—“ where is Moys? Never here when I want him! Of course, never!” “Sir Hinckton Moys is lying ‘down, may it please your Royal Highness,” said a page. “Tt don’t please me! Sir Hinckton Moys is, I believe, always lying down when I want him.” “T have the honour to approach your Royal Highness,” said Sir Hinckton Moys, at this mo- ment making his appearance. “Oh, you are there ?” Sir Hinckton bowed low. The Regent made a sign, and the two pages who were in the room bowed themselves out. ‘‘A pretty affair this!” cried the Regent. “ By Jove, Moys, you are a fool !” “Tf it will please your Royal Highness to listen to me, I fancy I can rescue my reputation from such an imputation.” * Well, what lie now?” A faint flush came over the face even of Sir Hinckton Moys at this coarse speech, and the Regent saw it, and added, ‘ Well, well, Moys! Never mind, man, about a stray word! The fact is, I was irritated.” ‘And I puzzled,” said Moys. “ About what?” “About your Royal Highness’s tastes. There are three ‘Follies’ in the field, and I don’t know now to which one your Royal Highness wishes to pay attention.” “How should I know, either? They are all pretty—all young, and fresh. Bring me either of them, and I will say no more about it. But it is hard—by Jove, it is hard !—that I cannot be well enough served, but that they should all three escape me!” a Now that I comprehend yout Royal High- ness,” said Moys, ‘I can act decidedly.” ‘‘ What do you mean by acting decidedly ?” “By placing in your power one of those ‘ Follies !’” *§ Ads, that, indeed !” “And the one shall be the dripinal one which I intended to propose for your attentions” “Stop! I don’t know that!” © “ But——” ** Hold your tongue, and let me think! Which one was that ?” ‘‘The one I secured from the masquerade.” “‘ Not the one I secured 2”. ‘“‘ That was her sister.” “ A fine creature.” “Yes; but-——”. “ Well, what now ?” “T fear that she is secure from—from your Royal Highness’s attentions; for I have reason to believe that her affections are bestowed upon some one,” “ The - Hem! “‘ Nothing, of ——” ‘‘ What on earth do you mean, Moys, by half- choking both me and yourself by your stupid ‘ifs’ and ‘buts?? What do I care who is in love with Well, what is that to me?” the girl, or who she has taken some nonsensical | fancy to? I will have her, and not the sister !” Sir Hinckton Moys bowed. ‘* And the third one?” he said. “* What of that third one, who turns out to be the daughter of a highwayman ?” “Ah, she indeed! By Jove, she is a little divinity! I will have her!” “ But—— “Now, meu you what, Moys; if you say ‘ but’ again, I will throw this toast rack at your head.” “ Pardon me; I was only going to say that unless the father was got out of the way it will be rather too dangerous a job to try to steal poheer from such a dragon.” “Could not he be hanged ?” “ Certainly !” “ Hang him, then! You say he is a ae man! Why not hang him?” Ss ee a eT ee a CT er er ce Nn Ee re eT eno Sn ee Se | THE DARK WOMAN. “ He must be caught first ?” “Catch him, then !” “Tt shall be tried, your Royal Highness; and in the meantime——” “Oh, in the meantime I will attend to the other one.” “Then I will set about it at once, your Royal | Highness, and endeavour to bring good news | betore the next four-and-twenty hours have passed away.” ‘Be off! Beoff! I have to go to Windsor again to-day—a consultation of the faculty about the old man. I saw him alone for a few moments when I was last there; and I rather think I brought on a patoxysm.” “Indeed, your Highness!” “ Yes, he seemed to be rather calm, so I told him how well things were getting on in America, and asked if he remembered John Wilkes, and he got into such a rage that I thought he would have bitten me. But you be off, and see what can be done about the girl. You can dine with me, and let me know. And be sure you get that high- wayman fellow hung as soon as possible; as then there will, I suppose, be no further trouble in that quarter.” “None, I should say,” replied Sir Hinckton Moys, as he bowed; and added, “I have the honour to bid your Royal Highness good morn- ing!” “Be off!” was the polite reply of the Regent ; and then he turned his attention to a delicate dish of small crisped fish, highly seasoned, which he was particularly fond of. Sir Hinckton Moys did not feel particularly happy with the mission he had on hand. He feared that the events of the masquerade, and the subsequent affairs in connexion with it, had had the effect of reducing his reputation to a minimum with Annie Gray; and yet he felt that he must contrive some mode of seeing her, and endeavour- ing again to practise upon her credulity, of which he had a tolerably strong notion. With this object, Sir Hinckton left the Palace, and made his way to the region of Covent Gar- den. But he was by no means the first visitor of the sisters Gray on that morning; and it was, per- haps, well for him that he had not made an earlier appearance, or he would have had, perhaps, a dis- agreeable encounter with Allan Fearon. Poor Allan had been a prey to an amount of anxiety which had almost driven him distracted. The disappearance of Marian had been so com- plete that he had no sort of clue to where she was; and he had ranged about from the home of the sisters to the Opera House and back again, with such distraction in his looks, that people avoided him, in fear that he was some dangerous madman who had escaped from confinement, Perfectly exhausted at last, poor Allan had fallen asleep in Covent Garden Market; and when he awoke, he mechanically bent his steps towards the home of the sisters again. The reader is aware of how, at length, both Marian and Annie were rescued from the extreme ‘peril they were in; and now, with permission, we will conduct those who have thus far favoured with attention these records of plot and of passion to the humble home of the sisters Gray in Mart- lett’s Court, Bow Street, 45 Those acquainted with London will know that this is a court connecting Russell Street with Bow Street, and that for many years it has been almost exclusively inhabited by persons connected with the theatrical profession. In one of its old-fashioned and humble houses lodged Marian and Annie Gray, getting, as we have before stated, a precarious living by making dresses for the stage, and by occasionally appear- ing in pieces where a number of persons were re- quired to make up a scene. It was in an attic of the same house that Lucy Singleton lodged, and her employment was dis- tinctly that of a danseuse at the theatres. And let it not be supposed for one moment by any one who may read these pages, that any stigma of immorality is to rest upon these young girls because they resided alone, and were directly or indirectly connected with the stage. There is as much of the grace of virtue and real goodness and purity among the poor and the lowly, who, like Marian and Annie Gray, and Lucy Single- ton, have to toil for a subsistence, as there is among the pampered daughters of wealth; ay, and more—far more, for temptation assails the one, from which the other is sedulously shielded. Many a poor, virtuous, honest, noble-hearted girl wears a smiling face behind the foot-lights of a theatre, while her heart is sad that she can earn but a pittance for the support of aged parents, perchance, and helpless brothers and sisters, Virtue and true womanly feeling are not things of birth, or of wealth, or of profession. They are the attributes of the poor ballet-dancer as often to the full as they belong to the pampered daughter of the duchess. And now we make our way into the apartment which adjoined the sleeping-room of the sisters. Gray. There are two persons in that room. They are Marian Gray and Allan Bearon. The young man is clasping the hand of Wlarian in both his own, and he is pleading the cause of his heart. with tongue and looks. “Dear, dear Marian, you know that I love you! You have said that you know it, and you have looked with eyes of approval and affection upon me as you said so! Oh, give me now and for evermore the right to protect you—to watch over you, to be ever with you! Be my own dear wife, Marian; and make me more blessed than princes!” “‘ And- bring you poverty, dear Allan ?” ‘‘ Nay, dearest; we shall not be poor.” Marian shook her head. “Have I not a situation, dear Marian, with quite a capital income? Why, my employer says that in a short time I shall be worth two pounds a week to him. That will be wealth, dear Marian |” “Oh, Allan, Allan!” “What would you say ? You weep, dear one! What is there on your mind? Trust me! Speak to me!” “ Annie |” “ Annie! What of Annie?” “T will tell you, Allan. Of late she has done 80 little work that it might be said to amount to nothing, and her mind has been so full of vague fancies, and dreams of riches, and of some great marriage, that she is not like the girl she used to be. The first mischief was her going to the nc i A tt SN a i A NR A NS CN _ 2 £8 a yet Lap aa saiemelnagh A Nl pat tn f 46 THE DARK. WOMAN, famous astrologer’s, in Frith Street, to have her | heard Marian say, as if in answer to Allan, “ Yes, fortune told. She would never tell me exactly | dear, in a moment. what was said to her, but it turned her brain.” ‘** Alas! alas!” ** And since then, Allan, she has not been like the same girl she was; and—and so, you see, I ‘shrink from—from ——” “From what, dear Marian?” ~ “From burdening you with her asa sister, as “well as with me as a wife.” “ Nay, nay, Marian!” “Hear me out, Allan—hear me out, I pray you! Thave a terrible fear that all will not go well with Annie; and who is to stay by her— who is to pity her, comfort her, work for her, countenance her, when all the world turns against her, but me, you know, Allan ?” “Best and dearest! Ob, Marian, you will make me love you more and more, when I thought it was not possible that I could do so! Dear, dear Marian!” The young girl burst into tears, and covering her face with both her hands, she gave vent to her feelings in sobs and sighs. “And do you think, dear Marian,” added Allan, as he stole one arm gently round her ‘waist,—“ do you think that any task you set to yourself I would shrink from aiding you in? Do you think I am so like the rest of the world that f would turn my back on your sister under any circumstances ?” “No, no! But ought I, dear Allan—dare I risk the bringing of disgrace upon you ?” “ Our disgraces, dear Marian, in this world are of our own making, and cannot be brought upon us by others; and, after all, these fears that possess you are but vague and uncertain. They may never yet come to pass.” Oh, if I could but banish them !” “Say to them ‘Begone!’ and they must get Do you know that one of our sages has said, that of the whole amount of mental suffering that any one with a mind that is sensitive undergoes in the course of a life, fully two-thirds rises from the dread of what never happens.” Marian smiled faintly. That smile fell like sunshine upon the young man’s heart, and he drew her closer to him as he whispered gently to her, “You will be mine— mine, dear Marian! My own, ever and ever!” She laid her head upon his breast, and her arms wandered over his neck, as she sobbed a consent, and told him that in sorrow or in sick- ness, in poverty or in wealth, she would be his own dear, loving wife. How happy was Allan Fearon! But not wholly alone had been those young and gentle hearts ; for, from the next room, where she had had some hours of feverish sleep, Annie had overheard some part of their discourse. Kneeling close to the door of communication between the two rooms, this young creature had listened eagerly to what had passed; and then, when she found that her sister had fairly promised to be the bride of Fearon, she put on a haughty look, as she said to herself, ‘I am to be a lady, and to ride in my own coach! Astorath, the astrologer, has said so; and I will believe him ’ before all the world!” While Annie was hastily dressing herself, she I will soon be ready.” This led Annie to believe, what was indeed the fact, that they were going out, and she hastily stepped into bed again, and affected to be ina deep sleep. ‘“‘ Annie!” said Marian, looking into the room ; ; “are you awake?” There was no reply. ‘She sleeps, dear Allan,” said Marian then; “and will, likely enough, do so until we return. I am quite ready.” Annie remained profoundly still until her sister and Allan Fearon had left the rooms, and thea she hastily dressed herself, with a determination to go to Frith Street again to the astrologer’s, and seek some further confirmation of the brifliant fortune which he had predicted for her. But fate willed it otherwise. Annie was not on that morning to seek the astrologer, but she was to be herself sought by one who was quite as well qualified to fill her head with unreal notions of her own importance. Hardly had Annie emerged from the inner room, and taken hold of her bonnet, for the pur- pose of paying her visit to Frith Street, when a light and timid tap at the room door proclaimed a visitor. ““Come in!” cried Annie, supposing that in all probability it was Lucy Singleton, who she had no notion had left London to take refuge with her father in a cavern,—‘‘ come in !” The door was opened only sufficiently wide to allow the person who had knocked to peep into the room. Annie started, for in that person’s face she recognised the features of one who had been mixed up strangely with her adventures on the night of the masquerade. In fact, it was no other than Sir Hinckton Moys who paid this morning visit to the rooms in the occupation of the sisters Gray, and it was in pursuance of his promise to the Regent that he was there. Annie uttered a ery of alarm, and Sir Hinck- ton having, by a glance, satisfied himself that she was alone, advanced more boldly into the room. ‘Ts it possible,” he said, ‘that I am so for- tunate as to find the loveliest of her sex alone?” ‘Who and what are you, sir?” said Annie. “T do. not know you!” ‘‘Not know me? Iam glad of that!” added Sir Hinckton Moys, to himself. ‘ Not know sis fairest of the fair ?” “No, sir! Whorand what are you wi “Alas! alas! My description need be but brief. I am 2 gentleman!” “A gentleman? What a love of a ring!” Annie’s eyes were bewildered by the glitter of a diamond ring of great value, which Sir Hinckton Moys wore upon the fore-finger of his left hand. He saw that her gaze was directed to it, and he said; with an air of great respect, “If I might presume, charming young damsel, to describe my- self further, I should say that I was your most devoted slave !” | “My slave, sir?” “Yes! = » Trill lp i} Or The Governor then conducted the Dark Woman {0 the room he had mentioned. It was more like a cell than an apartment, inasmuch as it was of stone, and had but one barred window in its massive wall. The floor was covered with matting, and there was a table in the cell. Two chairs, and the bell-rope which the Coun- tess was to hold in her hand, completed the furnishing of this room in Newgate. ’ The Countess was left alone for about the space of five minutes, and then she heard the clanking of fetters, and there was thrust into the room no other than the redoubtable Binks. This ruffian was tall and strong. His matted hair grew low upon his forehead, and his eyes were small and deeply sunk in his head, while, at the same time, his projecting brows almost hid them entirely from observation. Binks was heavily ironed, and he looked sullen and ferocious. No. 8.—DArk Woman, “ What now ?” he growled, ag the door of the cell was closed upon him, and he beheld the Countess de Launy. She sat quite calmly by the table, and looked at him. There was only the frail barrier of that table between them, and his eyes began to show themselves a little as he saw the sparkling jewels which the Countess wore in profusion. With a growl, he looked, then, all round the room, ard then, in something like the voice of an irritated bear, he said, “Oh, of course! I’m fly to all this here! It’s a sell, in course! What's the row, eh? I only wish I had a sight of them sparkles on a dark night, with a blessed hedge on one side and a wall on t’other! My eye, wouldn't Ihave a grasp at ’em, and no sort 0’ mistake ; and perhaps I’d have to slash your gol for it, my lady ; and if you don’t happen to know what that ‘ere means, why I'll tell you, that wulgar people calls it cutting your throat!” “Before which,” said the Countess, a3 she pro- 58 THE DARK WOMAN, duced a small pocket-pistol with a beautifully bright barrel, and held it in a right line with the head of Binks,—‘ before which I would lodge a bullet in your brains—cighteen to the pound A “‘ What ?” “ That’s the bore !” ‘ The——Oh, I see! Well, I’m sold agin! Why, you don’t mean to say: : ** Keep still!” “ What for ?” “It will go so nicely in at your right eye, smash the eye, and find its way “Murder! Hilloa! I say, don’t!” “Why, you are going to be hanged, you know! v _ “ What's that to do with it? I’m in the Stone Jug, I know; but I ain’t stretched yet, nohow; and who knows but I may shirk the nibbing cheat yet ?” “No. You are to be hanged; but I felt some pity for you.” “You did?’ “*T did !” “Gammon !” “It's true; and I thought you would prefer being shot,—so, if you should still, I will fire, and you will soon be out of all anxiety. “No, no! Dash my peepers! I don’t want that! I'll take my chance!” “ What chance?” “ Of escape!” “That you will find inipoagintes No one but myself can take you out of Newgate! If I don’t please to do so, your death is certain!” “‘ You—you can take me out ?” * At once, if I choose ? *« And you ?” “Don’t please !” _ Then what the deuce, in the name of all the family of the crib-crackers, highjinksmen, and toby-hunters, do you come here for ?” — ‘To see you!” “Oh!” “T wanted a villain!” A what?” “A villain! I wanted aman in my service who would be true and faithful to me, and any- thing else that I wished him to all the world beside. I wanted a man who would feel that he owed his life to me, and who wonld find more comfort in my service than on the road, or in the perpetration of any robbery that he could carry out; but I wanted him to be grateful to me—to look upon me as his queen—his mis- tress, and to stop at nothing that I might choose to order him to do,” “’m your man !” cried Binks, with a yell. “You ?” ‘Yes, I’m your man! Try me! Only take me out of the jug here, and Pll do what you like! | Do you want a crib cracked, a throat cut? I'm your man!” “Tf I could be sure!” “ Ah, there it is! How can I make you sure? You won't try me!” ‘“‘ Have you a wife ?” “ Had one!” “ Dead ?” ** Killed her !” “ Children ?” “Had two!” “ Dead 2” a One hanged for sheep stealing, and the other smothered in a sewer, in getting out of the way of the traps!” “Then you are alone in the rorld "Ae “Yes, 1am; but they—they « omes at times !” The ruffian ’ shook in every fn and heavy beads of perspiration rdlled down his face, ‘What do you mean?” =” ‘Brandy !” “What do you mean, I say ?” “T only wish I had a drei: but what IT mean is just this here, that the ghosts of them two boys, and their mother, comes fo me, and stands and looks at me by the hour together, and then I go nearly mad—mad! and T should like to kill all the world !? “That is well!” said the mad oc ag to herself. i This man is superstitious, and 80 “Tt j is 80; and it is in power to not aie free you from Newgate ay save you from the hangman, but I will get you rid of the apparitions that torment you!” “Only do that, and Iam yours, body and soul ! Why, I'll do what you like, go where you like; and, shiver my veins, if I won’t sever anybody’s head clean off as you wants to get rid of !” “T will trust you!” “ Hoorah |” “Hold! Let me tell you one thing!” “ All’s right!” ~ “If you ever seek to play me false—I say seek, because you will not succeed,—but if ever you make the attempt so to do, you will come by so terrible a death that my tongue refuses to describe it to you, for you will be surrendered to the beings of another world than this to inflict it upon you!” The ruffian turned very pale. “You may trust me!’ he said. ‘You won't find not no cause to do that; only I’m afraid you are putting the blink on me, and that it’s a bit of broad-wheeled gammon, arter all!” “No, no. Stay here a few minutes, and you will hear from me, and be free.” “JT will! I will! I-shall get rid of these here fine irons, shall I? and take a jolly good look at the daylight once more, without feeling Jack Ketch at my windpipe while Idoesit? Ha! ha! There’s nothing like luck, arter all!” The Dark Woman jerked the cord that was at- tached to the bell, and a couple of turnkeys soon made their appearance in the cell. They did not get in, though, before Binks had possessed himself of an old nail that he saw be- tween two of the stones in the wall, and a steel pen that was on the table, Both of these things he thought would aid him in an attempted escape from Newgate, since he could not yet quite make up his mind that the mysterious lady, who pro- mised him his freedom, really could or would keep her word. But he was agreeably disappointed. The Countess repaired again to the Governor, and politely asked for pen and ink—when, to his intense surprise, she filled in the order of release that the Secretary of State had given her, with the name of the ruffian, Binks! . ee ae eet THE DARK WOMAN. ‘6 Ts that correct, sir?” “Correct, madam? Ob, yes !—but—but——” “ But what ?” ; Surely, the Secretary could not mean that such a man as Binks was to be released upon his order.” “ He left it to me!” - The Governor bowed. ‘Tf you refuse - “Nay! nay!” ‘6 T was going to say, if you refuse to obey the order, I will go back to the Home Office at once.” “No, no, my lady—certainly not! The fellow shall be set free at once, I assure you!” The Governor rang for his clerk; and gave him the order, saying, ‘ You will see this executed.” ‘At once,” said the Countess. “Oh, yes, at once!” “ Bring him into the hall.” Binks, to his amazement, was freed from his fetters, and brought into the hall of Newgate; when, in a careless sort of way, the Countess said to him, “ You are free, and you will follow my carriage.” Binks made a gesture of humble assent. The Governor shook his head, and the door of New- gate closed behind the condemned man. The Countess waited a moment or two, to see if the first use of his freedom would be to take to his heels. But he did not. There was a subdued look about the ruffian, and he quietly ran on in the roadway after the carriage. “He will be my slave. Tear and gratitude shall both hold him,” said the Countess. ‘I have long wanted an unscrupulous agent, such as this man will be—for I am resolved to sneceed, if I take my path over. the prostrate and bleeding body of any one who would oppose me.” 4 =n CHAPTER XX. SHOWS HOW ANNIE GRAY, SUPPOSED SHE WAS MARRIED, AND. HOW SHE WAS BETRAYED BY SIR HINCKTON MOYS, Wuen Willes, the Regent's valet, had made all the disclosures that he had to make to the Dark Woman, he hurried home to the Palace, lest his presence should be required by his imperious master, That he would be called upon at night to play the part of a clergyman in the indck marriage that was to take place between Sir Hinckton Moys and Annie Gray, he well kiew; but he had a terrible dread upon his mind that all would not go well with him in the affair. To be sure, he had more than once before been engaged in similar transactions, but he had never felt the uneasiness that now assailed him. Probably, if that uneasiness could have been fairly traced to its first cause, it would have been found to originate in the excitement’ and fright which the Countess de Launy had put him into. She had not threatened him. On the contrary, she had promised him protection and advantages ; but yet he had found that he was in the hands of & power greater than any that had hitherto con- 59 trolled him, and he was in a constant fright lest the Regent should make any discoveries on the subject. Leaving, then, Willes to all the mental suffer- ing which was sure to follow his actions, we repair once again to that suite of rooms which looked into the Colour Court of St. James’s Palace, and in which Annie Gray awaited the “ great noble- man,” who was to make her his bride. As hour after hour passed away, and Annie found herself alone, a feeling of great dread began to come over her. The seeds of virtue were not yet so wholly eradicated from the mind of this young girl as to make her quite careless in regard to what should become of her. The fair flowers of gentleness and goodness which had been planted in her breast by the pre- cepts and the example of her sister Marian were there still) but they were dreadfully choked by weeds. The weeds of vanity and pride! But still, as four o'clock came, and with four o’clock the commencement of the gloomy twilight of those gloomy days, feelings of apprehension began to struggle with the ostetitatious vanities that had occupied the mind and heart of the young girl. She felt painfully lonely. More than orice she had tried to leave the suite of rooms, but found that the outer doors were fast. It was, then, @ prison she was in, although a splendid one. The apartments were no less than five in num- ber, and they all opened into one another. There were two handsome sitting-rooms ; there were two bed-rooms, and a dressing-room. One of these bed-rooms was richly and beauti- fully furnished, and the coverlet of the bed was of purple satin, tichly embroidered. Cheerful fires burnt in every room, but they had began to decay; and by’ five o'clock, when Annie could scarcely see the different outlines of the furniture in the rooms, the fires burnt low, and she began to feel a chilliness of blood as well as a feeling of mental alarm. The fact was, that the Regent had been com- pelled to go to Windsor, and he had taken Sir Hinckton Moys with him. It was about half-past five, then, on that eventful evening to Annie Gray that she heard the trampling of horses, and the roll of carriage- wheels in the Colour Court. She flew to one of the windows, and then, amid the flare of torches, she saw Sir Hinckton Moys, with his hat in his hand, standing by the door of a carriage, from which was alighting one whom she now felt sure was the Regent. And in this person she recognised at once the Mr. Brown who had twice crossed her vision. That the Regent was in love with her, the statement that had been made by Sir Hinckton Moys was more than sufficient to assure her of; and now, for a short time, there was a flattering flutter at her heart as she thought of the reign of luxury and of pleasure that might he hers if she chose to give way to the:preference of the princely Sybarite. But this feeling she strove to banish. She was not altogether without some knowledge on a sub< 60 THE DARK WOMAN, ject with which society at that period was only too well acquainted. The amours and the infidelities of the Regent were common enough topics of conversation, and even Annie Gray shrunk from being the toy of an hour, so to speak, which would be broken, and then cast away to perish. Whatever she might do after that event, she determined that she would first be the wife of the “ oreat nobleman” who had brought her to the Palace. Annie did not know quite sufficient of the world to suspect that she would be duped and tricked in the matter of the marriage. _ She had recognised in the gentleman without his hat her admirer; and she felt certain that a very few minutes would now bring him to her, with abundant excuses for his prolonged absence. She was right. A key was hastily turned in the lock of one of the outer doors, and the Marquis, as she believed him to be, made his appearance. ‘““My love! my life! my soul!” he cried, with an affectation of rapture, which, theatrical as it was, imposed upon Annie; ‘ how delighted I am to return to you!” Annie thought it would only be a proper thing to pout a little, under the circumstances, so she put on a face of displeasure, as she said, ‘ Ah! one can easily perceive that you do. not love me !” “Not love you? Oh, piece of perfection, if I love you not, chaos has come again!” ‘* And yet you could leave me so long !” “Duty! My duty to my King!” * Well, I suppose I must forgive.” “Yes; and forget.” “Nay, I will not forget that Iam to be your wife.” “Certainly not. What a happy day is this!” “ Very—very happy! And when—when will the ceremony take place ?” “In about a couple of hours. One of the chaplains of the Archbishop of Canterbury has kindly consented to come over from Lambeth Palace, where he is at present, and to perform the ceremony.” ‘Then I shall really be a marchioness ?” “* Really and truly.” Annie was so delighted that she favoured the base intriguante with a half kindof embrace which would not at all have pleased the Regent had he seen it,—and which, to tell the truth, Sir Hinck- ton Moys set no value on, for he was old in vice, and his heart was cold and callous. “Yes, my love,” he said, with affected enthu- siasm, “we shall be very happy indeed! And to-morrow you can choose what new liveries you like, and what new coach you would fancy.” “Shall I have a coach, then, all to myself?” “Certainly. You see I am go often forced to goin attendance upon the Prince Regent, that you might want the carriage while I had it on duty, so you had better have one wholly for your- self.’ “« Oh, how good you are!” “Not at all.” Sir Hinckton was quite right there, but he said the “not at all” only in that self deprecatory way that people think proper to deny their virtues in. se Sir Hinckton then ordered a slight collation to be served in the apartment oceupied by Annie, and at about seven o’clock he said to her, quite gaily, ‘‘ Well, I think I may as well go and look after the best friend we have now!” “Best friend! Who is that?” “ The chaplain.” Annie blushed, and pretended to look quite abashed, while her heart was fluttering with de- light, and Sir Hinkcton Moys left her with a gal- lant little bow. The Regent was at dinner. His Royal Highness dined alone at seven o’clock on that occasion, and with the exception of two pages and Willes, no one was in the room with him when Sir Hinckton Moys bowed himself in. As first gentleman in waiting on the Princes, he was entitled to show himself, and as he came in he whispered to Willes, ‘It will soon be time to prepare for the wedding!” Willes nodded, and looked fidgetty. “Well, gentlemen,” said the Regent, “I don’t think we need trouble you.” This was to the two pages, who were not slow in taking the hint that they might go off duty; so that the room, which was a small one, although exquisitely furnished and hung with some very choice pictures, was left to the occupation of the Regent, Sir Hinckton Moys, and the valet. ** Well?” said the Regent. “All is well! As I told your Royal High- ness, all is quite well, and she is willing to be a marchioness !” “Very good! I must say, Moys, that you have managed the little matter very well.” “ So long as I have your Royal Highness’s ap- probation, I shall be pleased.” ‘‘Oh, yes, yes! You know it was rather a blunder before; but this is a different affair, and allis right now! You adhere to the plan you mentioned ?” “ Certainly, your Royal Highness! I will go through the farce of marrying the girl, and then I will leave the rooms. It willbe for your Royal Highness to reconcile her to a slight change of persons, that is all!” “Just so! You are a capital fellow, Moys, and some of these days, when I am King, I must really look out for something good for you. Some nice little thing of about six or ‘seven thousand a-year, connected with the Church, would suit you !” “ Admirably !” “ Well, it shall not be forgotten, you may de- pend upon it, Moys.” At this moment Willes advanced, and made a low bow to the Regent. “ Well, what now, Willes ?” “Your Royal Highness, I am sure, will not forget me as another of your Royal Highness’s most faithful servitors.” “ Oh, certainly not !” “*T can’t help thinking,” said Sir Hinckton Moys, that if your Royal Highness were to make Willes a handsome present of all the little trinkets and jewels which have of late disappeared from your dressing-room, provided he can find them, it would be most handsome.” ‘‘ Ha, ha!” laughed the Regent. will !” “T will! I * THE DARK WOMAN. te 61 “Ig your Royal Highness serious?” asked Willes, with a quiet look. “ Certainly—certainly !” “Then I have to thank your Royal Highness most heartily for so liberal a present.” “A present ?” be “Even so, your Royal Highness.” “But according to your own story, my good friend Willes,” said Sir Hinckton Moys, with a sneer, ‘ those trinkets and jewels are lost.” “They were lost.” * And now ?” ‘‘'They are found !” Well,” said the Prince; “found or lost, Willes, I will not go from my word, and you shall have them !” “Nevertheless, your Royal Highness,” added Sir Hinckton Moys, ‘if I might be allowed to make a remark, I should say it would be curious to know how, after being to all appearance irre- trievably lost, these little trinkets of value should turn up again.” “ Well! How was it Willes ?” “T will tell your Royal Highness. In the old black cabinet which Sir Hinckton Moys uses at times to keep his Court uniform, I one day found a parcel!” “A parcel?” said the Regent. ‘tA parcel ?” exclaimed Sir Hinckton Moys. “Yes, a parcel! Tied up in a handkerchief were the identical trinkets and jewels that I had missed, and about which I had been so uneasy !” “Oh! oh!” said the Regent. “Tied in a handkerchief, Master Willes, eh ?” said Sir Hinckton. “* Even so!” “Well, those folks who tie up handkerchiefs with stolen jewels in them, always know where to lay their hands upon them in case of need !” “Precisely so!” said Willes. ‘Here is the very handkerchief !” “ss No 1” “Yes ! H. M.!” The Regent burst into a roar of laughter. “ Why, why, Moys, the handkerchief is yours |” “Confusion! You scoundrel!” exclaimed Sir Hinckton. “Nay,” said Willes, “I cannot help ‘H. M.’ being at the corner of the handkerchief; and if it be Sir Hinckton Moys’, my firm opinion is that some unscrupulous person must have picked bis pocket of it, for the express purpose of tying up jewels and trinkets in it.” The Regent roared with laughter again, but Willes kept the most imperturbable face of gravity, while the face of Sir Hinckton was in- flamed with passion. * “Come, come,” said the Prince, so soon as he could recover sufficiently from laughter, to speak plainly,—‘‘come, come! I must have no ill blood between you two. You must recollect, Moys, that you have been at times rather hard upon Willes.” “T will, I hope, live to be harder!” muttered Sir Hinckton. Willes smiled. “Oh, you defy me, do you?” Willes smiled again. “T will have no more of this!” said the Regent, gravely. “It is more than enough!” And at the corner are the initials They both bowed, and then, as a small French clock in the room sounded the hour of eight, the Regent looked inquiringly at Sir Hinckton Moys, as he said, ‘‘Is it time ?” “* Yes, your Royal Highness, so soon as the clergyman is ready.” A; “The clergyman can be ready,” remarked Willes, ‘‘ in five minutes, at any time.” “Then we only wait your Royal Highness’s orders in the matter.” ** At ten o'clock, then !” “So late?” ‘6 Yes, so late! I have something to do!” A cloud, partly, it looked, of grief, and partly of anger, came over the face of the Regent as he thus spoke. Sir Hinckton Moys looked surprised that the Prince should have something to do of which he knew nothing; but he did not exactly venture to ask a question upon the subject. Perhaps it was the last remnant of feeling or delicacy that remained in the heart of the Prince of Wales that he did not at that time make a confidant of the partner of his illicit pleasures and the pander to his vices, in a matter which con: cerned one whose name and reputation certainly ought to have been sacred to him. That one was his daughter, the Princess Char- lotte of Wales. . And now, as the Regent filled up an interval on this particular evening in a particular manner, and as it was an interval that occupied him until nearly twelve o’clock at night, it is necessary that we should, in pursuance of our promise that the most curious and authentic of the documents from which this” history is compiled, should, in their substance, be placed before the reader, follow the footsteps of the Regent on this occasion. The Princess Charlotte of Wales had come to town that day from Kew, and occupied the suite of rooms that had been devoted to her in Marl- borough House. The Regent and the Princess were not on speak- ing terms. The father had been impressed by Lady and the Duchess of B with the idea that the sooner her Royal Highness was comfortably dis- posed of in marriage the better; but as she had declined several royal marriages among the needy and greedy princes of Prussia and Germany, there had been a quarrel between her and the Regent. There was, at that time, a certain Colonel Knox, who was of the bousehold of the Princess Charlotte. His post was that of Master of the Horse; but, in reality, he was a spy of the Regent’s. From him the Regent had learnt rather a start- ling piece of intelligence. That intelligence was to the following effect. On two nights, when last in London, the Princess, at the hour of eleven at night, had, disguised in an old grey cloak and a faded bonnet, gone out of Marlborough House into Pall Mall, and after walking as far as the corner of the street, which is pow the well-known thoroughfare named Water- loo Place, had hired a coach, and driven away, Where she had driven to, no one knew; and the Colonel stated that he had, on the second o¢casion, made an attempt to get up behind the coach, and follow it, but had been so lashed by the coachman, who saw him, that he was compelled to desist. RR NL i _ _ _ a trie tne or ett 62 THE DARK WOMAN, All this, the Colonel thought himself in duty bound to communicate to the Regent, as matter for his most earnest consideration. The Regent, then, had only waited until the Princess should come to town again, in order to set such a watch upon her, that the secret of where she went when, in disguise, she left Marlborough House should certainly be discovexed. This was the work he had to do, then, on this night when Annie Gray awaited her mock mar- riage with her supposed “ great nobleman,” in St. - James's Palace. CHAPTER XXI. FOLLOWS THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE OF WALES TO THE HOUSE OF THE ASTROLOGER, AND SHOWS THAT SHE THERE MET WITH AN IM- PORTANT PERSONAGE, Ir ever the weather took it into ifs head to be favourable to secret adventures and hidden esca- pades, it certainly did on the evening which set in early, and howling with wind, and thick with snow, on the occasion of the measures taken by the Regent, to watch his daughter Charlotte, Prin- cess of Wales. At about nine o’clock, then, on that evening, there might have been observed two persons coming out of the old Palace of St. James's, wrapped in great coats. Not the slightest notice was taken, by the guard, of those two persons, for they were effec- tually disguised from ordinary observation; al- though one of them was no other than the Heir Apparent, George, Prince of Wales and Regent of the kingdom. The other was Lieutenant-Colonel Knox, Master of the Horse to Her Royal Highness the Princess Charlotte of Wales. The snow, drifted by a north-west wind, dashed in their faces as they left the gate of the old Palace—and such was its force and fury, that for a few moments they both staggered back a pace. “Knox! Knox!” said the Prince, “she will never go out on such a night as this!” “Do not be too sure of that, your Royal High- ness! It was, if possible, a still worse night the last time she went!” ‘* Indeed !” “Yes. There was a fog in addition.” ‘Well, well! we will go on, then, and see what we can. I am completely at a loss to comprehend what the affair can mean!” ** And I, too, your Royal Highness,” said Colonel Kuox, as he indulged in a slight cough. “Ah! Knox, Knox! I'm afraid you know more than you will teil me!” ‘*On my honour, I do not!” “You coughed! It was a cough that sounded so artificial, that I cannot help thinking it had a meaning !” “ If, then, I must be explicit with your Royal Highness, I will say what my thought was.” “ What was it?” *'T was thinking, then, that if it were not that Her Royal Highness the Princess was in question, | J should suppose that it was a case of a young girl who had formed a secret attachment !” tt Ah {” “And that she went to see her lover!” “No! no!” “Tam, of course, certain that such cannot be the case.” The Regent groaned. He had no morals of his own, but he was sensitive to the honour of his family. “T cannot—I will not think that, Knox!” fay I, your Royal Highness. But here we are ‘* Where ?” “At the coach-stand.” 6s Ab! ye es !’” “Phat is lucky!” “‘ What is lucky ?” “ Why, that there are two on the stand! Had there been but one, things would have looked awkward, as the Princess would have either’ had it, or have gone back again and given up the expe- dition for to-night. I will speak to one of these men, if your Royal Highness will stand in this doorway out of the snow-drift.” ‘Yes, I will; but don’t name me, Knox, or these men may hear you.” ' “ With your Royal Highness’s permission, then, I will drop your title.” ‘* Do so—do so!” The Prince of Wales hid in a doorway while the Colonel went up to the coach that was the last of the two on the stand. The coachman was asleep inside, for the sake of warmth, and the horses were fast: getting covered up with snow, so that they would scon look like white statues of steeds. The Colonel shook the coachmad, and kept on saying, “ A guinea—a guinea—a guinea ad “Tbh? what?” ‘A guinea!” “« Where, your honour ?—where ?” “To be earned by you, if you will attend to me and my instructions.” “ All’s right, your honour !” “‘ There’s only you and another on the stand. ” “Yes, yes !—that’s 247!” | *‘Never mind about that! I will get into your coach along with a friend of mine, and you will still keep your place upon the stand until the other coach is hired by a lady.” “A lady ?” ‘Yes. Alone, she will most likely come and hire the other coach, and then I want you, with caution, to follow it.” * All right, your honour!” “You shall have a guinea.” “That will do, your honout ! lady wants to hire me ?” “Say you are engaged. We will sit ntiet x in the coach, with the windows up.” ‘That will do. Get in, your honour.” “Tn a moment.” The Colonel went to the doorway where the Regent was hiding, and, in a few moments, let him know what arrangement he had made, and they both got into the coach. The moment the coachman had closed the door, the man who belonged to the foremost vehicle, and who was nodding inside his coach, eatled out, loudly, ‘“‘Hilloa! Have you got a fare ?” “ No, [ haven't !” “T thought you had!” But what if the THE DARK WOMAN, “Not a bit of it!” The other man composed himself to sleep; and the coachman in the employ of the Regent mounted his box, and held his head low down among the many capes of his overcoat, to shield himself as well as he could from the snow. St. Martin’s clock struck the half-hour past ten at that moment. And at that same moment there emerged from a small side door in Marlborough House a figure, enveloped in an old grey cloak, the hood of which was drawn completely over her head. This figure was short and stout; but youth and activity, although combined with a certain clumsiness of gait, were evidently present. At first, this person turned completely round, as if to avoid a sudden gust of snow, and sleet, and wind; and then, with a firm tread, of which the unusually large feet were fully capable, the person went along Pall Mall, to the right. This was Charlotte, Princess of Wales. It was quite an effort for any one to walk steadily in such a snow-drift, but the Princess got om tolerably well; and then crossed over the way towards the coach-stand. There stood the two coaches, dim and spectral- like, in the snow- drift. “ Coach |—coach!” called ont the Princess, “Tt is she!” said the Regent, ‘tush |” said the Colonel. * Let me look out!” ** No, no!” “ You do, then!” ‘tT can see through the glass. There! I have wiped it with my handkerchief, and I can sce much better. She is there !” * You know her ?” ‘‘T should among a thousand.” ‘ Coach !—coach !” cried the Princess again. ‘Tam engaged, ma'am,” said the coachman who was in the service of the Regent on that occasion. ‘* Here you are, ma’am!” said the other coach- man, waking up, and rolling out of the coach into the snow. ‘Oh, ler’! what anight itis! Where do you want to go, ma’am, eh ?” “ Frith Street, Soho.” The Princess got into the coach, and, after some difficulty in waking up the horses and get- ting their frozen limbs into action, the yehicle started off at a good three miles an hour, “Did you hear?” said the Regent. “T did.” “ Frith Street !” ** Soho ?” “Yes; that was it! Go on, you villain! Go on!—goon! Follow her! Follow!” The coachman was asleep on the box. “ Hilloa!” shouted the Colonel, as he let down one of the front windows, and putting his arm through, he shook the man to and fro; ‘‘hilloa, you rascal! Wake up!” “Eh? Eh?” “‘ Follow the other coach!” ‘Where? Oh, yes! Ah!—TI see!” The other coach had got nearly out of sight ; but it could still be just discerned in the snow- drift, and the coach in which were the Regent and the Colonel was soon in pursuit. The distance was short, and the first vehicle soon, even at the pace which it went at, was in the neighbourhood of Soho. 63 Frith Street was duly reached, and then the Regent, who was straining his eyes from the window of the coach in which he was, saw it stop—that is to say, the first coach. “Hold! hold! They will see us if we go further! Stop him, Knox!” “Yes, yes! Stop! Hoy! * All right, sir!” The coach, in which was the Princess, had stopped, no doubt, by her direction, at the door of a tall, gloomy house in Frith Street, and when Colonel Knox and the Regent alighted and stood in the deep doorway of a house opposite, the Prince groaned as he said, ‘‘ No good! no good! She can be after no good, I’m sure!” The Colonel coughed again. They heard a door shut, and the Princess had evidently entered the tall and dingy-looking house. That house was no other than the residence of the astrologer Astorath—or rather, it may be said, that it had been his residence. It was, as the reader is well aware, at present in the occupation of the Dark Woman, who had made herself its tenant, simply by the murder of the atrologer. But neither the Regent nor Colonel Knox were aware of what the house was, and what sort of reputation it had. To be sure, Colonel Knox had heard that there was such a person as Astorath, a quack and astrologer, who told fortunes; but he was not a credulous man, and he had not troubled himself to ascertain where the person resided who pretended to raise the veil of the future. ‘She is gone!” said the Regent. “Tt looks like it!” “T cannot bear this, Knox.” “No! And yet——” “TI will go and knock at the door! Pull np!” Come, come! We are armed! I will be avenged on somebody! Oh, Knox, Knox, this is a terrible scandal !” “Tt is!” ‘‘My money, if you please!” said the coach- man, as he saw the Regent and the Colonel about to cross the road. “‘ There—there are two guineas for you! get us, and go away at once!” ** Won't 1?” “Come!” added the Regent. “I will make my way into that house, or know some good reason why !” They both reached the door of the astrologer’s abode ; but there was no knocker, and the night was so dark that they could not see the small, half-hidden bell that the customers of the fortune~ teller were in the habit of using. To their surprise, the coachman who had brought the Princess there felt no alarm at their presence ; and, indeed, he said, when he saw them puzzled to know how to make an application for admittance at the door, “It is a bell—it is a bell! There, to the right! That’s it! You have it now !” They both started at this easy assurance of the coachman, and the Regent said, “ What place is this? Do you know?” ‘Lord bless you, yes, sir! juror and fortune-teller’s!” te Ab 12? “To be sure!” “ And the lady—the—a lady you brought ?” For- It’s the great con- / | 64 THE DARK WOMAN. -_---- eo ee “ Don’t know her, sir. But I brings plenty of ladies and gents both, here; and that’s how I knows the place, you see!” “Yes, yes!” The Regent rang the bell. The door swung open. ‘“‘Knter!” said a deep, hollow voice. They went into the passage, and the door slammed shut behind them. Then appeared the little bright light in the air, and the same deep-toned voice said, ‘‘ Advance, and have no fear!” “Yes, yes!” said the Regent. “I will ad- vance, and have no fear! I will find out what all this means !” No sooner had he spoken than a strange scream- ing sound was heard on the staircase in front of them, and the light went out. The darkness was most profound and impene- trable, and fear began to creep over the heart of the Regent. *‘Hilloa! hilloa!” he cried. a light !” The Prince of Wales had a constitutional terror of darkness. “A light! I will pay for a light!” The little star of light appeared again. “Follow, follow!” said the voice. “Oh, very well—very well! VU follow—T'll ~—I’ll follow, aud pay! I have no objection to pay {” ‘May I suggest,” whispered Colonel Knox, “that the object of your visit here will be com- pletely frustrated if you allow a certain person to hear your voice ?” “To be sure!—oh, to be sure! I did not think of that! You are right! Hush!” “Yes! Hush!” The hall was crossed, and they reached the stairs, up the balustrade of which the little star- like light made its way. They slowly followed it, and soon were on the landing. Then a door was opened, and the voice said, “ Enter !” Another moment, and the Regent, with the Colonel close to him, were in the large apart- ment hung with black velvet. This apartment was profoundly dark. so that put for a certain feel in the air which lets one know a large space from a small one, even when the eyes cannot assist in the investigation, it would have been impossible for the Regent or the Colonel to have come to any conclusion as to where they were. They did not adyance beyond a few paces into the room, and then the same voice that had before spoken on the stairs addressed them. It was in a very low, soft whisper that the voice now spoke, and the impression that it gave was that it feared being overheard by other ears than by those it specially addressed. “Speak!” it said. ‘* What would you?” “Who are you?” said the Prince. ‘‘T am he who scans the stars!” “ An astrologer ?” “ Astral is start” “ You—you tell fortunes ?” ae No td ‘What then?” ‘T rend the corner of the veil !” “What veil ?” “ A light here !— “* Of the future !” “Well, I don’t want to know the future on this occasion; but as I am here, I want to test your powers.” ; “Do so!” “Who was the lady who came here a short time since in a hackney-coach ?” **Do you not know ?” “Yes! But do you?” “Yes, George, Prince of Wales, and Regent of England, I know well!” “Ah! you know me?” “T do!” “Your Highness had better come away at once,” whispered the Colonel, in some trepidation. “I know you, and I know what you seek!” said the pretended astrologer, who was no other than the Dark Woman. “If you know that, then, I implore you to tell me what the—that is, what she who is here comes for ?” : “She is young !” “Yes, yes! But 14 * And she is headst#ong !” “I know that too well.” “She made a resolution! It was, that she would only wed a man of her own choice!” “‘ So she has said.” - ‘And she comes here to see if, in the mirrors [ possess, she can see the future lond of her des- tiny !” “Ts that all ?” “Yes! Itis enough! Hark!” The light tinkle of a bell, apparently far off, proclaimed, no doubt, another arrival at the house. * Peace, and be still !” “ But——” “Harm will come to you, if you will have harm, by moving or by speaking; but you shall know all if you will be still and be governed by this.” Something that felt like a wand, or stick, touched the Regent lightly across the breast. “Place your hand on the wand, and follow it!” “Well, well?” ** You will do so?” “T will! Idol!” The wand retreated in the darkness for about the space of twenty yards, and then paused. “It is enough!” said the voice. ‘Stir not, speak not, and you shall know all!” At this moment a voice, that was evidently that of a German, although the English it spoke was good, said aloud, ‘Friend Astorath, I would fain speak with you if you will spare me a mo- ment !” There was immediately succeeding these words the stumbling of some one apparently over a chair, and then the voice of the stranger said, “ Your hand, is this ?” “Yes!” said a deep voice. ‘ Follow!” “T will! But what I want to ask of you face : Silence, on your life!” All was still as the grave for a few seconds. Then a door was heard to slam shut, and almost immediately afterwards a voice said, ‘* Where am I?” That was the voice of the Princess of Wales. ‘‘ Charlotte, Princess of Wales,” said the deep, a en a ns | | — nr anal THE DARK WOMAN, | | | I3 he ” I ouly saw him for a moment. you did not in a moment forget him?” Well; on the second occasion of my coming “And now I have heard his voice. o a =, A ° g s | pees : ame ses Oe=, 5 > iste od Be 458%; ..53 pe = Pale = Oe EE DRS 33 oos 099 el = rm 4 ee NO OPS ND ee eS = a in| en | men ad AS oo 2 eo ort 7 , fs m a 29 - 2 Zoe Hee = SF Wo ag eee eee = 32s 5° = ea tm Ad _ qd. me ° Seas eee = Shed az oFk ace ES = aoed "Ss a aks Sz +S S sa a2 2 o my OE Sh , & ors wy ed 1 9d gee D = 7) Peet yee 2 2 — Geom & es BS oes moO Yo aw A OU eae S "o 5 em "3°69 Rim © Bg US Semee oO FS z see So wo Ee BP ee Pte wt on - we hie Nl ee i rat eee =O4 a m2 a= you Charlotte, Princess of Wale here?” La hh) Then, to be my equal, he should be a prince: y is, 7 £ But tell me—oh, tell me who he real Ty a. on o ss re) 4 om R= 2 a & ° oe 3 Pu = Aus Zs *®#Sog - =) ces = mM Mm S| a Oro OL Roo =) ie] aes Sos na SB Pam © o38.0 ees meme ra eOs SAE edie eee otis or s, what seek you I _ : a arene beeamevindntietasonantncer ny tirninnt ieathy THE DARK WOMAN, window, from whence they fell on to a leads over | getting his stupid head under a wheel. Come up a washhouse, and finally rolled into a yard, They fell upon each other. Each thought the other an enemy, and grappled with him for life, “ Wretch !” “Villain !” “Why, that’s your voice, Shucks ?” “ And yours, Brads!” “Good gracious !” Tnese two thieves then embraced each other, and wept. The awful catastrophe that had come over the band had for the moment quite unnerved them. They crept into an old stable and hid in a loft, where they remained until they could recover their mental faculties. The moment the preparations for the soldiers’ firing had come to the point actually before the discharge, the Dark Woman had made her way through the window she had opened. There was a small balcony beyond it, and beneath that balcony a heap of snow that had been shovelled up from the roadway. She scaled the balcony in a moment, and just as the volley from the soldiers’ muskets alarmed the whole of the neighbourhood, she dropped on to the snow. “ There,” she said, ‘ ends the career of ‘ Paul’s Chickens,’ and I am free from an authority which was becoming a thraldom !” She ran as rapidly as ‘she could from the spot, and at the corner of Ludgate Hill she saw a man leaning against a post. At his feet there lay a large something, that looked like a bundle of old clothes. This man was Binks. “You are there ?” said the Dark Woman. “Here you are!” was Binks’ reply. “* What is this ?” “ A watchman.” “You have killed him !” “ Shouldn’t a bit wonder; ’cos why, you sees, he comes up to me, and says he, ‘Move on,’ and I says, ‘Move on yourself ;’ and then he says, says he, ‘I'll knock you down, and then I'll take you up. So then I lays hold on him by the top of his head, and gives it a sort of screw; and it’s very odd, but his face is looking the wrong way now ?” “ Follow me!” “ All’s right !” “ A coach !” “There you are! Coach, there! Hoy!” A hackney-coach was lumbering slowly along, and Binks called after it, “Hoy! Don’t you hear, stupid? You're wanted! Hoy! hoy!” ‘* Can’t you hold your row ?” said the coachman. “Ym a going home, and don’t want any more fares to-day, or to-night neither.” Binks ran after the vehicle, and overtook it in afew moments: he climbed up en to the box, and with one blow felled the coachman, who came down between the wheels. “Now, mem,” said Binks, as he opened the coach door, ‘here you are!” “Frith Street!” “ All’s right !” The door was closed, and Binks got on the box aid whipped up the horses. The coach lumbered over something soft. “Ah!” said Binks, “ that’s his look-out, for eee ere eee eee emote ene emamenne will you ?—come up !” CHAPTER XXIV. ANNIE GRAY PREFERS THE LOVE OF THE REGENT TO HER OLD HOME, AND THE DARK WOMAN MEETS WITH A DEFEAT, WueEn the Dark Woman, closely followed by her brutal and powerful assistant, Binks, left the suite of rooms in St. James’s Palace, and made her way into the narrow secret passage, if is doubtful if her designs in regard to Annie Gray were of a benevolent or a malevolent character. Of one thing, however, there could be no doubt ; and that was, that she was always willing to foil the Regent in any of his enterprises which com- prised a successful attack upon the virtue of any female. Probably there was more of personal jealousy in this, than any other feeling. The passage behind the console table and glass was so narrow, that it was with difficulty Binks could carry Annie, so as to prevent her from being hurt against the walls. “This is a rum crib,” he said. a bit wider nor a coflin !” ‘‘Hush!” said the Dark Woman: “do not speak.” Binks was silent, and his imperious mistress led the way, in total darkness, for some time. At length, a faint kind of light came from some chink in the wall into the passage, and the Dark Woman paused. “ This will do,” she said. She passed her hand up and down the wall for some time, before she could find any spring, or bolt, or other fastening. At length, a small handle became perceptible to her touch, and upon turning it, she heard the click of a lock. ‘Then she drew the handle towards her, for she was well aware that all these secret doors opened into the secret passages. A tall, narrow piece of the wall moved on hinges, and on the other side appeared a-room, in which were various articles of furniture—and on a table, a supper, apparently laid for two persons, with a wax-light on the table. It was evident, from the inquiring look that the Dark Woman cast about her, that she did not know in what portion of the Palace she was, but she made up her mind at once not to stay in that apartment. “Follow!” she said, as she retreated into the narrow, dark passage again; but she carried the light from the table in her hand. With a sharp sound, the panel was closed; and it was only just in time that it was so, for two of the servants of the Palace entered the room almost at the same moment, and the Dark Woman could hear one say, ‘‘ What, no light ?” Very rapidly, now that she had a light, did the Dark Woman pursue the passage in which she was with Binks and the still insensible Annie Gray. Then, atter about a hundred feet of advance, she paused and listened. There was on the wall an evident appearance of “ Why, it ain’t ne ee sere 5 Seat ae | rene ere an were another panelled opening, and the Dark Woman was very anxious to discover if the apartment into which it might lead was occupied or not. No sound came from it, and she cautiously opened the panel. All was darkness and silence in the room, and when she stepped into it, she found that it was a disused room, in which lumber of all kinds was stowed. “This will do,” she said. ‘Bring her in!” “Here you are!” said Binks. “Place her there.” It was to an old faded, but once magnificent couch, that the Dark Woman pointed; and Binks, with more ease and tenderness than his nature seemed to indicate, placed his fair burden on it. Then Binks held his head on one side, and took a good look at Annie; after which, he expressed his approbation of her by the word “ Tidy.” The Dark Woman placed the light on a chair, and looked keenly and eagerly in Annie! 8 face. “ She is fair,” she said. Binks nodded. ‘“‘T will give her a chance.” “‘ Chance of what ?” said Binks. “ Silence!” “Then you must stop her breath.” “Bah! [ mean, you are to be silent.” She took from her pocket a small vial, with a metal stopper that screwed into it, and having taken that stopper out, she applied the vial to the nostrils of Annie Gray, and placed a few drops of the contents of the vial on her lips, Annie sighed deeply. «She recovers !” Annie opened her eyes. ** Good heavens! where am I?” “ Safe!” “ Safe 2” “Yes; safer than you were. to make to you, girl.” “To me? Ah! I have had offers; but not st ites eis Abbe 8 YZ I have an offer from one like you.” “No doubt; and the other offers you had were the most agreeable of the two. But if you are not, quite mad, and bent on ruin, I will save ou.’ ne Save me from whom—my husband 2?” “You have no husband, girl.” “Oh, yes, yes!” “T say, no! Listen to me. The man you thought you married is a creature of the Prince Regent's, and who has only gone through a mock union with you, in order to surrender you to tim.” Annie uttered a cry of despair. ‘Then I am not a marchioness ?” , “You certainly are not. But you may be something better.’ “May 1?” ‘Yes; you may be an honest girl.” Annie was silent. _ “ You may be grateful, too, that you have been this night rescued from shame and dishonour. You shall be protected from this place, as I alone can protect you; and let the world say what they ' may of me, I shall, at least, have performed one good action.” Annie looked about her with a bewildered air. “‘ Where am I?” she asked. “Tn St. James’s Palace.” ee ee eae THE DARK WOMAN “Where I was married ?” ‘No; the ceremony, I tell you, was a mockery and asnare. You are not married!” “Oh! what will become of me ?” What has hitherto become of you ?” “TI was poor. I had to work. If I did not work, my sister Marian had to work for two: and if she did not reproach me by words, I feit that she did by looks, when her eyes were heavy with the sleep she dared not yield to. No, no!--a thousand times, no! I cannot go home again!” The Dark Woman looked earnestly in the face of Annie Gray; and then she muttered to herself, * This girl is lost! I-rescue her in vain! She is as a prisoner in love with his dungeon, and who will not willingly be dragged from it !” Annie began to shed tears,“ The Dark Woman then turned to her with a firmness of gesture that, at the moment, alarmed her. ‘Speak, girl!” she said. ‘ What would you be! What would you that I should do?” “Home !—home!” “ Ah! you repent ?” “T do!—I do!” *‘ And you will be saved?” - “TY will!—I will! Iwill try to work. I will try not to think of my own coach—of my own servants—of being a lady. Yes; I will go home, if sister Marian will receive me again, and I will try to be contented and—and—happy !” There did not seem to be much happiness in the tone in which Annie Gray spoke, nor in the tears which she shed so copiously ; and the Dark Woman, as she regarded her, shook her head with more than a doubt of the lasting sincerity 4 the young girl’s intentions to go home. But she took Annie Gray at her word. “Be it so!” she said. ‘* You have decided wisely. You shall go home!” The tears of Annie flowed still more freely on this promise being made, but she did not at that moment say anything in contradiction to it. Perhaps the most curious thing in all this in- terview between the Dark Woman and the young girl, was to note the puzzled look of Binks while it was proceeding. He listened to what was being, said, and as they spoke he turned his head first to one and then to the other, but he did not appear to have the smallest compra mais of what they meant. The Dark Woman then made an imperious gesture to Annie, as she said, “‘ You have but to follow me, we you will be safe!” “Yes, yes! oh, yes! I will follow you!” Annie still wept. The Dark Woman went to a window which was in the room, and strove to look through it. All beyond was profoundly dark, but she thought, from her knowledge of the Palace topography, that the window looked into a court-yard, on one side of which were the barracks and guard-room of the Yeomen of the Guard. If that were so, she would have no difficulty in soon making her way into St. James’s Park, and so into the streets of London. The window was evidently one that no person was expected to look out of, since the room was only used as one in which to place aside almost useless lumber, so it had probably not been cleaned for years. The difficulty, then, of seeing through it was very gteat; but the passing of a Rn a Nn eee og ne tod “oo OO eR —eemennnanen | Pee a ANAT REO HON RR OTE PHS LAER RE ARRAN AINA RAMEN RS BLE OMe NO WA ern MANN NHL Ae No Aa Lee THE DARK WCMAN. | | | | | | | | ee ce ee a ee nn ene ener TA I rt BA she hat STF KNEAD te LIA Me RRR ernie renner tee, 77 sentinel below confirmed the Dark Woman in her ideas with regard to the condition of the place. “That will do!” she said. ‘There will be some doors from this place to the court.” By the aid of the wax candles they had with them, the Dark Woman now carefully examined the walls of the room. There was one door opening from it, and but one, The lock had, however, been removed from the door, and there seemed to be no ready means of opening it. ‘“‘ Binks!” said the Dark Woman. “Here you are!” was Binks’ invariable reply. “This door!” * You want it opened ?’ “T do!” Binks carefully tried the door. “Locked on t’other side,” he said, “and the handle of the lock took off on this.” As he spoke, he took from his pocket a small bundle of picklocks on a steel ring, and fitted one into the keyhole of the door. There was a harsh, grating noise for a moment, and then the door opened creakingly. Binks made no remark about this little exhi- bition of his skill in picking locks. As an old experienced ‘ cracksman,” he thought nothing of it. The Dark Woman hastily stepped through the doorway, and surveyed the room which was now open to her. It was a small apartment, with a number of presses or wardrobes ranged round its walls; and in the vacancies between them, which were not above three feet each, there were old rusty pieces of armour and arms of various kinds, long since out of use. The Dark Woman did not know it, but this room was one of the most curious in all the ancient part of St. James’ Palace. In that apartment, stowed away in the presves round the walls, were the wardrobes of many of the earlier kings and queens of England~that is to say, such portions of them as had escaped the cupidity of the Court minions at the time of the monarch’s decease. But the Dark Woman was by far too much engrossed in her own affairs to pay much heed to antiquarian research. It was sufficient for her that the room was one that might lead her out of the Palace, for that was her object now. There was another door in this room nearly Opposite the one at which they had entered it, pe Binks, with the same ease, picked the lock of it. The moment it was opened, though, the Dark Woman started back, for a voice cried out, ‘ What was that, eh ?” There were people in the room to which that door opened. A flash of light came from the room, and the movement of feet and of chairs proclaimed that Some persons were taken by surprise at the sudden intrusion. ’ The Dark Woman sprang back, and Binks forced the door shut; but not before a voice that the Dark Woman knew well had spoken. It was the voice of the Regent. “Bless me, Moys!” he said; “who and what €an that be ?” ‘IT cannot guess,” replied Sir Hinckton Moys. The fact was that the Regent, and Sir Hinckton Moys, and the young Earl of were at a game of cards, which had been proposed by Moys, as a means of composing the mind of the Regent, after the events of the night. Some mulled claret, in a large bowl, was on tha table; and Willes was in an adjoining room, in waiting on the party. Now, all might have been well, and the Dark Woman, and Binks, and Annie Gray might pos- sibly have escaped safely before a pursuit could have arisen, but for one circumstance. They were not unanimous in the desire so to escape. The reader will have no difficulty in guessing who was the dissentient. Annie Gray had heard the voice of Sir Hinckton Moys, and she called out aloud to him, ‘‘Qh, false man !—false man! Can it be possible that you have deceived me, and that [ am not your real marchioness ?” At these sounds, the Regent looked astonished, and cried out, ‘* By Jove!” Sir Hinckton Moys was not less surprised him- self, and shouted, ‘*’Tis she !—’tis she!” The Dark Woman raised her hand, and seemed as if she would gladly strike Annie to the floor; but she did not do so, contenting herself with a look of withering scorn as she said, ‘‘ Perish, then, body avd soul, in your folly !” Binks had taken the only step that could give them a chance of escape. He had rapidly closed the door, and relocked it with one of his picklocks, so that, provided there was no key on the other side, a temporary obstacle, at all events, was in- terposed to pursuit. The Dark Woman felt that the only hope of escape now was by the route she had come to the Palace, which was through the secret passages, and then along the range of low buildings that connected the old Palace with Carlton House, and so out of it by the garden-gate, of which she had the pass-key. Annie had evidently resolved upon quite another line of conduct. “ Helo! help!” she cried,—"' oh, help !” The threatening gesture of the Dark Woman, she thought, gave her sufficient license to raise these cries. E “T tell yer what it is,” said Binks; “ the best way is to quiet her.” ‘No, no; I may want her yet.” “Very good.” “Let her be. Girl, farewell! I know now what you will be; and you will live to know yet what Iam. You may still make me a friend or a foe. Beware that it is not the latter!” At this moment, there was a loud crash, and the door that Binks had just locked was broken open, and the Regent all but fell into the next apartment. . The Dark Woman at once flung in his face the wax-light and candlestick; but not before the Regent had caught -sight of her, and cried out, ‘* By Jove, it’s Linda! Fire!” Some one behind him fired a pistol, and the bullet passed within an inch of the eyes of the Dark Woman. But another moment had enabled Linda and Binks to get into the lumber-room; and Binks slammed close that door, and relocked it. Then, by an exercise of strength which but few meq A LE EN i i ee ene Fre iy anne SO LT a AL CST nt ey A rene noe neenooe oe - ———————————— en ements ee cA EE RC | Ng a —_———— 78 would have been capable of, he went to the end of the press, or armoire, which was the nearest to the door, and, notwithstanding its great weight, he pushed it along the floor about six inches. That was quite sufficient. It came over the door a little way, and it was fast. “ All’s right!” said Binks. nother moment, and he and the Dark Woman had passed through the panel in the wall, and were in the secret passage. Annie was left in the room that immediately adjoined that in which the Regent, with his asso- ciates, had been playing at cards. She crouched down on the floor close to an ottoman; and the Regent, by the light that came from the other room, had no difficulty in seeing and recognising her. Sir Hinckton Moys gave a jerk of his head to the young Earl of H , and they left the room without a word more. Willes remained where he was. The’Regent went back to the card-room, and caught up one of the wax-lights that were on the table, and returned to Annie. ‘‘My good, dear girl,” he said, “what is the meaning of all this?” “‘ You—you—are——” “The Prince Regent, I am !” « And—-and—my husband was here!” “‘ Well—I—a—I am sorry to be compelled to tell you that—that, in fact, there has been quite a mistake, you see, my dear girl, which, if I were you, I would not take even the trouble to inquire into. Ifyou will but wait here one moment Pray sit down on the ottoman! Come into the next room, I mean; there is a good fire there. Come! take my arm. Why, you seem quite distressed ! A little of this mulled claret will restore you. Help yourself. I have a word to say.” The Regent assisted Annie into the card-room, and after placing her by the fire on a chair, he hastily went outside the door to Willes. “ Willes!. Willes! Hilloa!” “J am here, your Royal Highness!” “ There is, in the Palace, a woman——” Willes smiled. “You scoundrel ! address you!” “T humbly beg pardon, your Royal Highness ; I did not mean to laugh. It was a sudden pang from tooth-ache.” d “ Well, well! I say there is a woman travers- ing the Palace; she cannot have had time to escape from it. J will give a couple of hundred pounds if she meets with some accident! You comprehend. Every avenue of the Palace must be watched. If she will starve herself to death in some of the secret rooms and passages, so much the better; but if she attempt to escape, and get killed in doing so, I will pay the money !” Willes bowed. The Regent returned to Annie, who, feeling faint, had partaken of a small quantity of the mulled claret he had recommended to her. “Oh, sir!” she said, “you will iet me go home ?” “Of course I will.” Annie looked incredulous. “This shall be your home !” “This 2?” “To be sure. Your home shall be with me. Come! I want to see a smile in those pretty eyes ! How dare you laugh when I —— Ne EE LS ER OTN OT AT CE IEEE TOT LE ALCS CC NCAT LE SO EI: en en ee eee ee THE DARK WOMAN. ee A RES Annie did smile. “‘Those lips, too, that were made for kissing.” “ But —but 4s “ But what, dear one?” “JT was to have been a marchioness !” “T have said you shall be a duchess.” 6 No ?” “T did!” . “ But this is the first time you have spoken to me.” “ By Jove, yes! It was not you, but I meant it for you all the time. You shall be a Duchess! I will bestow that title upon you. It will bea foreign title, but will sound as well; only, you must say that you love me!” “ Ah! is it possible that you, a Prince, can love a poor girl like me?” - “With all my heart!” “ But you—you will soon cast me off!” *‘ Never !” “ Never ?” ‘On my word, never !” Annie let her head rest upon the shoulder of the Prince Regent. The Dark Woman was right— Annie had made her election, and henceforward she would be among the lost. CHAPTER XXvV. CONDUCTS THE READER TO JACK SINGLETON’S CAVERN ON THE OLD HEATH AT HAMPSTEAD, AND SAVES TWO LIVES, WE leave, for a brief space, the Dark Woman to make good her escape from St. James’s Palace. We leave Annie Gray to splendid infamy, and we leave Marian and Allan to the happiness of mutual and honest love, while in the midst of a fall of snow and sleet that was terrible to see, and which seemed to proclaim death alike to man and beast, we repair to Hampstead Heath. Every bush—every tree was covered with the rapidly falling snow, and as far as the eye could reach there was not a living thing to be seen, The Heath looked like some waste, on which the footstep of man had never trodden. A howling wind swept over it, and the sky was of a dull leaden hue. But there was comfort and there was security on the Heath to Jack Singleton, the highwayman, and to his fair daughter Lucy. We will place ourselves within their cavernous home, and look about us. There is a kind of rude, irregularly-shaped room—if it may be called such—deep down beneath the surface of the sandy Heath. The extent of the cave is about twenty feet in all directions, measuring from its centre, so that there was an actual space for movement of about forty feet, more or less; for the walls were very irregular, as in some places there were deep in- dentations or recesses, and in others projections. The construction of the cave was very curious. In old times, a mass of trees, that must have been of gigantic growth, had stood above upon the surface of the Heath. The roots of those trees were still deep in tha sandy soil, although, with two exceptions, the trees themselyes had disappeared. | THE DARK WOMAN. 79 It was the interlacing of these roots, many of them of the thickness of a man’s arm, and all of them of amazing toughness, which supported the roof and the sides of the cave. - The soil was sandy, and nothing in the shape of a cavern could possibly have existed in such a stratum but for these natural rafters, formed by the tree roots ; and they were so numerous that it was only here and there that a small portion of the real soil could be seen between them. The floor of the cave was beaten hard, and as the inhabitants of the neighbourhood of the Heath repaired to it for the sand, with which to form garden paths, so the flooring of this room had just the same strength and solidity. The space between the roof of the cavern and the surface of the Heath was more than twenty feet, and the height of the cavern from its floor was about as much. The heaviest and most long-continued rains that fell above never penetrated anything like one-third of the distance to the roof,—that is, the main surface of the roof of the cave, so that it was always dry. A deep fissure, that led through furze-bushes and holly to the cavern, helped to ventilate it, and there was a complete route to it through the trunk of one of the old trees, by which the vapour of the charcoal fire that burnt on a brazier in it could be allowed to escape. It was in this cavern, then, that Sixteen- stringed Jack and his daughter, the fair young danseuse, found a refuge. The horse, which Jack valued so highly, and which was so much attached to him, was at the cottage of the old woman at North End. At the time we introduce our readers to this cavern, the brief winters daylight had quite departed from the Heath for some hours, and the darkness within the cave could not have been much greater than the darkness without ; only the former was not permitted to cast its gloom upon the spirits of the young girl, for a small silver lamp hung in the centre of the cave from one of the twisted roots, and shed a mild, pleasant light over the place. The whole area of the cave was an irregular circle, but there was about one-fourth cut off by a heavy curtain of cloth, and it was in the portion so cut off that Lucy might be said to reside and to sleep. On this occasion, however, both father and daughter were in what may be termed the larger cavern, and they both were in an attitude of listening. : This attitude of listening was shared in by a large, rough-looking dog, who, with his head on one side, and his eyes fixed on his master, ‘evi- dently directed all his powers of observation to ascertaining the character of some unusual sound upon the Death. - . A word of this dog. Half-starved and foot-sore, the creature had laid down, apparently to die, upon the Heath; and Jack had heard it moaning, and had sallied out and brought it into the cave, where it, in half a day, had sufficiently recovered to show that there was nothing the matter with it but fatigue and hunger. ‘Where it came from Jack knew not, but it at a a a I a a | both felt that in the creature they had a faithful friend. ‘“‘ What sound is that, Lucy,” said Jack, “ that comes upon us from the Heath ?” ' “T cannot tell, father, Itis a sad sound.” The dog gave a short, sharp bark. “And on such a night as this, too!” said Jack, rather to himself than to Lucy. ‘ Some traveller may have lost his way; and yet the Heath is not so large but that any one keeping a straight course would soon come to some cottage, or to the village itself.” “ There it is again,” said Lucy. “It sounds like a cry for help!” “Tt does! it does !” The dog growled. ‘¢ Hush, Wolf, hush!” said Jack. He had called the dog Wolf because on its first appearance in the cave, with its famished looks and coat draggled in snow, it had looked more like a wolf than a wolf’s honester likeness, the dog. The sound from the Heath continued. It was something like a cry of distress, and yet too low and faint to indicate that any one was being at- tacked and required aid. “J will go out,” said Jack. “Oh, father, you will be careful now of your safety 1” ‘“¢T will indeed.” “Wor my sake!” “ Wor your sake, dearone! I feel now that I have something to live for. If we could only get away from England, I would in some other land begin a new life, dear child, and you should at once be rid of all the fears that possess you.” “We will hope, father.” “Yes, dear Lucy, we will hope; but, as you know, there is a heavy price upon my head, and the dread now of leaving you is so—so great!” Jack was always affected when he spoke thus to and of his daughter. Lucy rose from a wicker chair on which she was seated, and flung her arms around her father’s neck, as she said, in tones of deep affection, ‘* Am IT not ten times happier, dear father, here, than ! ever was? Havel not now you to love me ?— and before, though so many pretended to do so, no one really loved me.” Jack held the fair girl to his heart for a moment or two, and then he said almost fiercely, for he was ashamed of the emotions which shook his voice, “My pistols, Lucy! Give me my pistols; and I will go out on to the Heath, and see what these sounds mean.” “© You will not wander far, father ?” Oh, no—no !” “You will take Wolf?” “Yes; he will be a better scout than I. Come, Wolf! Come, brave dog!” Wolf seemed to be quite pleased at the idea of an expedition into the snow, and followed Jack right willingly. ‘ It was by a circuitous route that the fissure in the bank was reached, by which the cavern could be entered or left. The crevice did not look large enough to allow of any one passing within it, but that was only apparent and close to its entrance. py Of course, let who would see a crevice in tha once attached itself to him and to Lucy, and they | sand and earth, they would have no temptation to | , ECE FET LNT RTE REDS MELE et NETGEAR NORRIE A ALOE DOC TD: —_ i SE eer er A er ar Fe So er a — + 80 equeeze themselves into it; not knowing that, at about two feet within, it at once widened out into a broad passage. It was through this uninviting opening to the cave, then, that Jack and Wolf found their way into the open air; and the moment they did so, they found themselves saluted by such a drift of snow and sleet, that even the dog turned fairly round, to get his eyes from the wintry tornado, But, at the moment, Jack heard the wild wailings that had awakened his attention, and of course he heard them much plainer than while within the cavern. The dog barked sharply, and Jack scrambled through the snow up the bank, in the side of which was the entrance to his cave. There was nothing to be seen. If the whole of Hampstead Heath had been one immense cavern, it could not have been darker or more dismal than it was. , Imagine a pitchy darkness, through which there bowled a furious gale of wind from the north- west, conveying on its wings a terrible snow- drift. Such was the state of things on Hampstead Heath on that terrible night, in that terrible winter of February, 1814. That was the same night on which the Dark Woman had, in defiance of wind and weather, accomplished her fearful revenge against “ Paul’s Chickens,” because they wished to bring her to account in regard to the booty they had col- lected. To be sure, in London streets the tempest and the snow-drift by no means presented themselves to the senses with the fury and the majesty they did on such a broad open space as Hampstead Heath. Jack Singleton felt that any search on the Heath on such a night would only be certain to end, and that probably quickly, in a fall down some of the steep sand-pits which were full of snow, and where any one might be engulphed and suffocated in a few moments, without any chance of rescue. “ We must get back, Wolf,” he said. A wailing cry for help immediately came upon his ears, and he hesitated. The dog laid hold of him by the skirt of his coat in its teeth, and pulled him in a particular direction. “TF understand you, Wolf,” said Jack, “ and will follow you; but you must keep close, or I shall Jose sight of you on this murky night.” The dog walked carefully on, up to the tops of its ears, occasionally, in the snow, and then he barked fiercely. The wailing cries mingled with the barking of the dog. “Fiush! Quiet, Wolf!” cried Jack; and he bent low down to listen. “Help! Ho! Help!” ’ “Ah, Lhear now! Hilloa! hilloa!” “Help! Ho! Help!” “‘ Where are you ?” “The drift! Dying in the drift!” “Not yet! I hear you now! Why, this is but a slight hollow not to scramble out of.” ‘* We are wounded!” said a voice. “We? Why, how many are there of you?” bi Two {” A ee THE DARK WOMAN, Jack beeen to get suspicious that this might be some plan to capture him, and he was silent for a few moments. The voice spoke again. “Do help us!’ I have a bullet in my shoulder, and poor Brads has one in his chest, he thinks, though he ain’t sure.” “JT am sure, Shucks, I tells yon,” other voice; ‘‘and Vm done for!” Jack Singleton was astonished. ‘Speak again!” he cried. ‘‘ What names are those you call yourselves by ?” ‘We are done,” said one, “ Settled,” said the other. “Tell me at once!” added Jack. call yourselves Shucks and Brads ?” “We did; but our real names, my good sir, are Jones and Smith. Lor’ bless you, we don’t know anything about Shucks and Brads.” “Not 2 bit,” said the other. Jaek smiled, as he said, then, ‘‘ Well, I thought I knew you both, and that you were Paul’s Chickens.” Upon this, both Shucks and Brads gave them- selves up for lost. ‘They had, wounded. as they were, succeeded in dragging themselves all that way from London, after the fearful massacre in Doctors’ Commons, but had sunk exhausted on to the Heath. Ae Come, come!” added Jack. joking.” Joking ?” said Brads. “ What a joke!” said Shucks. “If you were not, you would know that he who speaks to you is a friend.” “ Why, who are you?” said Brads, “ Sixteen-stringed Jack, some folks call me!” At sound of that name both Brads and Shuske, | weak and wounded as they were, uttered cries of delight, for they felt that they were saved, It had been the howling of the wind and the state of distress that they were in that had prevented them from at once recognising Jack’s voice. Now, they were only surprised that they bad not at once knowa him. “Oh, Jack, Jack,” pretty go!” * What is amiss?” “ Tt's all up.” “What is up ?” “Why, the "blessed Chickens! You tell him, Shucks; for I’m blessed if I knows whether it wasn’t what you calls a hearthquake, or a burnii’ mountain, or a thunderbolt !” “ Nor me,” said Shucks. “ But are you really wounded 2” said Jack. ‘*T believe you, we are.’ “Yes,” added Shucks; ‘‘and we are a bleeding to death like babes in the wood.” “Then I will do my best to help you. ‘I hava a refuge close at hand, to which, if you can manage to walk, I will lead you; and J will trust to you both to keep the secret of its exist- ence,” “Honour among Hem!” said Brads. “Why don’t you say thieves at once?” remon- strated Shucks. ‘You always was so delicate, Brads.” “i's my natur’!” said Brads. “ But if so be, Jack, you will give us a hand up out of this hole inli of snow, I shall take it kind,” said an- “Did you j “You must be said Brads, “here's a | | THE DARK WOMAN, “ And me, too,” said Shucks. ‘That's it!” Jagk’s eyes had by this time got accustomed to the very dim light upon the Heath, and there was a Inll of the wind for a few moments, which enabled him to assist the two Paul’s Chickens out of the hollow into which they had fallen. They were both weak and exhausted, but they did manage to walk, inasmuch as the wounds they had received did not interfere with the use of their feet in any way. They were then conducted by Sixteen-stringed Jack to the cavern; and, taking Lucy aside, Jack spoke earnestly to her. ‘My dear child, these are two men who have but one claim to our kindness.” “ What is that, father ?” “They would have done all they could for me if I had been wounded and helpless as they were.” “Ah! father, that is indeed a claim; and yet we will suppose that they have another.” * * No. 11.—Dark Woman. I EE CO ENE CELE NET OE antiniateinmethhdiiam adie oie ee | better at once, i nechattalean ngs aiarsiran lpr ene “ Another, dear, have they ?” “Yes; they want help, and we have the power to help them.” “You are ten thousand times better than I am, my dear, and you are quite right; so we will do what we can for them.” Brads and Shucks were so delighted at the change from the tempestuous, open Heath to the comforts of the cavern, that they felt themselves It was found, too, upon examina- tion, that the supposed bullet that was in the chest of one had only struck him obliquely and inflicted a bruise and a wound. The bullet that had struck the other had passed through the upper portion of the shoulder, and had certainly inflicted a bad hurt; but still there was nothing particularly to dread in the wounds that those two sole surviving Paul’s Chickens had received at Doctors’ Commons. They told Jack, without reserve, all that had taken place; and when they had concluded, Brads NG SSS ES REE OT ETI ser ae eee ete 32 THE DARK WOMAN, said, “‘Now, Jack, we want your opinion. What was the meaning of it all?” “Yes, what was it?” said Shucks. ‘' Because Brads and me, you see, don’t agree about it.” Jack smiled sadly, “Can you have any doubt,” he said, “on the matter? “Do you not both see that the moment the ‘Chickens’ demanded their shares of the plunder collected by the Dark Woman, she re- solved upon your destruction? It is her whom you have to thank for what has happened. She is a fiend in human shape!” “T told you so!” said Shucks, triumphantly. “Then I give in,’ said Brads. ‘And now, by all that’s” “Hush!” said Jack. ‘One act is worth all the oaths of vengeance in the world!” “So it is!—so it is!” “It appears to me that you should retaliate upon her, and place her real character in the hands of justice.” “We will!—we will!” “Who and what is she really ?” “The Dark Woman she is called, you know.” ‘Yes; but that is only a name.” “ Well—it’s—it’s her name, you see.” “But where is she to be found ?” Both Brads and Shucks looked nonplussed at this question; and Brads said, “ Shucks, old boy, | -where is she to be found ?” “Don’t know. * Not I!” ‘‘She has played her game well with you all,” said Jack, bitterly; ‘but I have a vengeance to take upon her as well as you. And yet—yet I feel more inclined to leave her alone, if she will leave me alone. She is but a woman, after all; and it ill becomes me, a man, to talk of vengeance against her.” Brads and Shucks shook their heads, and looked at each other dubiously. “Come, come!” added Sixteen-stringed Jack; “you had better get some rest now, and you will think very differently to-morrow—particularly if the sun should shine upon the wilderness of snow that lies around us on the old Heath. I have some intentions that perhaps you would not mind joining in?” Jack lowered his voice, so that he should not be heard by Lucy, who had returned to her own portion of the cavern. ‘“‘ What are they ?” said Brads. ** Listen !” ““Oh, dear me!” said Shucks. ‘‘ What is the matter ?” “Jack!” Ge Well ?” ““My dear fellow, there is one thing that ought to be settled before we any of us say anything further !” “What can that be, Shucks ?” “Why, you see, Jack, it’s just this ! got any tobacco ?” “‘Certainly I have.” “ And you don’t object fo smoking?” “ Certainly not.” “Then Pll sit up all night and listen to you, Jack; and one thing I will promise beforehand, that Til do just what you like, and agree to what you like; and if ever I prove a false pal to you, Jack, may I lose my right hand!” Do you?” Have you * And me too!” said Brads. “‘ And besides Jack, I have got a regular right down solemn question to put!” “T guess it!” said Jack. tc No 2” , I do! It is—have I got anything to drink ?” “ You are as good as a conjuror, Jack!” “Thave! Here is some good liquor, such as you don’t see every day.” “‘ Jack—bless you!” Brads and Shucks being thus rendered quite comfortable, Jack added in a low voice, What I was going to say was this: that with two such as you to help me, there might be something done at once, that would bring us all three enough to go out of England with!” “‘ Among the foreigners ?” said Brads. “ Well—yes !” “T never could abide rats and foreigners in my life. Them’s the only two things I don’t like a bit.” “Well,” added Jack, ‘‘if you object, there is no use saying anything further about it; but it was a good scheme, in my opinion !” “What was it, Jack ?” “ Will you join in it?” “J will, if Brads will!” "wy will, then! Come, Jack, ont with it! Let’s know all about it! “Tt’s' only ten thousand pounds, or there- abouts.” “That will do!” said Brads. Shucks nodded. “Well; the Regent, as you all know, has a_ house at East Sheen, near to Richmond, where he gives his supper parties when the old King is declared to be so bad, that it would not be any- thing but an ottrage for the Heir Apparent to sit up carousing at any of the royal residences.” “To be sure!” ‘In order, then, to keep secret his riots at that place, he goes to it after he has gone to rest, as it is supposed, at St. James’s or at Carlton House; and the only persons who go with him are Willes, his valet, and some one or other of his confidential set of riotous friends.” “Very good!” said Brads. way, if you please, Shucks !” “Alls right !—after me. ‘Go on, Jack!” “T propose then, that we lay in wait for him, and capture him !” “ Ah!” “Oh!” *¢ And make him draw a cheque on Coutts’s for ten thousand pounds, before we let him go. They Pass that jug this There you are!” do these kind of things quite commonly in Italy. The prisoner is kept while some one goes with the cheque, and if that some one does not return, in a certain time, the prisoner is shot!” “ Shot ?” said Brads, Shucks whistled. “But I would not go that length, of course. It would be murder,” “Very like it.” “But his fears will make him think that wa should have no such scruples, and the money would be got, and then we divide it, and go where we please with our respective shares! What say you?” Ss eit eta wi pela — LLL LLL LLL ALC CLL LL LLL LL LA A OL CLL CC LL OCCT LITE CCE: THE DARK WOMAN. “J agree!” said Brads. “And I!” said Shucks; “but we must both get a little better than we are now.” “OF course,” said Jack, “and you can lie by quietly here until you do, while I will go to London and make the necessary inquiries, so that we may be certain of our game when we seek it.” “Jack, you are a trump!” said Brads. ‘A out and out trump!” echoed Shucks. “« Good night! Shucks rolled himself up on the floor, and fell fast asleep. “That ain’t a bad idea,” said Brads. ‘I feels as if I could sleep for a month,” * Rest, then, in safety,” said Jack. ‘I am not fatigued, and am much in the habit of keeping watch in the night time. The storm has abated, and I may perhaps look out upon the Heath ; but be assured you are both in the most perfect safety here.” Before Jack had got to the end of this speech, both Brads and Shucks were fast asleep. CHAPTER XXVI. ALLAN FEARON FINDS THAT HE HAS AN ENEMY WHO IS NOT TOC BE DESPISED, AND ONLY ESCAPES WITH HIS LIFE, We have casually stated that Allan Fearon was in the service of a manufacturer of gold lace, and a man who dealt generally in ornaments, swords, buckles, and all the paraphernalia of military and ornamental state and magnificence. The employer of Allan was dealt with by the Court, and particularly by the Regent, who had a sort of Oriental taste for such matters, being always fond of what was glittering, and presented many colours to the eye. Upon this fact, then, that Allan Fearon was in the employment of one who was dependent upon Court, Sir Hinckton Moys founded his hopes venge upon the young man. hat he should forget or forgive the affront that had been put upon him in Covent Garden Market, was not a likely thing. He felt the most bitter and vindictive revengeful feelings against Allan, and he could not rest satisfactorily until he had planned and executed some revenge. It would have been quite easy, considering the influence that the Regent and his satellites had over the gold-lace merchant, to have induced him to discharge Allan from his service. A very few words, indeed, would have sufficed for such a purpose, but would that be revenge enough for such a man as Sir Hinckton Moys? Certainly not. Something more complete, more subtle, and more diabolical, alone would suit him. That something he set about as soon as he could free himself from the entanglements at the Palace, consequent upon the affair of the mock marriage with Annie Gray. Little did poor Allan imagine that he was about to become the victim of a plot as cruel as it was wicked. Indeed, in the pure mind of this noble-hearted young man, there could be found no defence against the machinations of such a person as Sir 83 Hinckton Moys, because he, Allan Fearon, could have no conception of such baseness. It was asif one man were to attack another with some terrible destructive weapon, of which that other had no idea. The weapon was treachery of the worst descrip- tion. Brief was the happiness of poor Allan—brief and fleeting as a winter's day of that cold and sterile season, There was a strange feeling of coming misfortune on the mind of Marian, but she would not dim the happiness of Allan by forebodings ; and as they had put up the banns of their marriage at St. Martin’s Church, they looked upon each other with all the loving tender- ness of those who felt that their path in life would be the same, and that they should tread it together, with satisfaction and joy. To be sure, the conduct of Annie was one of those shadows in the landscape which lent a sombre tint to the happiness of Marian, but she strove to conceal the deep sense that she had of what she knew must be at last the unhappiness of Annie. And Allan knew well and respected the feslings that prompted Marian to say but little of Annie, although the frequent sigh and the silent tear would show that she was not absent from her thoughts. We will take one brief glance at those poor rooms in Martlett’s Court, which had been in the occupation of the sisters, but of which Marian was now the sole tenant. It is morning—not very early morning, for the season was one of such intense bitterness, that all the occupations of every-day life were put back, and people were loth to leave their beds, where alone they escaped from the chilling influence of the low temperature that still continued. Many, too, would not rise until the thousands of fires that were lit in London had had some effect, however slight, upon the general atmo- sphere. . But Marian Gray was not of that number; she had risen pretty nearly at her accustomed hour, and was busy at her work. She had drawn her little work-table close to the fire. It was but a small fire, for fuel was frightfully dear. The window-panes were covered with rich de- vices in frost, and there they remained, despite the fire in the room, Strange howling sounds came from the streets, for gangs of people, frozen out from different em-. ployments, were parading the thoroughfares, im- ploring charity for themselves and their starving families. It was a dreadful time for the poor. And Marian felt it bitterly—not so much on her own account, or for her own sake, but for the suffering she saw around her. Oh! what would she have done if that one gleam of sunshine which represented the love of Allan Fearon had not irradiated her heart. Her sister dead to her! No friend—no mother—no father! Poor, cold, and dependent, with the cries of famishing people in her ears! Alas! Marian felt that her courage must have given way but for the love of Allan Fearon. And now, as she sat at work in that cold, poor ens 84 THE DARK WOMAN, room, with the feeble fire in the grate, and thought of her sister, the tears fell one by one upon the glittering spangles she was fastening to some gaudy theatrical costume, and she sighed as though her heart would break. | But now she pauses. | The thread she was about to break hangs sus- pended in her hand. A bright flush begins to steal over cheek and brow. She casts one pardonable glance at the little cracked mirror which hangs over the chimney- piece. What has she heard ? | A step upon the stair. ' Ah! how well she knows that step! It is Allan Fearon. The cadence of it is one of the light and pleasant airs which haunt her mind. She cannot be deceived. It is Allan’s step; and, in another moment, there is a tap at the door. Marian presses her hand upon her heart for a moment to still its wild, tumultuous beating; and then her “‘Come in!” is in little more than a whisper. “ Dear—dear Marian!” “*‘ Allan—dear Allan !” They are hand in hand in another moment; and the cold, and the distress, and all evil and melancholy thoughts are forgotten as Marian looks in the eyes of her lover—of her husband. ‘‘T have snatched a moment, Marian, to run in to see you.” “Yes, Allan; it is very kind of you.” ‘* So selfish, too!” “Selfish? You selfish 2” Allan Fearon laughed. “Yes, dear Marian; for what can be a dearer delight to me than to see you ?” Marian now smiled, and she shivered slightly. “Ah! this room is so cold for you!” said Allan. “Y feel quite unhappy, when I am so warm at the warehouse, which has so many fires in it.” “But I am glad of that, Allan. At least, you owe Mr. Webber that much, since he shows a consideration for his employed people, and keeps them warm!” Allan shook his head. “Qh, no, no!” “No, Allan, do you say?” “Yes, dear! It is to keep the rust from the military accoutrements, and the damp from the gold and silver lace, that Mr. Webber has the great fires for.” “Well, Allan, you must take, you know, what good comes without too severely criticising it.” “YT will—I do! But surely, dear, you might have a better fire?” Marian shook her head. ‘Did you see in the Courier, Allan, that a whole family of poor people were frozen to death at, Lambeth ?” “No; but it is very sad.” ‘“‘T will not complain, for I am not frozen to death, you see, Allan.” “You tremble, though, with cold.” ‘These spangles are like little bits of ice. But I am so much warmer now. I think, Allan, you must have brought with you some of that warmth you talk of at Mr. Webber’s warehouse.” “Would I could!—would I could! But now, dear Marian, I want to ask you something.” “Yes, Allan.” “Do you think that —that-——” A | a oa Ra earring pty nn gna i entertains ~ — you had some money, and I wanted some, and— and—that is to say, if I—no, I mean you—I want to ask if you would think me unkind if you could help me, and I were, in the pride of my heart, to refuse to let you ?” “Oh! yes, I would; because you know, Allan, that if I could help you, and you would not let me, I should say, ‘Oh! pride—pride! why will you make my Allan refuse me a great pleasure ?” “That is it!” said Allan; “ that is it!” “ But I cannot help you, Allan!” “You can help though, dear, refusing me a great pleasure.” “* Ah, I see! . “For I can help you!” There was a jingling sound on the table—it was the sound of money. Marian turned very pale. “Nay, do not look so, dear Marian! I have more money than I want. It is cold and metallic —I want it to turn to light and warmth here, for you. ‘Take it, dear Marian, for are we not one in heart and soul—one in love—and shall we not soon be one in all things, when our union is complete ?” Marian burst into tears. “Dear, dear wife! you will not refuse me this great pleasure ?” “No, Allan, no, I cannot—I will not! Heaven bless you ever, Allan! I have not broken my fast to-day; and—and until this bit of spangled . robe is finished, I shall get nothing.” “Good heaven!” said Allan Fearon. He clasped Marian for one moment to his heart, and then, without another word, he ran from the room and from the house. But Allan was not long gone. He came back with a basket on his arm—there were in it hot rolls, fresh butter, delicate slices of ham, tea and coffee—quite a repast; and then, with tears in both their eyes, this happy pair sat down and partook of what he had brought; and Allen wou! put on all the fuel that Marian had ate the fire, and it burnt cheerfully and well, an? room glowed with warmth, and the frost upon i.e window panes melted away—away like human hopes—away, too, like many human fears; for imagination conjures up as many baseless appre- hensions, as it does glowing images of happiness, that never dawn upon the heart. Little did Allan imagine that there was a sea of troubles in store for him, and that that was the first and last meal that he and Marian would ever partake of together in those rooms. And little did she fancy that there was a cloud rising from the horizon of her happiness, that would overcast it all, and make her heart bleed with agony. The villain Moys was at work. At that very time that Allan Fearon and Marian Gray were enjoying that little extempo- rised breakfast, in Martlett’s Court, the private carriage of Sir Hinckton Moys was standing at the door of Webber, the gold-lace merchant. A very little inquiry had let Sir Hinckton know that that was where Allan Fearon was em- ployed, and his errand was one of woe to him. The lace merchant was all obsequiousness, for he knew the position which Moys held with the “ That what ?” i ‘That you love me well enough that if—if trench han aoe ase mer aren ratin sh eaaabataaientatestienl THE DARK WOMAN, Regent, and anticipated a good order; for which, although he might not be paid for some years, yet as he meant to charge double price, was quite as well. With many bows, Webber marshalled Sir Hinck- ton to the warmest part of his shop, and then rub- bing his hands one over the other, he put on that ballet sort of a smile which tradesmen delight in, as he remarked, ‘Still cold, Sir Hinckton Moys! The weather still very cold!” “ Very.” “ A good deal colder than yesterday, I think, sir !” “ Likely enough, but I don’t know.” “ Of course not. Of course not, Sir Hinckton— it’s only the lower classes that it is of much im- portance to, and that don’t concern us.” “Not in the least. The Regent wants new sword-knots, and a complete new uniform as Colonel in Chief of the Cavalry.” “Yes! Certainly—certainly !” “And if you have any new embroidery pat- terns, his Royal Highness would see them.” “Ah!” sighed Mr. Webber, as though his feel- ings were quite overpowered at the recollection; “we have asweet thing in gold, now—quite new !” “Very well! You can send it te the Palace.” Webber bowed low. “© And I want, for myself, a new uniform as De- puty Lieutenant.” “Tt shall be made, Sir Hinckton.” ‘Have you any bullion sword-knots, very rich.” “The best!” “Very well! Send some on approval with the embroidery patterns.” “T will, Sir Hinckton. Do you think, sir, that there is any change in his Royal Highness ?” “ Well—yes !” ae Ah ) ‘“‘ A little stouter, I fancy.” ‘Then I shall have to get a look at him!” You had better. To-morrow, or the next day, yon.can.come, stand in Willes’s room, and see his wi -oghness as he passes, and then you can jw .»if any alteration in the patterns will be re- quited.” “Certainly, Sir Hinckton—certainly! I thought his Royal Highness was getting stouter.” “You had better not say so where he can hear “Very well! I think that is all.” Sir Hinckton rose and made two steps from the fire, and then, while a glance shot from his eyes that would at once have let any one know he was full .of evil thoughts, he said, “By the by, Webber, you have in your employment a young fellow of the name of Fearon ?” “‘T have, Sir Hinckton.” ‘He seems a very good sort of young man ?” “Very. He is honesty itself, and he is as diligent as he is honest. He is really a treasure. I reduced his wages two shillings, and he only said, ‘ Very well.’” “Ah, well, well! I think—if——You know you send to the Palace to-day ?” “*T certainly shall.” “It will be as well to send him.” “T will, Sir Hinckton.” “The Prince likes, if by chance he sees any | 85 one, that they should be something superior to common porters or messengers.” “IT will come myself.” “Certainly not—certainly not! stand that quite clearly.” “Oh, yes, yes, Sir Hinckton!” “Very good! That is all, I think. Good day!” “Good day, Sir Hinckton,—good day.” Webber followed Sir Hinckton Moys to his carriage, and then the Court parasite turned, and fixing a look upon Webber, that made him shrink back, he said, “I would not have you let that young man know that I suggested his coming to the Palace. It might have a bad effect.” “A bad effect ?” | “Yes, Don’t you see, he would begin to think his fortune was made, and would be too proud to serve you.” “To be sure, Sir Hinckton.” ‘Don’t mention it.” “ Certainly not.” Sir Hinckton Moys was gone. Webber put his finger by the side of his nose, and reflected, “What does all this mean? What do they want with young Fearon? Who has taken a fancy to him, I wonder? The young fellow is good-looking! Lor’ bless me! who knows? Some Court lady, perhaps? I was going to take an- other shilling off his wages, but I will put the two on again. Who knows what may happen? Bless us all! Ah, Allan, my good friend, how are you now?” Allan Fearon had just retunred, radiant and happy, from his interview with Marian; but he was so astonished at this sudden kindness on the part of Webber, that he stood still on the threshold of the warehouse in surprise. ‘*Come in, my dear Allan,—come in.” “Oh, he is mad!” thought Allan. “Why, you must be cold!” “Tt is cold, sir.” “Come to the fire—come to the fire! We shall have some more snow ?” “] think so, sir.” “ Well, Allan, you took my taking off two Pray under- | shillings from your weekly wages so kindly that it has deeply touched me; deeply, here—here !” No doubt the lace-merchant meant to place his hand upon his breast, but not having a clear notion where that region was situated, he substi- tuted his stomach instead. ‘Indeed, sir!” “Yes. And to show you that such is the fact, I will not only put on the two shillings again, but add one more to your stipend.” “Thank you, sir.” “And I hope and expect that we shall always be capital friends, each always willing and happy to do what he can for the other.” “I hope so, sir.” “Tam sure of it. Hem! Well, when you are yuite rested, Allan, I want you to go to the Palace.” ‘* Very well, sir.” It was not a pleasant task for Allan to have to perform, but he did not think himself justified in making any remark about where he should be sent, so long as he took the wages of Webber. “Very well, sir,” said Allan. ‘I can go when you like.” LR NE REE ee a RL VR REN A RPE gga nn 86 “I will send a porter with you. some new embroidery patterns for the Prince of Wales to choose from; and you can take them in, and the porter will wait for you until you come out, you know.” | “Very well, sir; I am quite ready, whenever | you please to send me.” | The packet of new embroidery was made up, / and Allan, with a porter at his heels, made his way towards St. James’s Palace. Now, Allan could not divest his mind, as he went along, of thoughts of Annie Gray. He knew perfectly well that Sir Hinckton Moys, with whom she had gone off in the carriage from Covent Garden, was a‘Court minion, but he had no further information on the subject. Yet a sort of presentiment seemed to come over | him that there was more than met the eye in this message to St. James’s; and when he coupled it with the extraordinary friendliness and liberality of Webber, he felt convined that he was on the eve of some more than commonly exciting adven- ture. | Allan was right. CHAPTER XXVII. GIVES AN INSIGHT INTO THE INTERIOR OF THE PALACE, AND SHOWS THAT ALL IS NOT GOLD THAT GLITTERS. | Tue prognostication of Webber, the gold-lace merchant, that “We should have more snow,” was amply confirmed by the time Allan Fearon reached St. James’s Palace. The flakes of frozen particles descended with a | steadiness and perseverance that set at defiance | the north-west wind. | Allan was glad to honse himself in the Palace; and the porter at once made his way to the kitchen, where he knew he could warm his blood at a royal fire. There was one entrance to the Palace from one of the courts where all persons coming on such business as Allan’s had to go, and he was duly received by the servant in royal livery, who, when he said that he came from the lace-merchant’s, Webber, replied at once, ‘Oh, yes! that is right. You are to come this way.” Allan followed him. “This parcel,” he said, “is, I believe, for the Regent to see.” “Very well. Follow on!” The servant led the way up one of the back staircases; and then along a long picture gallery of portraits to a door that was covered with crim- son baize. _At this door the servant listened for a moment; and then he said, ‘‘ All’s right! Come on!” The crimson baize door covered an ordinary wooden one, and that led into the first of a suite of rooms, which were very costly in their furniture and appointments, and through which the servant trod with a kind of reverence, which impressed Allan with an opinion that they were some of the private apartments of the royal family. “ Are these the Regent’s rooms ?” he asked. “Well,” said the man, “they are, and they are not,—if you can understand that. He comes | | | THE DARK WOMAN. \ It is with | into them at times; but he don’t live in them. I thought some one else was here.” Allan did not like to say ‘*‘ Who?” so he merely slightly inclined his head in acknowledgment of what the man had said, and followed him. The whole suite of these rooms was passed through until they reached the last; and then the servant paused, and said, ‘‘ You will wait here.” ” ‘Very well.” “Mr. Willes will come to you.” “That will do.” “T will take your parcel to him, and tell him where you are. Pray sit down.” “Thank you.” Allan Fearon did sit down; and being alone, he looked curiously about him at the room in which he was. It was an octagonal shaped apart- ment; and the panels were half-way from the floor of polished oak. The remaining distance was covered with a rich crimson flock paper, with gilt flowers over it. The furniture of the room was very handsome indeed, although the gilding on the chairs was rather'the worse for wear. There were several doors apparently opening from this apartment beside the one at which Allan Fearon had entered; and there was one of those . doors which was open about two or three inches, and apparently led into another room, which, however, the natural good breeding of Allan pre- vented him even from looking into. Soon, however, he had cause to do so. Firstly, he heard a bell ring rather sharply; and then a door was shut rather hastily, and then he heard a voice. “Tt will not be possible,” said the voice, ‘to come to any decision on matters of taste without you. Come, now, what of these new embroidery patterns 2” The voice was not in the next room, but from a room beyond, the door of which must manifestly either be open, or it must communicate with the next room in some very easy way. The fact was, that the second room, in point of distance from Allan Fearon, communicated with the first one by meaus merely of a velvet curtain, which could be drawn over an arched opening that led from one to the other. On the side of the opening, though, that was next to the first room, there was, drawn right across, a heavy gilt sofa, which would be difficult to move. But Allan did not see either that or the curtains, as yet. It was the voice that spoke in reply to this demand for an opinion regarding the embroidery, that transfixed all his attention. | ‘‘ Really, I know so little about such things,” replied some one, “and Iam so busy trying on the sapphires you gave me, that I can’t attend— indeed I can't; and I want the sledge you pro- ised me, and the cream-coloured ponies to draw it, and I want the suite of miniver furs.” “You shall have all, my dear girl!” replied the first voice. Allan turned as pale as death, and then the warm blood flushed up to the roots of his hair. The female voice was that of Annie Gray—his Marian’s sister. The male voice was not that of the man he had EE Pe ARETE EN RIOT SS ee LS NE CSP ee at a) OE ee OR eh TE IN eed a as Sa hme Ser 5 i aie pee | : VE THE DARK WOMAN, assailed in Covent Garden Market. Whose was it, then? Whose could it be? The Regent's ! Then Annie was the last new mistress of the Prince of Wales. Allan clasped his hands over his eyes, as he moaned rather than said to himself, ‘ Unhappy, unhappy gitl; she little knows her fate! The toy of a few days—possibly weeks, and then cast aside to perish and be forgotten!” The conversation between the Prince and Annie Gray continued. The Prince was laughing. “ And so you will have a sledge ?” You said I should.” . “Well, you shall. winter.” “ Yes; and you said another thing.” “¢ What was that?” “That I should be a duchess.” “So you shall, you exacting little creature! And there was another thing I said!” “ What ?—what? I forget!” “JT said that if beauty made nobility, you would have all the titles in the world!” “ Ah, so you did!” “You wanted some money, too, I think ?” “Yes ; oh, yes!” “You said you wanted to send some to your sister, I recollect. You see, I forget nothing that you say, my dear!” ‘Well, well! on second thoughts, there it goes.” “ What?” “The bracelet. I have broken it, and the pearls are all rolling about the floor.” ‘“‘ Never mind.” *¢ Oh, I don’t mind a bit !” Annie laughed in a ringing, artificial sort of way, that struck with a cold chill upon the heart of poor Allan Fearon; and he thought to himself, “T would not have Marian hear that laugh for all the wealth in London.” “Well,” added the Prince, “‘ what were you about to say, you little provoking creature ?” “Why, I think, on second thoughts, that people who get their living by work and all that, ought not to be interfered with. So I won't trouble about any relations.” _ “You are quite right.” “Of course I am!” “T don’t trouble myself about relations !” “Oh, you are a Prince, and need not! are a King!” “Not yet.” “But you will be, as soon as the old King is dead.” “Oh, yes!” f “Ts he dreadfully mad ?” ** As usual.” ‘¢T should like to see him!” “You? Why?” “Tt would be such fun, would it not ?” The Prince laughed, and then Annie laughed. It was the same cold, glittering laugh that Allan had already heard from her lips. Then there was the sound of some light-ringing bell, and some chairs were moved, and some words were uttered in another voice; and Allan then heard the Regent say loudly, ‘Certainly, my dear, before ten; but it is a Council, andI must go.” It is indeed a Siberian You — 87 nese net Ts tres sn A door closed, and then all was still. Allan Fearon wiped from his brow a cold dew that had broken out upon it, and he could have wept to think of the degradation of the fair girl, who there talked and laughed the few smiling - hours away, before ruin and disgrace, and per- chance want, would be her portion. He was roused, then, by the-voice of Annie singing. It was the old song of ‘“Where are you going to, my pretty maid?” He had often heard her sing it at the poor rooms in Martlett’s Court, and it afiected him to tears to hear her now in her gilded cage. *‘T will speak to her! I will yet try to rescue this fair soul from destruction!” said Allan to him- self. ‘I will make an effort, even here, beneath the roof of thetempter! She shaJl not fall wholly un- aided! For the sake of love, of virtue, of Marian, I will speak to her!” The state of mind that Allan Fearon was in perhaps had the effect of greatly blinding him to the possible consequences of this movement he was about to make. He forgot that he was in the Royal Palace of St. James’s: he forgot that he was surrounded by the unscrupulous creatures of the Regent: he forgot the position which he held there, as the mere messenger of Webber: he forgot all, but that the sister of her whom he loved was there, and that it was yet possible for him to save her. He did not ask himself if it were not already too late. ‘6 Annie! Annie!” cried Allan Fearon, as he pushed open the door, the partial opening of which had enabled him to hear what hehad. “Annie! Annie, let me see you! Let me speak to you!” The room into which he hastily made his way was but a small one: there was no carpet on the floor in the regular way, but over the middle of the floor, leaving a wide margin all around it of fine polished oak, there was a rich piece of tapestry, with a broad crimson silk fringe to it. A chair was in Allan’s way—a heayy arm- chair, that had upon its seat an ebony desk and some ornaments in china. The haste with which Allan flung the door that divided him from this room, and the headlong way in which he entered it, made him overlook the chair for a moment. He struck against it, and it was prejected for-~ wards hefore him into the middle of the room. At that same moment, Annie, hearing his voice pronouncing her name, which she may or may not have recognised, drew aside the tapestry curtain which shut the room in which she had been con- versing with the Regent from the other. She appeared on the other side of the weighty sofa we have before mentioned. “ Annie! Annie!” cried Allan Fearon. * Allan Fearon here !” she exclaimed with un- feigned surprise. The chair that he had projected before him paused in its career in the middle of the room, and in another moment the square of tapestry carpet sunk and doubled up around it, and chair and carpet were immediately precipitated through what was then a palpable square hole in the very centre of the floor. Allan had just time to recover enough to stop himself, or down he must have gone after the chair. 88 THE DARK WOMAN. Annie Gray uttered a cry of surprise and terror. Allan, with his hands above his head, looked the picture of astonishment. . ‘““Good heavens!” he cried; “ what is this ?” Annie was now as pale and blanched as if death were about to claim her as its victim. Then, as they both fixed their eyes upon the open chasm in the floor, they saw that it was slowly and gradually diminishing. From both sides there crept onwards two sliding pieces of flooring, and then they joined in the middle, and the floor was whole. But the carpet and chair were gone. And had not Allan in his haste encountered that chair, he, too, would have gone. Was it a plot? Was it an accident, or some demoniac design for his destruction ? If he had heard the awful imprecations of Sir Hinckton Moys, in a room below, when the chair and the carpet came down without Allan, he would have been able to come to some conclusion on the subject. The fact was, that this trap in the floor was one of the secrets of old St. James’s Palace, when that suite of rooms formed a portion of the old monas- tery on which it is founded. The plan was one concocted by Sir Hinckton Moys. He knew of the opening that by a simple means could be left in the floor, and it was he who had ordered Allan to be placed in a room where he could not but overhear the Prince and Annie. He trusted that something of what had happened would happen, but he only failed in the principal part of his design. Allan did rush forward, regardless of all possi- bilities and consequences, to speak to Annie, but he did not fall down the trap in the floor. No wonder that Sir Hinckton Moys was furious. Then Annie, with a look of terror, and so faint an expression that it was doubtful if she might not then and there fall into a swoon, stepped back and sunk upon a sofa that was in the room beyond. Allan rapidly recovered his powers of speech and action, both of which had been for a few moments suspended by the startling event we have described. He bounded forward, and with a. leap cleared the panels which had closed over the aperture in the floor. He was wise not to trust them. _ He sprung over the heavy sofa that filled the width of the arched opening between the two rooms, and he stood before the shrieking girl, to remonstrate with her—to call up in his aid, her' better nature—to implore her to save herself ! Sir Hinckton Moys had failed in bringing’ about the death of Allan, which he would have: said was entirely his own fault, for intruding im portions of the Palace where he, had no right, and! he ae done the last thing he would have wished to do. He had brought about an.. interview betweem Allan Fearon and his victim., Annie Gray. Annie trembled excessively. She felt as if Allan came armed with an authority to tear her away from the scene of her -zuilty splendour, and for the moment all the pans and agonies of re- morse came over her. Allan spoke to her. With what a voice he spoke—what a compound it was of grief, remonstrance, and affection ! ‘‘ Annie, Annie!—in the name of heaven and of earth—of God in heaven, and of your pure and gentle sister upon earth—I conjure you to have compassion !” “ Compassion ?” she faltered. ‘Yes. Upon yourself—upon yourself, Annie ! With me—with me, now! I implore you to come with me! Oh, save yourself, and fly from this place!” 6b Fly °” She seemed to speak as if she hardly knew what she said, and as if she could only catch at some word of his to repeat. “Yes. Fly from despair, from degradation, from guilt, and from misery! It cannot be too late !” “Too late!” she said. “Oh, fearful words! ‘Too late!’” Annie burst into a passion of tears. She wrung her hands—she screamed and wept. “Come, come!” said Allan. “TI will fight a passage for vou, if needs be, from this place. Only come! You will find affection where you ever found it—on a sister’s bosom! You will find protection from me! Come, come, come !” But with that passion of tears, all the despair and all the feeling of this young girl seemed to have passed away. She had been, so to speak, taken by surprise; and the sight of Allan had brought back to her thoughts of the period of her innocence, when she was with her sister, poor but happy. She, perhaps, knew too well likewise that those fatal words, ‘Too late!” were true, and so she resolved to brave the fate she could no longer control. Pride took possession of her. Annie stopped her tears. She rose and stamped on the floor. ‘How dare you?—how dare you? What am I to you?—what are youto me? I am what I am, and all your squalid poverty, your fine senti- mental misery, I cast from me! I will not come with you!” * Alas! alas!” “Yes, I scorn you; and you can tell my sister, who has sent you——” “No, no !” “You can tell her that she is at liberty to take her course, and that I reserve to myself the same liberty to take mine !” Allan was silent for a few moments, during which he looked compassionately, and yet with some mixture of surprise, into the face of Annie. “Can this be possible?” he said. / “T do not contend or reason with you Begone !” ‘“‘ Annie Gray!” “T will not hear you!” “Farewell, then, once and for ever! I have but one shadow of a right to speak to you!” ‘None! none!” “As your sister’s husband !” “But not mine! Begone! I will not be lec- tured! I will not be remonstrated with, or threat- ened by you! I hate you!” “T do not want you to love me. But, oh, Annie, it is yourself that I do not wish you to hate!” “ Begone, I say !” ee ce ANS en : “ - RRR IAS SEA SR Litiheng | ema ten eres a Tie er recor ene 99 ed Spee eee ecu (rn SB THE DARK WOMAN. \\\\ \ N\\ ‘\ ‘ . \ \ \ wi \ AN\\ \ \ \ S Ni SS % \WA So WD 7 Wh Uf bine “One moment!” “Not a fraction of a moment! help! Iam mistress here !” Oh, wretched word! Annie screamed with passion. She seized a small bell that was upon a marble table, and rang it furiously—so furiously indeed that she defeated her own object, and scarcely produced any sound from it at all. Allan Fearon bowed his head before the storm of rage and violence. “Be it so!” he said. “ Annie Gray, farewell!” He vaulted over the sofa, and passed through the room with the trap in it. He had forgotten it; and had not the boards been then fast in their places, he would still, with his eyes open to the danger, have met with the fate that had been de- signed for him, and Sir Hinckton Moys would have been gratified. , But such was not to be. No. 12.—Dark Woman, I will ring for Allan reached the room in which he had been waiting in safety. He closed the door of communication between if and the room with the trap; and as he did so, he said in mournful tones, “ Yes, she hag said it! It is too late to save her!” : Looking evidently frightened, the same servant who had with such particularity shown him into that room, entered it. “ The—the Regent hag seen the patterns.” “ Well 2” ‘‘And—and his Royal Highness will let Mr. Webber know as to which he approves.” “That is well! You will be so good as to tell his Royal Highness from me, Allan Fearon, that, he or his assistants are very clumsy, when they open a trap, to leave anything in the way.” “‘The—a—his Highness—I don’t comprehend.” “T am sorry to think that you do comprehend, and only too well.” Le nee re rire rsa neil Gp ee Lge a CC CY “PECL CLO ADEE RL AO NGL LOLA DLO LODO Ph ON ten Ce = on eneean 90 The servant, who was a creature of Sir Hinck- ton Moys’s, said not another word, but preceded Allan from the Palace to the door at which he had entered it, and then summoned the porter to ‘carry the parcel of patterns for him. As Allan passed out, there was a pair of eyes watching him from a small round window in one of the turrets. Those eyes belonged to Sir Hinckton Moys, and as he saw the young man depart unscathed, he muttered to himself, ‘‘ We shall meet again! Yes, we shall meet again! Revenge will keep !” ae CHAPTER XXVIII. £HE DARK WOMAN RECEIVES SOME IMPORTANT INTELLIGENCE, AND MAKES A NEW ALLY IN SIR HINCKTON MOYS. Ir was rather late on that same day that Allan Fearon had run so fearful a risk at St. James’s Palace, that the Countess de Launy, alias the Dark Woman, sat in that small private room in her magnificent West End house, brooding over the past and the present. She was awakened from her reverie by an an- nouncement of a visitor, by the page who spe- cially attended upon her; and finding upon inquiry that this visitor was no other than the Regent’s valet, Willes, she ordered him to be at once ad- mitted. Willes had quite a budget of intelligence to give to her, whom he now looked upon in the light of some one employing him, and to whom his best services were due. Fear of what the Countess knew was however “ mainspring of Willes’s actions in regard to er. Willes approached with a humble look and bowed low, as he said, “‘Madam, if you will be good enough to hear me, I have quite a strange story to tell you.” “Of the Palace ?” “Yes; it happened at the Palace!” ** Go on.” “It appears then, my lady, that the girl who is named Annie Gray has got a lover !” “Indeed! Well, after all, it is not to be won- dered at !” “Yes, my lady ; and he and Sir Hinckton Moys, as I find from Jobbins, Sir Hinckton’s own man, had quite a sort of fight together: and strange to say, that very young man was sent to the Palace by Webber, the gold-lace man, with pat- terns for the Regent, and Sir Hinckton tried to play him a trick.” “What trick ?” “Merely to let him fall through a trap in the floor, about twenty feet.” ‘Did he fall ?” “No; he had good luck.” Willes then detailed to the Countess what had happened to Allan Fearon, and added, “I know, from what Jobbins tells me, that Sir Hinckton Moys would do anything in the world for any- body who would help him to revenge on Allan Fearon.” ‘ * Indeed !” “Yes; and so I thought.” as THE DARK WOMAN. ““ Well, what did you think ?” “T thought that, as he was on such good terms with the Regent, and knew all his secrets, that if you were to make an alliance with him, promising him revenge against Allan Fearon, and giving it to him, that he would do all you might wish in the Palace, and with the Regent, in the way of finding out anything you might want to know.” A look of satisfaction came over the face of the Countess as she replied, “‘ You are right. And I may tell you that I have a higher appreciation of your ability than I had, Willes.” Willes bowed. ‘I will think of it.” “Do, my lady.” | “This Sir Hinckton Moys is a bold, bad man ?” “ Just so.” “Who has neither conscience, humanity, nor pity 2?” “ That’s him!” said Willes, eagerly. The Countess reflected for a few moments; and then she added, “‘ You know well the house of the astrologer, Astorath ?” “'Yes!—oh, yes!” “Are you aware if Sir Hinckton Moys ever visited him ?” “T don’t think so.” “Find a means, then, of insinuating that, in addition to foretelling the future, and finding out the past, Astorath can help people safely to re-— venge.” “T will.” ‘Let me know, then, if he should say he visit the astrologer; and when.” “It shall be done.” “ And this girl—is she content ?” “ At present, yes.” ‘¢ How long will it last ?” “The Regent will be tired of her, I daresay, in about a couple of months.” * And then ?” ‘‘ She will be sent away.” “To starve ?” : Willes shrugged his shoulders. “She may do well enough if she looks well about her; but if she should turn disagreeable and troublesome, why she will be taken care of.” ‘‘ How ?” “ A madhouse !” The Countess shook in every limb. “Yes, yes,” she said; ‘that is it! But. she may possibly escape; and, with the desire of vengeance in her heart and brain, will—will Go on! What were you saying? What else have you to tell me, Willes ?” ‘‘ Nothing, madam, but that I am now, as ever, at your service in all things.” “That is well. You shall find that my service is one that never goes unrewarded. It involves protection as well as payment.” Willes bowed low. The Countess inclined her head, which Willes, with his Court culture, took as a hint that he might go—in fact, that his audience was at an | end; and he departed at once, with every demon- stration of respect for the mistress he served better than he served his master, the Prince Regent. The Dark Woman remained for a long time alone, and in deep thought. Then she rang for | will ice. AE ge. PPS encarta ere enhaen eetaareiny \ nce et ee aes . ss weenie on 4 eds . THE DARK WOMAN, the page who attended upon her, and gave an order that Binks should come to her, The ruffianly criminal whom she had saved from prison and from death was soon in her presence. He was called, not by his name, in the household of the Countess, but by a number— Number Two was understood to mean Binks. So Number Two made his appearance; and the Dark Woman looked steadily in his eyes as she said, ‘‘You have been but a short time in my service ; nevertheless, I desire to know if you are satisfied with it ?” “T am.” “¢ Fully 2” “TY should think so!” “That is well! I.now wish you to go-to the City, and to make inquiry carefully and cau- tiously, by no means letting any one know that it is on my account, what became of the men who were fired at by a party of the Guards in a house in Doctors’ Commons. dead and the wounded amount to the number of | thirty.” “ All right !” Binks left the room without the least show of respect or ceremony. The Dark Woman looked after him, and mut- | tered to herself, ‘‘ An useful and unscrupulous tool with which to work out my purposes—then to be broken and cast aside, as I will break and cast him aside! I have but respited him for atime from } the death which shall yet be his, because I want him. All goes well, surely, now! The old King cannot live long; then the Prince Regent will be king; and then that woman whom I hate—that Caroline of Brunswick, who has fallen so low that she is the mistress of one of my creatures, the valet and courier, Bergami, shall be divorced— and, possibly, executed. Ay, that would be better! Let her guilt be proved, and let her head fall on the scafiold! Then I will put in my claim to be Queen of England— Queen Consort of George the Fourth! The Princess Charlotte shall wed with this unscrupulous and. penniless adventurer, Leo- pold of Saxe-Coburg; and then, if she present an heir to the throne, she dies!—she and the heir both!—and my son, who, I feel assured, lives— for thrice has the oracle said so—will yet live to be king !—king! Yes; my son a king!” Such were the wild day-dreams of the disordered imagination of this most extraordinary woman, who, although she might fail in carrying them out, so far as their results were concerned, yet accomplished so much to change the whole com- plexion of English society, and to disturb the succession to the throne of these realms. How far she did succeed, and by what terrible means she brought about her sacrifices, it is our task to narrate. There was one thing, however, which may well excite the surprise of the reader. Knowing well, as she did, the impostures which had been practised by Astorath, the pretended astrologer, and having, indeed, taken his life with the same ease as though he had been, as he was, in truth, but an ordinary trickster, it is one of those things that present human nature in its most inconsistent lights, to believe that the Dark Woman was herself a victim to the chicanery and the trickery of supernatual influences, and of the quackery and imposture which affects to see a insight into those more subtle and recondite mys- I want to know if the | 4 brown cloak, lined with fur, a girdle, on which 91 beyond the present, and to prognosticate that which is to come. The same fraudulent empiricism with which she imposed upon others imposed, too, upon her, We shall see that that infirmity of imaginative people—superstitious credulity—-was a component | of ber character. All that was required was that the processes and the ceremonies should be more subtle and more elaborate, and the Dark Woman was then herself as much the victim of superstitious fancjes as the most ignorant of the dupes of Astorath, the ) astrologer, of Frith Street, Soho. | It is now our business to give the reader some teries of divination which are only to be found in rare places in London and the other great capitals of the world, and which are only exhibited to the fully initiated and the adepts. | The Dark Woman waited alone in her house. until the last vestige of daylight had passed away, | and then she rose, and repairing to a dressing- { room that was on the same floor, she attired her- i self in a dull grey costume, putting round her waist, which she afterwards hid with an ample were some strange mystic signs, or letters, or words, in some forgotten language and alphabet. She then ordered her carriage, and desired to be driven to Kensington. That suburb of London was by no means so /populons as it is at present; and after leaving Knightsbridge there was a long lapse of open country, or rather road-way, which on each side was only bordered by trees and hedges. Of course, the old wall of Kensington Gardens filled up a- portion of the space to the right, but houses were few and far between. About a quarter of a mile, though, on the London side of Kensington, there stood a red- brick house, which was enclosed on all sides by a wall, overtopped with the most luxuriant ivy. It was at the iron gates of this house that the Dark Woman ordered the carriage to stop. The evening was somewhat clearer than usual, but the frost was still severe; and she knew that the horses, and the coachman, and the footman, could not stop an hour at those gates without the risk of being frozen past power of recovery. “You will go back,” she said, ‘‘so as to keep the horses in motion; and then you will rest for one half-hour, and then come here again. meet you on the road.” The servants of the Countess de Launy were too well used to her strange orders, and too well paid, to think anything of what she did; and they turned, and, with the carriage, trotted off to London again, as if nothing in the least unusual was in the transaction. The Dark Woman walked until the carriage I may was some distance off, and then she applied for admission at the red-brick house. | But it was not in the ordinary way that she so applied. There was a bell to ring, but she did not ring if. A small, square piece of metal was let into one of the gate-posts, and this she pressed with her finger, and it, with ease, sunk into the wall, being propelled back again by a spring. The moment she so pressed this piece of metal an explosion toole place somewhere in the air, ———— a aaneaeaneneneenmememnemennmennennenemnemnsts STS are MPR oF AE 9s ARERR LS UR ny ee re Sn een ne THE DARK WOMAN. apparently about half-way between the gates and | to the depth of about twelve feet, when all was the house, which sounded like thunder. The gates then slowly, and without apparent human agency, opened. The Dark Woman passed into the garden, and the iron gates closed with a clang behind her. The garden was very dim; but the Dark Woman seemed to have an impression that she was not alone, as she walked towards the house, for she turned more than once to her right, and spoke. “(Tam one who must know that which can be shown.” Something then seemed to rush past her; but it was more like a sudden gust of wind than any- thing tangible or human. She reached a flight of stone steps, which she ascended; and then the door of the house opened, and she passed on into the hall, but she saw no one. The Dark Woman paused in this hall, and spoke. “An inquirer still,” she said; ‘“‘ but yet one of knowledge. I come for the last proof! I am willing !—I am willing, and I demand it !” Then a voice from out the darkness replied to her, ‘Daughter of men, be content! Thrice has there been an answer from those who know! Seek not to seo the speaker! Be content!” “No! I was promised !” “Ay, if you made up the will! nature could endure the trial!” “‘T have the will, and can endure it! I demand it! By the mystic essences to which I have been near-by the rank I hold—by the power that I have, and by the insignia of the girdle I wear, I demand the last proof !” ‘*Demand, then !” replied the voice. The Dark Woman paused a moment or two, and then she said, “In the hollow of a hand where blood lay curdling, I have seen an answer, and it has been ‘Yes!’ On the faint air, laden with the perfumes in which things of another world may for a short time live, I have heard the answer, and it has been ‘ Yes!’ But I would see one who can speak to me!” ‘The dead ?” said the voice. “Yes, the dead !” ‘““You demand that proof?” be I do \?? A rolling thunder seemed to shake the house at this moment to its foundation, and the voice spoke slowly and solemnly: ‘“‘ The spirits are displeased and unwilling, but it shall be done. Come!” Something touched the arm about the shoulder of the Dark Woman in a strange scratching manner, as though pulling her forward, and she became aware, in the faint light which her eyes were getting accustomed to, that it was the arm, and the arm only, of a skeleton, the long bony fingers of which were, in a half-paralysed, nervous- like way, trying to pull her to the right of the hall of the house. A sickening kind of shudder passed over the frame of the Dark Woman, but she recalled her courage, and in a voice that was still firm; she said, “I come !—I will follow!” A door opened to the right of the hall, and she stepped into an apartment, if it could be so called, for it was not above five feet square; and the moment she was fairly within it it began—that is, the floor of it—to descend with her, and went 4) If human ren = 4 ee mn meee ef tee gRee ee LL LLL AIT FELL CARAT a i pe ee ee firm again, and a door opened before her, and she stepped at once into a spacious hall, which was_ hung all round with black cloth, and which was lighted by what looked like a spear stuck in the rotten floor, from the point of which shot up a strange lurid-looking flame to the height of about two feet. . There was close to this spear a chair, from which, as the Dark Woman glanced at it, a hideous snake slowly drew itself, and glided into a distant corner of the room. Then a rushing sound, as if many birds had winged their way through the place, was heard, but there was nothing to be seen. “Ts it still demanded ?” said a voice. “Still!” was the Dark Woman’s reply. Then, from some hidden place, there came dense volumes of a white aromatic-smelling vapour which completely filled the place, but that did not last for long, and when it cleared away there stood in the room a figure attired in a scarlet cloak, and with a glass mask, of a green colour, on its face, through which the features and the eyes could be seen, but of a horrible colour and aspect. ‘‘T am here to do your bidding!” said a deep, hollow voice from behind the mask. “TI know,” replied the Dark Woman, “that you have power over those things which are not mortal, and well I know that there are many who arrogate to themselves such power, who are but weak impostors.” “It is so.” “ But I say that in you I have faith.” The figure inclined its head. “If there be such things as spirits,” said the Dark Woman then, as if trying to find excuses for her own acknowledged credulity,—‘“ if there be such things as spirits--and who will say there are not ?—it is possible that there may be means and powers by which they may be summoned to communion with mortal life.” “It is so.” “T demand, then, such communion!” “Daughter of mystery and child of power,” said the man in the green mask, “be content! It may be that we should summon a malignant spirit.” “* What can it do?” “Its powers are unknown.” **T wish but to ask two questions. I bring an offering, not of gold, but of some fair jewels, such as can only be rarely found deep in the crevices of the earth! I know well that there are mortal natures which must be fed with gold, and that the illuminati of which you are one, and of which I am one, have dependants and earthly state to look to; so I bring an offering which can be turned to wealth.” “ Of what colour ?” ‘¢ Red—red as the last glow of the setting sun.” “ Rubies 2?” ‘One ruby!” “That is well. Had the gem been of another’ complexion it would have militated much against our powers. As it is, it must be sacrificed!” “ Sacrificed 2” “Yes, Be composed, for I must begin. I hear some sounds that warn me.” Close to the foot of the spear, at the end of | } inna THE DARK WOMAN. which was the light which shed so strange and vivid a lustre over the room, there was a vessel of bronze apparently, which stood upon a small tripod, and which the Dark Woman had not noticed until the singular personage who was speaking to her moved it forward a few feet. “Give me the jewel !” he said. ‘‘ We will try to propitiate the spirits by offering it in flame.” “Will it burn ?” “Yes; in this liquid of flame.” - Liquid of flame ?” ‘“‘Byven so. In this vessel is some of that water from the spring that flows through the centre of the earth, and which at once consumes anything cast into it.” There was not the least appearance of flame or the power of combnstion about the limpid-looking fluid in the bronze vessel. ‘ Give me the jewel!” said the masked man. “Tt is here!” “ Ah, a rare one!” “Tt might go in a king’s crown!” “It might, indeed! But we will try its powers over the wild fancy of the spirits. Next to life, they like the world’s wealth to be sacrificed to them.” ‘“‘Tt is worth a thousand pounds!” **So much ?” “Yes; but I freely give it.” “It is well!” The masked figure at once cast into the bronze vessel the ruby, and a hissing flame in a moment burst forth, and the jewel appeared to fly round and round the vessel, as if seeking for escape, and emitting flames until it was all consumed. “Tt is done! I will now, daughter, endeavour to summon such an existence as you desire; but I pray you to be guarded and careful!” “In what ?” ‘‘Not to cross the circle within which I would fain conjure the spirit.” “ T see no circle !” “Tt must be made; and there is but one way that will succeed. No ‘being of another world can bear to touch human blood.” “ Blood ?” “Ay, blood! And we must have enough with which to trace a ring on this floor within which to confine the spirit, or woe be to us!” The Dark Woman was silent for a few moments ; and then she bared her arm, and, stretching it towards the man with the ereen-glass mask, she said, ‘‘ Take sufficient! I am willing!” “You are bold!” “T should be bold. That which I have to do is of the essence of bold deeds. 1 do not shrink! Take it!” The man in the glass mask seemed, for some few moments, to be lost in admiration of the courage of the Dark Woman, for he was silent until she had again repeated the words, “‘ Take it! I am willing !” “T will take it; and well do you deserve that all your wishes should be fulfilled. But who can Ma the decrees of fate? What will be, will be!” “T know that well,” replied the Dark Woman. “Tam not here to control, or to attempt to con- trol, the decrees of fate. My object is to catch, through the mists that envelope the future, some knowledge of what those decrees are.’ eee ee ee ene eee! 93 “You shall be gratified. Do you feel pain?” As he spoke, the masked man had slightly wounded the arm of the Dark Woman with a small stiletto. The blood came forth through the small puncture languidly at first, and then in a fuller trickling stream. The Dark Woman had smiled at the question if she felt pain. She made no reply to it. Then the masked man drew with the blood a rude circle on the floor of the room, and, as he did so, there seemed to come through the air of the place strange cries and screams of distress. “The spirits do not like to be controlled,” said the necromancer ; “but they will yield to neces- sity.” The cries ceased. “Now, be still!” said the operator in these mystical rites,—“ be still, and all will go well! Ah! the vapour is coming about us!” ‘What vapour ?” “ That which precedes the presence of the spirits. I will speak to them !” Then, raising his voice almost to a shout, he added, “ Approach! Approach! Thus far, but no further! To the confines of the yet living- life-fluid, which your true senses scent from afar, approach ! Spirits from the earth’s limits—from the cold moonbeams that play around the hoary head of the high Chimborazo—from the hot, seething swamps of Afric’s central heats—spirits, I summon you—I summon you!” The vapour, which was of a white consistence, something like an antumnal fog, filled the entire place, so that it was with difficulty that the Dark Woman could see the figure of the necromancer, close as he was to her. Then he said suddenly, in a low, sharp whisper, ‘¢ Who is present 2?” “‘ Here!” replied a soft, mysterious voice. ‘“Who speaks ?” “Slave’s bonds bound me in life. I was the plaything of a déspot, and disported in my gilded fetters on the banks of the Bosphorus.. Your call reached me, and some subtle essence wafted me hither.” “* What know you?” “ Nothing.” “Away! We want you not!” A shriek filled the air of the place—a shriek, so startling in its intensity, that even the Dark Woman, well strung as her nerves were, very nearly darted from the circle, with a desire to fly from the place. “What was that? Ob, what was that?” she said. “Ash ! hush!” ‘“*T am still.” “That foolish shade must have touched the blood circle, and so felt a most exquisite agony. It knew nothing! I will call another!” The necromancer now threw some powder into the same water which had appeared to consums the ruby, and a greenish light flickered from the surface of the fluid. That light was not sufficient to pierce through the mist, so as to make anything visible in the area around it. But it had the effect of altering the colour of the vapour, which now looked like a haze of green fog. The necromancer spoke again. ‘Who is present?—who is present? I hear A TR SR I Tf ern ape eae pene HEE RSG TE OPS INE TERN AES SRS FCI CN Hea a ent aa ‘Woman,—“ now is your time! 94 8 ROS RETESET, TUSSI ONE CR a Re te SIR ee phn pa cers ater teaiettennn ee THE DARK WOMAN. . sa = “ee piticneacantal . the rush of spirit forms past me! Speak, some one !” “T!” cried a voice, with such startling distinct- ness that it seemed close to the circle. “You can speak ?” **T can!” “ Are you a spirit of knowledge ?” ce I am 1” “If we ask, do you feel compelled to answer ?” “T do feel compelled to answer!” “That is well, Daughter, ask for yourself, and you will receive replies!” “Can you vouch their truth ?” asked the Dark Woman. ** T cannot. it may lie, although I think not. the truth from it if I can !” The spirit may be misinformed, or I will terrify There was a sharp, crackling noise, now, as of something rapidly consuming, and long, forked flames shot up from the vessel, in which had ap- peared to be some water. Two or three deep groans now came upon the ears of the Dark Woman. ““ What is that?” “The spirit. You will hear! depart in peace !” “You know I cannot!” “Ah! can you not? And wherefore can you not 2?” “You have cast into the fire some portion of a human form, and the odour has reached my senses. I cannot stir until it has departed! It is going !” ‘Then, spirit, speak truth while you may not depart, or I will cast upon you a particle of human blood, which, you know, will inflict upon your fine essence such exquisite torture, that your cries will awaken pity in the hearts even of the condemned !” “T will be truthful.” “* Now,” whispered the necromancer to the Dark Ask what you would have answered, before this spirit takes his flight, for the power that fixes it here is fast evaporating, and I cannot renew it!” The Dark Woman spoke at once. “ Spirit, who am I?” “A thing of power, because a thing of evil.” “‘Ah! say you so?” “It is said.” “What power have I?” 3 “You should have the power of an earthly sovereignty.” “You are right. “To you?” “To me.” ““T will look! Isee you now. You are ona throne; and I hear the bray of trumpets. There are above you the tall aisles and the graceful tracery of some old cathedral.” ‘Ah! I shall be crowned! What more?—oh, what more? Is my heart quite cold; or is there any one whom I love among the sons of men?” “There is ove.” * Look at him !” “T see one. He is young; and has the look of a king, gr the son of a king.” ‘ He lives 2” “He does live. He is not one of us. There waves above his head a triple plume; and round his knee is a circlet of high nobility. A star glitters on his breast; and men do him homage.” Spirit, you may What will happen?” land’s throne! ““My son!—my son! He lives; and will yet be Prince—Prince of Wales, and beir to Eng- Oh, look again! Look further still into the coming time, and look for me—for me, I pray you!” ““T see a mist.” “‘ A mist ?” “Yes. I know not what it is; but, through it, I see a figure, with frantic gestures, gasping for the breath of life.” ‘What figure?” “Tt is dark.” “Look further! Pierce with your spirit’s eyes the dim obscurity! Tell me all!” There was a wild, unearthly screaming laugh in the air, and then all was still. “ Speak !—speak !” cried the Dark Woman,— ‘speak, I charge you! I must and will know more!” “Tt is in vain to ask,” said the necromancer ; “the spirit is gone. Be content.” ‘¢ Content ?” ** Yes, you have heard much.” ‘* Be it so, then. Let what end come that fate dictates, I shall yet be Queen of England! That was my coronation the spirit talked of; and my son will hold the rank of Prince of Wales! Let death, then, come at last—as at last to all it must ever come—in what shape it may, I shall not have lived in vain !” The white mist—for it had turned white again as the flame that had tinted it had passed away— was now rapidly dissipating, and soon the Dark Woman could see the astrologer, necromancer, or whatever he chose to call himself. There was a pungent odour in the atmosphere which was grateful to the senses, and the Dark Woman felt that her strength and spirits revived beneath its influence. She spoke in a voice of exultation. “Tam content !—I am content! The course I am even now pursuing must be that which will end in the fruition of all my hopes! I am most abundantly content!” Within another few minutes she had left the place, but there was a wild, unnatural lustre in her eyes which looked like incipient insanity. rd CHAPTER XXIX. SIXTEEN-STRINGED JACK AND HIS FRIENDS MAKE A BOLD ATTACK ON THE REGENT. Ir has been already mentioned that at East Sheen, which is close to the Royal Park, at, Richmond, and where there was once a royal palace, the Regent | had an abode, in which he was in the habit of | holding some of those celebrated suppers which | have become matters of royal domestic history. The taste for purely physical enjoyment which characterized the royal family of England, in common with the Bourbons of France, was by no means a slight or unnoticable component of the existence of the Regent, afterwards George the Fourth. The people he collected about him were all dei. vivants. In fact, the age in which he lived either was one which by its own love of sensual enjoy- . ments lent a countenance to the Court in such ee LT Ear CE ESI RSLS — :oReeeintenenmeeee ee ee ne oe Papier aman be tm ingame i THE DARK WOMAN, particulars, or the Court tinctured the age with its own coarse and purely animal vices; but cer- tain it is that, during the Regency, a man was more thought of and esteemed who could drink six bottles of wine at a sitting than as if he had made some intellectual effort which would have been the delight and solace of the world for ages. And the first epicurean of the age was most certainly and incontestably George, Prince of Wales, and Regent of the kingdom. It was three days, then, after the events we have last related as taking place in connexion with the personages who figure in this veritable history, that in a splendid room of the Palace of St. James, the Regent and Annie Gray were seated at supper. They were ostensibly alone, but Sir Hinckton Moys flitted in and out the room, and Willes was dozing by a fire in the adjoining apartment. To say that Annie Gray was reconciled to the life she was leading, would be to say but little. Her whole soul was submerged in the sea of guilty enjoyment, and she was fast acquiring that look so well known—so immediately recognised, and | yet so indescribable, which proclaims the woman of pleasure. The young creature glittered almost literally from head to foot with jewels. They had become a passion with Annie, and the dress she wore was one of the richest that could be found. Over it she had on an ermine lined cloak, or pelisse; for even into those royal apartments the cold of that unexampled winter would penetrate, despite the blazing fires that strove to check it at every turn. “Come, come,” said the Regent, “ you must not really, my dear, begin to pout, if I do leave you at times. Now, to-morrow night, for example, I must be away.” “And why to-morrow?” said Annie, with a stamp of her little foot. ‘Indeed, you shall not go to-morrow !” The Regent laughed. “You forget,” he said, *‘ who we are.” “We? we? What do you mean by calling yourself ‘We?’ You are not a king yet, and you know you can’t be till the old man is dead.” The Regent did not feel at all shocked at hear- ing his blessed Majesty, George the Third, called the old man. He only smiled, and replied, ‘ That is true; but it will be soon.” “Tm glad of that.” “Do you know that that is treason ?” “Treason? What’s that ?” “‘ Something that, in old times, used to endanger people’s heads, that’s all!” “Oh, my head is too pretty to be in any danger.” “T dont say that there is not something in _ that,” laughed the Regent. ““Of course there is. And now I will know where you are going to-morrow night.” “To a little party.” “Am not I little enough ?” “Ha! ha! You are a charming, provoking girl; but you mistake me. I meant a party of gentlemen. To supper, if you must know.” “Very well. I will go with you.” LOU r” ‘Yes, I!’ “You are not a gentleman ?” “ Pho!” call me.” 2 tne ttl i nN en mt ante ee mechan A Senn th nating nce Rt nn tn nme 95 Annie pouted out her lips in such a fascinating, insolent sort of way, that the Regent went fairly round the table to kiss her, as he said, “My dear, I don’t know what I could refuse ‘you; but you would be tired out among a parcel of men, you see; and then I should see this pretty little face looking as white, and these dear eyes as dull——_” “Treason! treason!” ‘Th 277 “It’s treason to say I can, under any circum- stances whatever, look otherwise than perfectly charming.” “ So it is !—so it is!” “Tt is. And if Sir Hinckton Moys and Willes ever say, or think, or look the contrary, I shall insist upon having them immediately executed.” “You hear?” said the Regent. ‘ Look out, Moys, for it is a sentence.” “Tt is one,” said Sir Hinckton, “that I should think I amply deserved ; and I should say to this queen of beauty, ‘Hang me at once—round your neck !?” Annie made rather a threatening gesture with a fruit knife, and Sir Hinckton Moys effected an immediate retreat; for only the day before she had found a pair of beautiful gold-mounted pocket pistols, in a dressing-case of the Regent, and had fired them both through the panel of.a door at Sir Hinckton Moys—in joke! But the tiny bullets, with which the miniature weapons were loaded, would have killed him had they hit him. After that, Sir Hinckton Moys was afraid that Annie was given to practical jokes. ‘Now, look here, George,” said Annie; “ one thing I notice that must be put right.” “ What is it 2” “The people about you don’t know what to “ Indeed ?” ‘“‘No, they don’t; so I mean to be made some- thing. I want a title!” “ Certainly.” ** A duchess, I think, I shall be!” ‘Tt sounds old, my dear.” “So it does, George!—so it does! won’t be a duchess ! —a marchioness !” “ Good !” “Can you make me a marchioness, George ?” “Oh, yes, with pleasure! I have only to call you by such a title, and it is done!” ‘Sure 2” “ Quite sure! de Blonde !” “What is that ?” “‘ Because you are fair !” “Well, I think that will do very well. Now I am a marchioness ; and you behave quite prettily, I declare! And I mean to go to your supper ; and, as they are all to be gentlemen, I will go in a pretty suit of gentleman’s clothes, and sit next to you, and be quite happy, you know!” “You wilful thing !” “Stop, stop !—don’t call me that! Treason!” Annie flung one arm round the Regent’s neck, and held a silver knife across his throat with the other hand, as she added, ‘‘ Now promise me all I ask, or cs ** Or what ?” Weli, I I will be a—a—let me see You shall be the Marchioness ; y aw? recent reeteoscencrenaneeree "ic neenennrr enna seca etreiree : She sawed the knife to and fro on his crayat. “‘ Treason !—treason !” “ Never mind!” ‘But, Annie, yon might cut me!” “Never mind. I want more diamonds!” “You shall bave them!” ‘*] want a thousand pounds to-morrow!” “ Granted!” ‘And I want to go to your supper-party in men’s clothes!” .. You shall.go in any clothes, or in no Murder! ‘Treason! . Annie, come now 4 “Don't say another word, then, and that’s setiled. Give me the thousand pounds now!” “But——’ . “Now! Now! At once!” “Moys!. Moys!” ‘t Yes, your Royal Highness !” ‘‘ Have I a thousand pounds ?” “should think your Royal Highness’s posses- gions, at this present moment, rather amount to about. as many pence.” ‘There now, Annie, you hear ?” ‘t To-morrow, then ?” Oh, yes, I will see to it to-morrow, if you wish, But yon are unreasonable now. You ask me all kinds of questions, and I reply to you; and you make me promise all kinds of things; but you have no confidence in me !” “ What do you mean?” ‘Come, don’t shake me, and I will tell you. In the first place, what do you want with a thou- sand pounds ?” “To give away.” * To whom ?” “€ Somebody.” **T guessed as much!” “Then you know ?” “ Just that, and no more!” “Then I will tell you. I don’t want to be feeling unhappy, even at odd times, about my sister Marian. .Let her have a thousand pounds, and then I shall feel at peace about her.” “Oh, very well! Be it so.” “You consent ?” “fol” “Then I don’t hate ‘* Hate me?” Annie laughed, and replied by a caress which, as she was the last new favourite, pleased the Regent, and they continued their supper on the best of terms. How different a scene was enacting on that Same evening in Martlett’s Court, Bow Street, where Annie’s sister Marian was keeping out, as best she could, the bitter cold from her humble home! How different, too, the aspect of affairs around poor Allan Fearon, whose mind was full of anxiety on Marian’s account, and of plans for her future comfort and peace! In that dreary and gloomy cavern, too, on Hampstead Heath, where Sixteen-stringed Jack and his daughter had found a refuge, there was, in truth, none of the light and warmth that made an atmosphere of pleasure around the Sybarite Regent and his light-minded companion. A slight snow-storm had taken place in the afternoon, and the snow lay upon the old Heath about four inches in depth. It was a most perplexing circumstance to Six- you half so much.” THE DARK WOMAN. teen-stringed Jack and his friends that such should be the case, for it effectually prevented them from leaving the cavern without such a track being left in the snow as would certainly lead some curious eyes to their retreat. Owing to the unexpected presence of Shucks and Brads, the store of provisions in the cavern had fallen short; and there was some prospect of famine, if means could not be found to replenish the store with safety. Both Brads and Shucks had sufficiently re- covered from their hurts to be ready for any enterprise; but they were not at all inclined to be ou what Shucks called “half rations, with the chill on.” When night fell on the old Heath a bitterly cold wind swept over it—a wind which froze the life-blood of the birds in the trees, so that they fell stiff, stark, and dead to the ground. A wind that seemed sufficient to freeze the very marrow in the bones of any living thing. But the cavern was tolerably warm, thanks to the good store of turf, and charcoal, and dry wood that Sixteen-stringed Jack had in it. “Tf,” said Jack, “it would only snow again before the morning it would be all well, as the snow would soon cover up all footsteps, and I would go to the village and get provisions.” “ Ah, to be sure!” said Brads, “if it would.” “But it won't,” said Shucks. “ Look you here!” added Sixteen-stringed Jack. ‘You two go to the village, and stay there until some snow does come down. I will go after you as far as the edge of the Heath with a bough of a tree, and brush away the footsteps as I come back.” ph a de “No, no!” said Brads, ‘ Let’s stay here, and sleep it off. I can hear the wind howling on the old Heath at a-furious rate, and I am_ not altogéther so strong as I was some time ago.” ‘What is that?” cried Shucks, suddenly. __ There was a strange noise without that sounded: as if some one was shaking clothes just at the entrance to the cavern. 3 Sixteen-stringed Jack sprung up to a small orifice, through which he could catch a glimpse of the external night, and then he came instantly back, and said, “I never saw such snow-flakes iu my life as those now falling.” — “Snowing?” exclaimed Brads and Shucks, both at once springing to their feet. “Yes, so thickly that it would be almost enough to beat one down; and yet a more favour- able opportunity could not be found than this for leaving the cavern.” Lucy was half-slumbering in the recess of the cavern that was divided from the portion of it in which Jack and his two friends were, and at these words she called out, ‘Father, father! I will come with you!” “‘ Dear child, it is not possible.” ‘‘ Not possible ?” “No, my dear Lucy. We shall only be absent, I hope, a day and a night. Do you not think you could endure the solitude of this place for that time ?” Lucy burst into tears. “My dear child, what is it? What would you say? Speak to me freely!” 3 ‘Father, you have thought me strong and re- solved, and capable of much suffering, because I go! THE DARK WOMAN, Hi) tee <4 AN i Se a) NY \ \" | \ Vid \ i y Wl Be LY, LTA. AOE = sae @N SSS : =" mot a GINS g ES Z Fee ESS ~ << FEA Pa SSS SS LLL IT AE SSNS) (215 | << . 4 i) i) UE 43 = have, without a murmur, lived with you in this | place; but my strength is not my own strength. {t is your strength. You comprehend me? I can stay here with you; but without you I am only a poor timid girl, and I dare not stay.” Sixteen-stringed Jack looked perplexed. ‘* What shall I do?” “You will let me go with you, father ?” “ Tmpossible !” “Oh, do not say that! Where you go, I can Do not say impossible! I will not impede you! Nay, 1 will be of all the service I can to you! With you I am strong, resolute, fearless! It will only be without you, now, that I shall be a poor, helpless girl!” “T have a thought!” said Jack. “What is it, father ?” “Listen to me, Lucy. You knuw that you ean depend upon your friend, Marian Gray?” “Oh, yes, yes!” No. 13.—Dark Woman. “T will take you to her. She will afford you anasylum. I feel assured she will; and you will be a thousand times happier than you can be here.” Lucy was silent for a moment “You hesitate, my darling child! Is there a reason why you should not meet with one whom you love,—and who, I feel assured, will be kind to you?” *‘But one reason, father. What shall I say to her? How shall I tell her that I cannot have full confidence in her? You know, dear father, that I cannot tell her all.” “Ah, I see now!-~I see!” . For a moment or two, then, Sixteen-stringed | Jack looked troubled, and he clasped his hands | together as he said, ‘‘This is all along what I feared. This is why I for so long denied myself the sweet solace of a daughter's love, This is why I made myself a stranger to my own child, —s nN RR IRE NC I Tt tT NT I 98 I feared to shut her out from all other companion- ship. I feared to erect a barrier between her and the world. It has come to that at last!” “ Ah, but, father,” cried Lucy, as she flung her arms around his neck, “what have I not gained by the exchange?” “Gained, my Lucy?” “Yes, a father’s love, which outweighs all the world! Now I feel strong again! Now I will stay and wait for your return in patience—in cheerfulness! I comprehend all things better now! Leave me here in security, father, and all will be well!” “Only until this adventure is at an end, dear one! Then I will adopt some plan by which both you and I will be in safety.” Sixteen-stringed Jack had quite made up his own mind that if he were successful in the attack upon the Regent, which he had proposed to Shucks and Brads, that with his share of the booty he would leave England, taking Lucy with him. Man proposes, but God disposes! Sixteen-stringed Jack was not fated to carry ouf any such intention, as we shail see. All being now, however, arranged, Jack and his two new companions left the cavern on the Heath in the midst of so furious a snow-storm that both Shucks and Brads had to hold on by the saddle on each side of Sixteen-stringed Jack's horse, in order to get in safety to the village of Hampstead. _ That terrible snow-fall, however, had the effect they wished. As fast as they made a track in the snow, the heavy flakes fell into it and effec- tually obliterated it. In this way, then, they made their way to Hampstead; and there both Shucks and Brads hoped that there would be no difficulty in hiring horses. But they were mistaken. An application at several ofthe stables in the village was met by an indignant refusal, and the little party found themselves, just as the old church clock of Hampstead was striking eleven, compelled to seek shelter under the archway of a court at the back of the village. It was fortunate, now, that the cold was not near so intense as it had been, in consequence of the snow almost completely putting a stop to the keen wind that had been blowing. “‘ What is to be done 2” said Jack. “Oh, you ride on!” said Brads. ‘ You are mounted, and can reach East Sheen, and put up at the inn, where we all know that no questions will be asked. You can then wait till we find some means to join you.” “J don’t like that!” “‘ Hush!” said Shucks. ‘‘ What’s that ?” The sound of horses’ feet came quite plainly upon their ears, and, in a few seconds, there stopped, quite close to the archway in which they were, a couple of mounted men. One of these men dismounted at once; and, casting the bridle off his horse to the other, said, ‘‘ Keep near here, Joseph. I shall be about half an hour; but don’t let the horses get, frost-bitten by standing still!” “Verily, no!” said the other horseman,— “verily, no! I will even walk the beasts about.” The person who had dismounted soon disappeared THE DARK WOMAN. round a corner, and then Shucks whispered to Brads, ‘‘ What do you call that? Eh?” * Luck!” ‘To be sure it is! Captain, what do you say?” “Why,” laughed Sixteen-stringed Jack, “I must say that if you two don’t get possession of those horses it will be an odd thing to me!” ** Very odd!” said Shucks. “Uncommon odd!” said Brads. “ But I think I can help you,” added Jack. “TI will ride up to the off-side of the groom, while one of you spring into the saddle of the horse he is leading !” “ All’s right!” Jack quietly walked his horse out in the direction the groom had taken, and soon came up with him, The moment he was exactly alongside of him, Jack said, ‘‘ Whose horse is that you are leading, my friend?” ; “Yea, I know not why you, who are, most likely, an irreligious man, should ask of me that question; but, if you must know, it is even the steed of the Reverend Josiah Pimpkin. Hilloa! What is this?” ‘“Only me!” said Brads, as he spraug into the saddle of the Reverend Josiah Pimpkin’s horse. The groom was jammed in between Jack and Brads, and the former said to him, “If you par- ticularly want a half-ounce bullet in the few brains you have, you can have it!” ‘Murder !” “Silence! On your life, silence!” “YT will—I won’t—I do—oh, dear! What do you want, gentlemen? I will tell you all! The Reverend Josiah has come all the way in the snow to see Mrs. Grover. Oh, dear! She is a chosen vessel, and the Reverend Josiah has chosen her!” “That’s his affair,” said Jack. ‘You will be so good as to dismount.” “Oh, dear, no! I really——-What is that? Is it the weapon called a pistol ?” “Tt is; and that portion of it called a trigger will be pulled in another moment, if you do not dismount, as you are ordered.” “‘T yield!—I yield to persuasion !” The groom dismounted; and Shucks was, in another moment, in his place. “ Forward!” cried Jack. They dashed into the high road, and, at a rattling pace, made their way towards London. It was past midnight when the three horsemen pulled up at the door of a small hostel, close to the village of East Sheen. The house was shut up; but from a little window that was high up in the thatched roof, and looked like a little eye there placed to look down the road, there gleamed, faintly, a light. “ All’s right!” said Jack. ‘' Here will be food, shelter, and information, with Tom Beans of the ‘ Bugle.’ ” Jack rapped with the butt-end of one of his holster-pistols at the door of the inn, and pre- sently a window was opened in the side of the house, and a lond voice called out, ‘ Who is it ? Who is there ?” ‘Have you any highwayman in your house, my friend?” cried out Jack. ‘‘Now, confound your assurance!” said the landlord; “what do you mean by that ?” . “Simply, that if yon have not, you may have by letting me in.” pee AA LF PRODI CMT ENA NAN IMO E RS pt AR NIN, see nee tne t DAOC, a nt oe eo ne sovner eae cA AAD, TORINO ARNE AAALAC LIED =? ORO OR OLE AR Re THE DARK WOMAN, a * And who is ‘me?” “Why, sometimes I wear no strings, and some- times sixteen.” “Good gracious! it’s Jack himself!” “No other!” said Jack. “One moment!—one moment! I’m coming!” The door of the “ Bugle Inn” was soon opened, and the landlord, who knew Jack quite well, welcomed him and his two friends most cordially. A queer, red-headed boy, who seemed either to be half-asleep or half-witted, was summoned to take care of the horses, and they were soon snugly housed. Then the landlord took Jack, and Shucks, and Brads into a room, where a fire still burnt in the grate. “You are welcome,” he said, ‘‘as flowers in May; but I should think the roads were bad now 2” . “So should I!” said Jack. “And yet here you are! luck ?” “Not yet. But we hope to have. we do, we want to be snug here.” “You may be as snug as you like in this house, ‘as no one knows better than you, Jack.” “T do know it. Is the old hiding-place all the same ?” The landlord looked disturbed. “Come, come, Beans, these are true friends, you may depend; so you have no cause to be shy before them. And when I tell you they are a couple of Paul’s Chickens, you will feel quite easy about them.”, “T do, indeed! And is it possible that you are two Paul’s Chickens ?” “ That’s about it,” said Shucks. “Why, the news came down to us that they were all killed,—having been found out and be- trayed, orsold in some sort of way, by a female woman.” ‘You may call her such,” said Brads; “ but, for my part, I begin to think she is a fiend. Don’t speak of her, thovgh, for it makes me ill to do 50.” ‘ “Ts there anybody in your house?” asked Jack. “ Well, there is!” “Who is it ?” “T only wish I knew; but it seems to me as if she was some great lady, by the way she speaks to her man-servant.” “Indeed! What is she like?” “That’s a puzzler !” “ How do you mean ?” “Why, she is like two people in one! When first she came, she seemed to mea fair sort of lady, with light hair; but she went out this morning—- for she only came last night—and then she was as dark as dark could be! Hush!” ‘* What is it 2” ‘“ That’s her, by Jove!” “ What ?” “She is coming down stairs. Quick! Into the old hiding-place! I don’t want her nor any one else to see you, Jack! There you go! All Have you had any And until tight !” The landlord had hastily laid hold of one side of _ the old chimney-piece, and the whole structure at once turned on a centre, and showed that there was | behind it a recess or closet, which would con- _ Veniently enough accommodate four or five persons. Jack, and Shucks, and Brads were in there in rs a moment, and the chimney-piece was in its place again. “Good bye!” roared out Beans the landlord, as he darted to the outer door, and then pretended to be coming back to the room, At that moment a door that was connected with a staircase opened, and a female stepped into the room. Jack, and Brads, and Shucks, all saw her through a purposely contrived slit in the chimney- piece. They all knew her at once. It was the Dark Woman! oe CHAPTER XXX, THE DARK WOMAN TRIES TO DISPOSE OF HER ENEMIES, lor what objects the Dark Woman had found her way to the “Bugle Inn,” near to East Sheen, neither Sixteen-stringed Jack nor his two companions could possibly diviné. But about her identity there could be no mistake whatever. On this occasion, Linda, as the Prince Regent had called her, and which was doubtless her real name, was attired in much the same way as the men naming themselves “ Paul’s Chickens” used to see her. She had on the dull, dark apparel; a few braids of jet black hair strayed from a peculiar head-dress; and the face had the dull, saturnine ap- pearance which some nations possess where dark blood flows beneath the surface untinctured by any warmth of colour. There can be no doubt, and there need be no coubt on the mind of the reader, that this woman was really fair, and that the apparent darkness of both hair and complexion was due to the art with which she disguised herself. The very fact that she had been at one time the admiration of George, Prince of Wales, speaks most significantly for the fairness of Linda; for it was well known that that illustrious personage had a predilection for fair women, although par- taking much of that complexion himself, which makes the fact rather surprising, inasmuch as tastes generally go by contraries. But be this as it may, the Dark Woman now presented an appearance which made her perfectly well known to Brads, Shucks, and Sixteen- stringed Jack. The feeling on the minds of Brads and Shucks, that she had been the cause of the fearful catas- trophe that had come over the band of Paul's Chickens at Doctors’ Commons, almost amounted to a certainty ; and now to see her safe and un- injured, and apparently quite heedless of the fate of those who had built up for her a considerable fortune, was too vexing for the patience of the old associates. ** Confound her!” said Shucks. ‘There she is, and you and I, Brads, owe her something.” “She owes us, you mean.” ‘‘ What does she owe us ?” “Why, our share of the booty which has been collecting for the last two or three years in her hands, and which was to be divided among the © ““ Chickens” whenever they thought proper. “To be sure !—to be sure!” “ And besides, you know, our shares come to a LN ONT ISS A SL LR CR A A A SAE a er | 100 pretty penny now that the others are settled ; for it was always agreed that whenever the division took place the survivors were te have among them the shares of those dead.” ‘© Ah, yes! Why, then, we are rick “‘T should say so.” ““Then here goes!” “Hold!” whispered Jack. intend to do, my friends ?” “Why, what I intend to do,” said Shucks, ‘is just to step out of this place, and ask her ladyship there to be so good as hand out what she owes me.” “ And I, too,” said Brads. “‘ Let me advise you,” added Jack. “'To what ?” “To discretion. It will be easy at any time to make that demand upon her. It will be far better now to find out what her business here is, Hush, she speaks now !” The Dark Woman had turned towards the door of the apartment, and in an imperious voice she said, ‘‘ Are you the landlord of the house ?” ‘‘T am,” said Beans. ‘‘Ts it much frequented ?” “ At times it is, madam.” “ But if it were full, and you could not accom- modate by any possibility another guest, you would say as much to any one applying for shelter ané accommodation ?” “Well, yes, I should; but I should want twenty people in the house for that to happen !” ‘“* Then from this money pay yourself for twenty guests. I wish to be alone here for a time; and I hire your whole house !” As she spoke, the Dark Woman laid upon the table in the room a heavy purse of gold. The landlord was far from being displeased at such a customer, and he said at once, ‘‘ Madam, you may depend upon it that no one shall interrupt you!” “‘T shall stay the whole of to-morrow, and per- haps the whole of the next night—certainly a part of it. I like this room, and will make it mine.” “This room, madam ?” “‘'Yes; and why not?” “ Why—a—you see, madam, this room-———’ “Well?” “It is one that I and my people constantly come into. In the cupboards there are stores, you gee, madam. And, in fact, i¢ is a room, take it altogether, that 1 never let to any one. I use it myself.” The Dark Woman looked suspiciously around her ; but she could see nothing to excite her fears or her speculations in the room. “It is strange,” she said, ‘‘that after hiring the whole of the house, and that, too, at your own price, I am not permitted to choose which room in it ] may call my own!” Jem Beans looked rather perplexed; but he said, with the air of a man who had found out the solution of a difficulty, “I will clear out of the room, madam, all that I can possibly want, and then you can come down again to it!” ‘Be it so.” The Dark Woman then opened the door by which she had entered the room, and ascending about twelve stairs, she found herself in the apart- ment to which she had been originally introduced on arriving at the “‘ Bugle Inn.” 19> “What is it you ’ I re ere a ee mer ee eR RT SA ES EO RI 7 THE DARK WQMAN. That apartment was a long, straggling one, not exactly on the same floor as the room with the secret receptacle behind the chimney, but very nearly so. As was the case with many old houses at that time, and as is the case with many that still exist, the upper floor had the rooms on different levels, so that, at times, you had to descend a step or two to reach an apartment, and then again to make an ascent to another. This room, then, into which the Dark Woman made her way was on the same floor, although not on exactly the same level, as the apartment which might be called Sixteen-stringed Jack’s. There was one portion of the wall of Linda’s room which adjoined the other one, and she had had her curiosity quite sufficiently awakened by the evident and mysterious hesitation of the land- lord of the inn to let her have that room, to induce her to make some exertion to discover its true reason. The object which had brought the Dark Woman to the inn was one which rendered every possible circumstance of importance. That object was a fearful one! Through the information of Willes, who had paid her a visit for the express purpose of telling her so much, she had ascertained that, on the succeeding evening to that on which Jack and his companions had reached the ‘‘ Bugle Inn,” the Prince Regent was to proceed to East Sheen, for the purpose of holding one of those wild, licentious supper-parties, which she (Linda) knew well, inasmuch ag she had been at one or more of them. Willies had overheard the arrangement made with Annie Gray—or the Marchioness, as she now called herself—to the effect that she was to accompany the Regent in male attire. From this information, the Dark Woman had elaborated a plot, which, while it would gratify her own jealous passions, would, she thought, strike such terror into the mind of the Regent, that he would be much more tractable in her hands than he had yet been. There is no doubt but that the vein of super- stition that ran through the mind of the Dark Woman had really induced her to believe in the prediction that the day would come when she would be crowned Queen of England; and her son—that son in whose existence she fully be- lieved, but on whom she had never looked—would be the acknowledged Prince of Wales’s son, and, when George the Fourth should be king, the heir apparent to the crown. That she was in error as regarded the laws ap- pertaining to royal marriages is probable enough; but what she relied upon was the fact that, having resisted the importunities of the Prince of Wales to become his mistress, he had, at length, sworn to marry her, and had actually produced a written consent from the King. : The marriage had then taken place in due form; but that the consent of the Crown was a forgery there could be no doubt. Still the Dark Woman had her wrongs. And she believed, too, that she had certain rights, which she set her life upon attaining. Her object, then, in this expedition to the “Bugle Inn,” which she knew well the Prince Regent must pass in a private carriage, in order RR rR bg ee ELON OE) PTT og TURIN mo RT en THE DARK WOMAN, to reach the villa at East Sheen, where he carried on his orgies, was of a fearful character. By the aid of that beld, unscrupulous man, whom she had taken from Newgate, and devoted to her service, the carriage was to be stopped, and, possibly, overturned; at such a place, too, that there would be no resource but for the Regent and Annie Gray to take refuge at the “ Bugle Inn.” She intended, at the moment when her adherent was in a position to give her notice that the accident to the carriage had taken place—and which he was to do openly, and aloud—to relax in her requirement to have all the inn to herself, in favour of the persons in the carriage. Those persons—namely, the Regent and Annie Gray—she knew well would not proclaim who they were; but would be glad to house themselves until another vehicle could be procured. Then would be the opportunity of the Dark Woman. She meant to poison Annie by placing some deadly potion in whatever refreshment she should partake of at the inn, and to make then her ap- pearance to the Regest in so melodramatic a ’ manner, that for all time he should think that to avoid her would be an impossibility. There were some little difficulties in the way of the Dark Woman in carrying out this little plot. One of them was to prevent the Regent from partaking of the poison along with Annie Gray. To overcome that difficulty she trusted to the moment of action and its inspirations; for nothing was farther from her intention than to compass aught against the life of the Regent, on whom all her hopes of ambition hung. Such, then, were the intentions of Linda; and it was a strange thing that she, as well as Sixteen- stringed Jack, and the two Paul’s Chickens, should have pitched upon the “‘ Bugle Inn” as the place wherein to concoct a scheme of action which was to perplex the Regent. As for the landlord of the inn, he trusted, now that he had so good a customer in the lady who bad hired his whole establishment, either to per- suade Jack and his two friends to go, or to keep them concealed until she had taken her departure. But the brain of the Dark Woman was of too plotting and politic a character not to have some- thing more than suspicion of danger, possibly to herself as well as to her plans, from the manner in which Beans had persuaded her to leave the room, No sooner, then, had she got into the apartment which she had originally occupied at the inn, than she set about endeavouring to procure some infor- mation on the subject. The house was but a small one; and Linda thought it very probable tbat could she see through the wall of the room she was now in, she ohms command a view of the room she had just eft. Taking, then, from a small, square chest, that she had brought with her to the inn, a beautifully constructed implement of steel, she fixed a little point in the wooden wall, and then there was a sharp, grating noise for a moment, and an exactly round piece, about the size of a sixpence, was taken out of the wood-work. All was dark beyond. Linda then projected through this small orifice in the wainscot a long, slender rod of ivon. It went abont six inches before encountering any opposition, and then it touched wood-work. There were two portions divided from each other by upright and slanting timbers. The Dark Woman was foiled for a few mo- ments, and she looked around her with a glare of anger in her eyes, by the light of the wretched candles which the ‘Bugle Jan” had afforded to her. Then she uttered an exclamation of satisfaction in a low tone. ‘Yes, yes; that will do!” she said —‘ that will surely do! I have it now!” There was a cupboard in one corner of the room. It was locked, but Linda, with great dexterity, picked the lock by the aid of a beauti- fully made picklock, which she had along with her keys in her pocket. The cupboard was spacious and empty. The wainscot at its back was surely single. A moment or two more, and there was a little round hole drilled in it, and then she saw into the next apartment. A cry of satisfaction very nearly broke from the lips of the Dark Woman. It was the room she had left, and in it stood Beans, the landlord, in an attitude of intense listening. ‘‘ By Jove,” he said, ‘I thought I heard some- thing! What was it ?” No doubt it had been the slight noises made by the Dark Woman in picking the lock of the cup- board, and in boring the small round hole in the pannelling at its back. She kept now so profoundly still that she could scarcely be said to breathe. “No,” added Beans, ‘‘ I suppose it was nothing, after all. I must get Jack to go, or to take up his quarters in the stables.” The landlord then went to the moveable chim- ney-piece, and moved it on its centre, as he said, in a subdued tone of voice, ‘Come out, Jack—come out, all of you. I suppose you have seen and heard what sort of a customer I have in the house ?” ‘‘'Yes,” said Jack, as he emerged from tha recess behind the chimney-piece, and was closely followed by Shucks and Brads,—“ yes, Beans; and we fancy we know her better than you do.” “You may easily do that; for I don't know her at all.” ** And we know her too weil,” said Shucks, “‘ Too well 2?” “Yes,” added Brads, ‘Sever so much too well.” ““-You, too,” said Sixteen-stringed Jack, ‘ will know her when I tell you who she is, for you have heard of her. She is the Dark Woman!” ““You don’t mean that? The Dark Woman who was at the head of the band of Paul's Chickens—the Dark Woman that the police have been after for more than two years, and never can catch ?” “The same.” “Why, what in the’ name of wonder does she want here ?” ‘That I cannot divine,” said Jack, ‘‘ But my two friends here are very glad to see her.” Are they ?” “To be sure we are,” said Brads, “If any~ body you knew could pay, if they chose, owed you ever such a lot of money, wouldn’t you be glad to see them?” 101 ‘ ets a rar net RR an IT eT REI /Msiat Ace aca Betn a ne re NT SENTENCE PIT TE 102 na ee a ane oe meee nee ee THE DARK WOMAN. So be sure I would!” “Then that’s just it!” “ And we owe her something, too,” said Brads ; : “don’t we?” “ Rather!” replied Shucks. Beans, the landlord, looked from one to the other of them in some perplexity. “Well,” he said, “you must setile it among yourselves; only I wish you would put it off till she is going; because, you see, she has paid me for a quiet life all day to-morrow and to-morrow - night ; and there is such a thing as honour among thieves. You know why I want to do the right thing ?” “Yes,” said Jack; “and I beg to advise both of you, Shucks and Beans, to wait, if it be but for the purpose of finding out what the Dark Woman is about here. You know that I refused to join the band under her control, so she has nothing to say to me, nor I to her!” “What do you say, Brads?” ‘“T'm willing, Shucks!” “ Very good! Then, Jack, we will do as you say!” “Tt is wise.” “T¢ is their destruction,” said Linda to herself. ‘‘ Now I shall take several revenges in this house at once. I will, by the death of that girl, of whom the Regent is so recently enamoured, let him see that it is madness to oppose me. [I will finish the fate of the Paul’s Chickens, by the deaths of those men who have escaped the mas- sacre in the City; and I will be revenged on Six~ teen-stringed Jack, for he defied my power, and slighted my service!” Still, the Dark Woman, although she made these determinations, and felt satisfaction in making them, was full of curiosity to know what had brought Jack and his two associates to the inn. She eagerly listened at the little orifice in the panel, in order to catch every word that would enlighten her upon that subject, but no such word was spoken. ‘‘Now, what am I to do?” said Beans. “You all of you heard that she wanted to come into this room !” “We did.” “Well, when she says she will, she will, you know!” ‘““T know that, well enough,” said Brads. ‘‘ Beans,” said Jack, ‘it is quite out of the question for me to go. We are on an expedi- tion, and we must wait here till it is time to set about it. You must just find the way to accom- modate us all!” ‘Well, I suppose I must. little rooms in the loft?” “Not a bit.” «You can’t stand upright in them, Jack!” “TY will sit down.” ‘Come along, then; and don’t make any noise, for the life of you!” Jack, and Brads, and Shucks followed the land- lord from the room; and he led them by a little ricketty back staircase, that threatened to come down with a crash at every footstep, right to the roof of the old house, in which were those windows that looked like little eyes. There were two rooms, the one opening into the ether; and Jack, indeed, found, as the landlord Do you mind the eer A Re Beret eat eRe i es AY eee mee had said, that he could not stand upright in either of them. “T told you so,” said Beans. “Well, well; never mind. All I ask of you is to take good care of our horses.” “That you may depend upon, and I'll take good care of you, too, so far as provisions go; but you will be cold, for there is no fireplace in the rooms, you see.” “We must put up with that,” replied Brads. “To be sure!” said Shucks. “It was dread- fully hot last summer, and we can amuse our- selves by thinking back to it, Besides, I shall go to sleep.” * And J,” said Brads. “ And go will not I,” thought Sixteen-stringed Jack to himself, for he had made up his mind to try if he could not discover what the Dark Woman was about below. From the construction of the inn, he thought that. one or other of the attics must look down, provided he could see through the floor, into the rooms below; for the attics, although small, as regarded that portion of them in which you could either stoop or lie, in reality ran quite over the whole of the upper floors of the inn. CHAPTER XXXTI. MAKES SOME CURIOUS DISCOVERIES IN REGARD TO THE DARK WOMAN. JACK Braps and Shucks threw themselves down on to the rough mattresses that were on the floor of the attics, and drawing some horse rugs over them and a quantity of old clothes which were there, they composed themselves to sleep away the time. ‘You can call us, Jack,” said Brads, “if you should happen to want us.” “Ab, do,” said Shucks. “TJ will,” replied Jack. ‘‘ You can go fo sleep, both of you; for you will most likely be up all to-morrow night, and I don’t call either of you quite so strong as in a few days more you will be.” Jack was glad to see them both go to sleep ina few moments. Then he set to work thinking of the exact shape and make of the old inn. By peering out from one of the attic windows, Jack found that he was over the left hand side of the house as you go in at the door, and that was the side which was contrary to the one in which was the room with the secret recess behind the chimney. Jack thought, then, that the apartment in which the Dark Woman was would most likely be precisely uncer the attic he and his companions were in. Now, Jack had taken a glance upwards at the ceiling of the room with the secret recess, and he had seen that it was of wood. In fact, the whole house was so roughly built, that the roof of one room was the flooring of the one above it, with the exception that there were two rows of planks, the one the cross-way of the other, placed over joists of great thickness, which showed in the ceiling of the lower rooms. Little did the Dark Woman suppose that Six LER TS IR NEI, TRON RAR ee NRT NOT EST IY TE SE Ta PAE = ET ne a NE RE BE NRRL NOE Pt Acme GS Chat cit apetee aean erent EE TAT OO SR ptr nn armenrnnrnstnnneInnnannnnnaneentmneetnemtneeneenentithatenammeneanenemestemaenemenennemnmeneneaenensimeenetneaneenneiaiinennnmemmemmesettmmenecmnetetnes nee ae THE DARK WOMAN, teen-stringed Jack had the opportunity, and was about to play the spy upon her, in much the same way as she had so recently played it upon him and his two companions. Jack knelt down on the attic floor, and began a careful examination of it, until at last he found a knot in the wood, which, by the pressure of his fingers, he felt to be loose. This knot might or might not go all the way through the plank, but Jack set to work with his knife, and soon had it out. It did go right through, but then there was below the opening the row of cross planking that formed the ceiling of the lower room. Jack was not so fortunate as to hif upon a spot. in that lower flooring that had a knot in it, and he was compelled to set to work with his knife, which he did with the utmost caution, greasing the blade first in the tallow of the candle which the landlord had left them ensconced in a stable lantern. Bit by bit, Jack picked away the floor-board rather than cut it with his knife, and at last he felt certain he was nearly through it. He pierced with the blade of his knife, and it descended to the shaft. Then Jack cut away a splinter about three inches long and one wide, and he placed his eye to the crevice. Seated at a table, almost immediately below him, was the Dark Woman. On the table were some letters and papers which she seemed to have taken from a small leather case which lay close at hand. Before her likewise there lay a pair of silver mounted pistols and a long poniard, with a handle of ivory, in a sheath of velvet. The square trunk which the Dark Woman had brought with her to the inn was lying on the _ floor, and open. It was strange that she was speaking, as if to | herself, in a hissing sort of whisper, so low that | not a word could have been heard in any adjoin- ing apartment, however thin the partition. But Jack heard her. The low sounds ‘ascended, and as through the narrow crevice that Jack had made in the roof the air of the room below ascended, it brought its lightest pulsations to his ear, and he heard the words that fell from the lips of the Dark Woman. “Yes,” she said; “if I wade through more blood still, I shall, perhaps, reach the shore for which I pant. It were now more terrible—much more terrible to look back than to go onwards.” She stooped, and took something from the square box at her feet. It was a moment or two before Jack could see what it was. ‘This subtle essence,” added the Dark Woman, as from a case, that looked something like those used for mathematical instruments, she took a very small vial,—‘ this subtle essence contains a hundred deaths. It shall send one soul to its account to-morrow night!” The Dark Woman held up the poison-vial— the fearful agua tofana—between her and the light, and looked long and fixedly at it. _ “How strange,” she said, ‘that human nature should endure so many pangs, when one drop of this harmless-looking liquid will at once stop the machine of existence—and then an end of all me rera ores se ~ NAR OED LENIN ANNI cee R 0 ict AE ARRAN Nie SiaNNtIT neha ose 103 miseries! What is happiness but a comparative state—the absence only of misery? That absence is surely best secured in death! How well the dead sleep! I battle for a crown—for the ambi- tion of another—for mortal revenges, hates, and impulses, when I might, in one instant, be con- tent if I were but to take the stopper from this vial and place it to my lips.” For the space of about half a minute, Sixteen- stringed Jack really thought that the next act he should witness would be the suicide of the Dark Woman. But it was not so. Twice she approached her fingers to the stopper of the bottle, and twice she withdrew them. “No,” she said,—‘‘ no! there is time enough! We live on, just because we know that at, any moment we may cease to live! We often spare an enemy, if we know that we have but to raise a hand, and the enemy is dead !” Jack drew a long breath of relief. ““ But,” added the Dark Woman, “she shall die! She—who, partly from folly, and partly from vanity, has become the present plaything of an hour with the Regent,—she shall die! Annie Gray will be a name inscribed on the roll of death before fonr-and-twenty hours have passed away!” Jack felt bewildered. The Dark Woman had announced her intention. to stay at the inn for the period she had named ; and yet now she spoke of the death of Annie Gray, and with an intimation that she was to compass that death by the poison in the vial she held now in her hand. Well might Jack feel bewildered and all abroad in regard to her plans, seeing that he had not the least notion of the elaborate character of her schemes. She placed the vial on the table before her. ‘She shall die!’ she said. ‘Oh, yes, she shall die! And she, too, should die who calls herself Princess of Wales, but that she is abroad, and I am too busy in England to seek her! But the beloved one of this nation, who is looked up to as a hope and a joy, shall die! I will have no daughters to compete with me and mine! The Princess Charlotte shall marry that man who seeks her; but the marriage shall be a union of bitterness and woe! I will have no heirs to the throne of England raised up to compete with me and mine!” Jack listened with all his ears. For the first time he became aware that there was a something connected with the life and proceedings of the Dark Woman that was of far higher importance than merely directing a gang of depredators, But as yet he had not heard enough to fully under- stand who and what she was. Jack was in hopes that she would be more and more communicative as she thus communed with herself. But he was mistaken. The Dark Woman suddenly clasped her hands over her face, and then let her head sink dows on to the table, on which she rested both head and hands, and, for all the movement she made, she might have been in a profound sleep). Yet, Sixteen-striaged Jack kept his place at the little crevica in the ceiling, with the expectation that she would speak again. She did. Re er eR A ER Ra A ne en fic rae reer reer 104 It was with a sudden start that she roused I had forgotten jf herself, as she said, ‘‘'Those men ! them !” “Now for it!” thought Jack. and Shucks, and Brads!” ‘Yes! They shall be disposed of,” Dark Woman; house, and all that it contains, shall become one common ruin, and their tomb. Why are they here? What can be their object? They would not speak of it! But they know me; and yet they do not interfere with me! Are they really still in this house, or have they gone on some projects of their own ?” The Dark Woman went to the door of the room in which she was, and listened. She opened the door, and went out, and then listened again. ' The house was very still. So still, that a clock belonging to a large man- sion, about a quarter of a mile off, was heard to strike the hour of twelve. From the roadway in front of the old ‘ Bugle Inn,” there came the sound of an owl hooting at something that had disturbed its quiet repose. At least, the sound very closely resembled that. The Dark Woman started. Jack saw her come back into the room again, and go to the window. The hooting of the owl came again, and then he saw her begin to unfasten the casement; and he did not doubt but that the supposed owl ‘was some confederate of hers, oa the outside of the house. Situated as he was, Sixteen-stringed Jack could have heard nothing which might take place outside the house, unless it should happen to be uttered in a very loud tone indeed. But he had a re- source. There was the window of the attic. That window was very small, but Jack had it open in a moment, and: crept out of it on to the thatch of the roof. ‘There, although his position was rather perilous, he could safely enough, so far as regarded not being seen, overhear all that passed. The Dark Woman had stepped out on to a little balcony that was in front of the inn. Below was a man on horseback. Jack heard every word that passed. “What is it?” said the Dark Woman. you mad, that you leave your post?” “No! But it’s to be to-night instead of to- morrow !” 6 Ah 12? “Yes, you may be sure of that!” “ How sure e” “There came a fellow down the road who I know well enough. He is one of the Regent’s outriders; and he was going on like to break his neck, so I followed him ; and he went to the villa, and called out, ‘You had better look sharp, for you know who ‘will be here in another hour!’ So on that I thought I would come ‘and let you know !” ‘** You are right! “* Horses’ feet.” A party of horsemen swept past the inn, all talking and laughing together. “‘T know those sounds,” said the Dark Woman. “I know the very style of the laughter. They are his guests. Let it be to-night, then! Go to your work,- You comprehend what you have to do?” ‘t Are What sounds are those ?” LEAS COE CL A COLO A — ACL A CC CCT A AEP en ante OO THE DARK WOMAN, ‘‘ She means me, | added the “and it will be as well that this “YT should think so!” The Dark Woman moment she regained the room The ruffian whom she had taken from Newgate and retained in her service, rode off. We will follow him. It was towards town that he went; and he paused at about two hundred yards—certainly not further from’ the “ Bugle Inn ”—and opening the gate of a field close at hand, he led his horse into it, and tied the bridle to the thick stump of an alder tree. Then he went along the inner side of the hedge for about fifty feet, until he reached a tall old closed the window the chesnut tree, and from around its trunk, where it was carefully wound, he unwound a stout rope This rope was coiled round the tree, as a cord might be coiled round the capstan on board ship When fairly unwound, the rope was long enough to reach right across the road. _ The end of it was fast to the chesnut, tree Then this man, who seemed capable of doing anything ‘in the world for the imperious woman who had saved him from the scaffold, scrambled through the hedge, with the loose end of the rope in his hand, and went right across the road, and took up his place i in the opposite hedge. The road, at that part, was aa dark as possible, for the tall. trees in the hedgerow cast their shadows into it, in addition to the natural dark- ness of the night. Then this man sat down and waited. In a few moments, the hasty beat of horses’ feet on the road came upon his ears. “That’s not him,” he said. ' He let the rope lie on the road, slack and loose, and the horse galloped cleanly over it. He lifted the rope again. Then there came the sound of wheels, but it was a heavy, crunching sound. i. waggon approached. The horses seemed to be asleep. The waggoner seemed to be asleep. They all passed over the rope as it lay on the road. But now that man, who had charge of the cord, from one side of the roadway to the other, appeared to dread that the waggon wheels had done it some harm, for he hung to it, so to speak, and tugged at it, to feel assured that it was safe and strong. “All’s right !” he said. Then he bent down his head and listened. ' The sound of light and rapid wheels came upon the night air; and the regular beat upon the road of swift and well-trained horses. “ That’s him 1” said the man. At a hard gallop, an outrider in a scarlet coat swept past the rope, as it still lay slack on the ground; but then the man who had charge of it for a purpose picked it up, and hung upon it with all his might and all his strength. The rope was stretched ‘right across the road in a slant line about six feet from the ground at the end nearest to the chesnut tree, and reducing to about two feet at the end, where it was held so firmly by the man. The sound of wheels came more rapidly on- wards each moment. The Regent was approaching. He was on his route to East Sheen, to ona of his supper parties, and Annie Gray was with him, quite delighted ind , ? Fi . ce ’ 1 THE DARK WOMAN. ce a sr ALLE Nn i apnea ANN ain Ser SSS << e ~ TY at her own pert and handsome look in a suit of boy’s clothes. _ Annie was laughing loudly, and the echo of the Joyous young voice strayed into the meadows on the road side. And yet there was an indescribable sométhing about the laughter that would have moved any ges tears who really loved her and wished her well. Was the heart of that young girl heavy all the while despite her pretended enjoyment of the mode of life she had chosen ? Perhaps so. Now the carriage came on still more rapidly; and the man at the rope hung to it until his face reddened with the exertion. There were no lights to the carriage, The Regent did not wish to be seen. The postilion who drove the pair of horses was an old and confidential German servant, who was silence and | cantion personified. No. 14.—Dark Woman, aT. te ce eg Le ears M a) — Naz ~— CHAPTER XXXII. THE PRINCE REGENT MEETS WITH AN ALARM, AND ANNIE 1S IN DANGER. : | 1 AT the rate the Prince’s carriage was going, a | very few seconds would now bring it to the spot in the road where was the outstretched rope. Little did he suspect that any such danger was in store for him—or, in fact, any danger at all, on | @ road so well kept and so well known as that from London to Richmond; and little did Annie Gray, who was laughing so lightly—and at the same time, let us add, so hollowly, with him in the carriage, imagine that a deadly enemy was plotting her destruction. The carriage was now within a couple of hun- dred paces of the rope. The man who held it put forth all his force, in ‘order that it should not be trampled down by 106 ro oe the horses’ feet, and so permit the vehicle to pass in safety. Then there was the flash of a light, sod in another moment the horses reached the rope. “Now!” said the man who held it. Hardly had the word escaped his lips, when he was fordibly jerked away from the hedge half-way to the middle of the road. At the force which the Regent’s horses had been going, they had well-nigh swept away the ob- struction before them. Perhaps another pound weight would have done it, but that pound weight was wanting. . The horses’ feet were entangled in the rope. There was a furious struggling and plunging for a couple of seconds, and then down went beth the horses. The postilion was thrown over the head of the one he was driving and seated on, and fell, stunned, into the ditch by the road-side. The horses were young and full of courage, and they made a vigorous attempt to regain their feet; during which they kicked each other, and one of them dealt such a blow with his iron-shod foot to the panel of the front of the carriage, that it went in with a crash; The horaes were still, however, confined by their strong traces to the carriage; and one of *hem fairly dragged it to the side of the road. There was a sloping bank there. The fore-wheel got up on to the bank on one side. The carriage swayed to and fro for a moment. Then over it went. Annie Gray screamed loudly. His Royal Highness the Prince Regent uttered gotie expressions which are not to be found in any dictionary extant. Then the man who had done all this mischief darted out from the side of the road. He at once abandoned the rope. That had most effeetually doue its work. With a strength that was prodigious, this man now forced back the traces of the still struggling horses, s0 as to permit him to release them, and in another moment they were free. At a mad gallop, the two animals took their way down the road. Then he who had, in pursuance of the orders of his imperious mistress, the Dark Woman, accom- plished all this mischief, approached the carriage, as though he had just been summoned to the spot by ths noise that had been made. “ Hilloal” be cried. “ Hillca! here? Anything happened ?” ‘By Jove, yes!” cried a voice in reply. It was the veice of the Regent. ‘* Why, what is it?” “Tielp!—oh, help!” ‘screamed Annie. are killed !” There was then a crash of glass, and the Regent put his head out at the window in the side of the overturned carriage that happened to be the uppermost. ' * What the dence does all this mean ?” he said. “What is it all, eh?” . *“T don't know, sir!” said the man. you can tell me?” “Murder! Oh, help! help!” screamed Annie. “Come, come, my dear,” said the Regent, “don't ery out in that way! Things might be What's amiss “We *’ Perhaps THE DARK WOMAN. worse, I fancy. The horses fell, I suppose, and the carriage got upset; but I am not hurt, so don’t ery out.” The Regent quite forgot to ask if Annie was hurt. It was only himself he looked to, as is very much the habit of princes aud regents, and was most particularly so of this one. “‘Let me help you, sit,” said the emissary of the Dark Woman. “Lean on me, sir! That will do, sir! There you are!” “Ah, yes! All’s right. I have a scratch or a bruise.” The Regent had been helped out of the coach, and was in safety on the road. Annie, then, all trembling, and in a terrible fright, was likewise helped out of the coach by the author of all the mischief. She, too, was unhurt, save a few trifling bruises; but she began to cry most bitterly. “ Come, come, Arnie,” said the Regent, “ don't cry. I tell you there is no harm done, and I am not hurt!” The girl cried all the more. Was she beginning to find the utter selfishness of the man for whom she had sacrificed herself? Wasa she beginning to see that beyond the pastimes of an hour he cared nothing for her? Alas, poor Annie Fearon! If you have not yet made that discovery, it is one that will soon dawn upon you. She controlled her tears after a few moments, and said, gently, ‘‘I am so glad you are not hurt!” “Thank you. All’s right.” ‘ “ And—and you are glad I am not hurt?” “To be suro, Tam! Oh, of course, I am! You hurt, indeed! You are much too pretty to be hurt, my dear girl!” “Hush!” said Annie. “ Don’t speak of me in that way. You forget how I am dressed !” “{ did—I did! Hem! My good fellow, can you tell me, and this young gentleman who is with me, where we are?” “ Why, yes, sir. ‘Bugle Inn.’” ‘“‘ Where is that ?” **On the Richmond road, sir.” “ Are we near East Sheen ?” * About a mile.” “Annie,” whispered the Regent, “do you think you could walk a mile?” “TY will try.” “Do—do! Because, if so, we can goon, and soon get housed at the villa.” You are close to the old “{t will try; bat I tremble so, that—that if I — could have some rest first—only for a short time — TI am afraid I am so faint!” “Oh, don’t say that! shape of illness or fainting in sick people ?” * Yes, yes |” “Then, don’t you begin it, my dear!” “T will hold up while | can! If I could reat somewhere for about an hour !” “Hoy! Hilloa, you fellow!” echced the Regent. ‘ Where is that ‘Bugle Inn,’ you spoke of?” Palit “* Not a minute’s walk from here, sir.” “T suppose it’s full of people, drinking and smoking, and all that sort of thing?” “Oh, dear, no, sir! It’s an ont of the way old place, and has no company !” Why, I don’t think . T believe I have ex- — pressed to you my aversion for anything in the — a a ST ee ee THH DARK WOMAN, “Then we will go, and rest a little. You lead the way toit. They may have horses, or some sort of vehicle in which wa can go on. Come, Annie, lean on me now. Pluck up your courage, and you will be all right soon !” “Oh, yes, yes!” d Annie spoke so faintly, that it was evident either the physical shock of the overturn of the carriage, or the fright consequent upon it, had afiucted her very severely. The short distance to the **Bugle Inn” was soon traversed, but, a few moments before the little party reached it, the Dark Woman had summoned the landlord, and when he appeared, she spoke in a firm, clear tone, as she said, “I have paid you for the whole accommodation of your house; but, from the window where I sat just now, I have heard sounds which make me think some accident has happened on the road; and, if so, I withdraw my restrictions to your receiving guests, provided any persons seek shelter here from such accident.” “Alls right, ma’am!” said Beans. ‘ That shall be seen to;—and much obliged to you, ma’am !” “Go! I hear people at the door!” “ Hilloa! House, here! House!” called out the emissary of the Dark Woman. ‘“ House, here! Hilloal Hilloa!” “What's the matter?” asked Beans, coming to the door of the inn. There stood on the threshold only the Regent and Annie Fearon. The man who had brought them that far had disappeared, ‘“We have met with an upset,” said the Regent, ‘“‘ and our carriage lies on its side in the road.” ‘“‘ Dear me, sir! you don’t say so?” “Yes, it is just so! Have you horses here; for our pair have run off ?” “No, sir. Pray walk in, sir! young gentleman don’t look well!” * He is only a little shaken, that’s all!” “This way, sir! This way, if you please! Here is my own room, which is the warmest in the house,—and that’s no bad thing this dreadful winter, sir, as you will allow! This way, sir, if you please! The young gentleman does, indeed, Jook poorly! Hem!’ added Beans to himself. “About as much a young gentleman as I am a young lady! It's a girl!” In fact, the disguise of Annie was by no means perfect enough to make her look in the smallest degree masculine. She had not absolutely fainted, but was very near doing so. “Have you any wine in the house ?” said the Regent. “To be sure, sir'—to be sure! J will run down to our cellar, and get some at once!” “Do so, and be quick.” Dear me! the The landlord fully intended to get some wine, of which he knew he had some of a fine quality, but he was surprised, the moment he left the room and had got half-way along the passage of the house, to meet the Dark Woman, who held out to him a glass with some faint yellow-coloured liquid in it, and who said, ‘‘t have heard what has happened. This is a cordial which will at _ once restore the person for whom you would fetch | wine. My father was a physician, and I know what I am about.” eee ee 107. Beans, the landlord, hesitated. “Take it, aud give it to her. it all.” ‘‘Her? You know, then, that the young gen- tleman is not a young gentleman?” “You know it, too.” “Well, I thought so.” “Take the restorative. I will wait here.” Beans took the glass in his hand, and moved towards the room where the Regent and Annie were waiting; but ia order to explain what now occurred on that night at the ‘‘ Bugle Inn,” we must return to the attic in the occupation of Jack and his two friends, and from which he (Jack) had already gained so much information in regard to the projects of the Dark Woman. So soon as he, Sixteen-stringed Jack, had heard all he wanted to hear from his somewhat peculiar position on the roof of the inn, he had scrambled back again to the attic, and once more applied his eye to the crevice in the floor, through which he was able to observe the proceedings of the Dark Woman. The interval that now elapsed was that while the unscrupulous man tbe Dark Woman had retained in her service, was waiting with the rope across the road for the arrival of the Regent and Annie in the carriage. No sooner, then, had the Dark Woman returned to the room from the balcony than she took from the square box at her feet a wine-glass, which she half- filled with water. Then into that she dropped one drop of the agua tofana. The Dark Woman carefully held her bead on one side while she did this, in order that she might not inbale the slightest vapour from the deadly liquid. She even held her breath until she had replaced the stopper in the phial, Then she filled up the glass with water nearly to the brim, and the liquid appeared to be of a pale gold colour. The Dark Woman then held up the glass between her and the candle, and muttered. to her- self still in those low tones, which she thought no one could hear by any possibility, but which yet found their way to Jack's ears through the crevice in the ceiling— Here are twenty lives, and yet she will not fall in death until she has drained the glass. It will have a pleasant taste, too! Now I must wait my time! I shall hear when hs reaches this place with her upon his arm who shall pass away from him like a dream, and be seen no more. Does he love her? Can he love her? No! no! A thousand times, no! But it will wring his heart to see her dis before his face, because he has not yet got tired of her, which he soon would be; but until then he is as ardent in pretended affection as he is callous and indifferent when satiety has taken the place of passion.” A cold feeling crept over the heart of Sixteen- stringed Jack as he saw these cool and’ iearful preparations for a deliberate murder, To save the person, who was intended to be put out of the world in this way by the Dark Woman, would have been a natural impulse to — Sixteen-stringed Jack; but when he knew that that person was one in whose fate his own daughter Lucy was interested, he was doubly anxious to protect her. But how? That waa the difficulty Make her drink A ETI ET Me THE DARK WOMAN. While Jack was debating in his own mind what he should do, he became aware of a new source of danger and disquietude. From the box that she had with her the Dark Woman took a stone jar, that might hold about two quarts of any liquid. It seemed to be very heavy. There was something projecting from the cork that stopped the mouth of this jar; and when the Dark Woman placed on the table before her the jar or bottle, Jack felt deeply curious to know what it could possibly contain. He was not kept long in doubt upon the subject. “This will suffice, surely,” said the Dark Woman. “This stone vessel contains eight pounds of gunpowder; and by the aid of this fusee at its mouth I can easily discharge the whole. It will be amply sufficient to destroy this house; and then in whatever part of it those men, whom I now hate, are hidden, they will assuredly be destroyed in the ruin that will take place.” Sixteen-stringed Jack very nearly uttered an exclamation of anger and astonishment. He was startled, too, at that moment by a hand being laid on his shoulder, and by a voice saying, “ What's up now, Jack?” It was Shucks, who had overheard, and was curious to know what Jack was abont. “Wush! Oh, hush!” whispered Jack. pe dae ‘‘ Hush, I say, or we are all dead men!” ‘The deuce!” “ Yes—it is true! One indiscreet word, and she who you know so well, and who is in the room below here, has the means, and will not scruple to use them, to blow up the house and all in it!” Shucks was astounded. “ You don’t mean that, Jack?” “JT do! Look for yourself! The stone bottle, you will see on the table before you, is full of gun- powder !” Sbucks did look. ““T know that bottle,” he said. her with it before!” “Hush! hush!” * All’s right!” ‘Let me look again,” whispered Jack. have been for some time watching her!” Jack placed his eye to the crevice, and he saw that the Dark Woman was taking her measures judiciously, so as to save herself from the conse- quences of the explosion of the stone bottle. She had attached a long piece of thin string to the fusee in the neck of it, and that would constitute a train which would probably be half an hour in burning before it should reach the bottle and the powder. “ Good!” said Jack. The Dark Woman then placed the bottle with the formidable charge of powder in it on a chair in one corner of the room. The string attached to the fusee she allowed to trail along the floor, cloge to the wall. ' Then she lit the end of the string. At first there was a little flame; but she blew that out; and then the string exhibited a small red spark at the end of it, which slowly and surely consumed as it went, and appeared to be crawling towards the powder in the bottle. The Dark Woman took a watch from her pocket, and kept her eyes on it for a few moments. Then she glanced at the string, and nodded her head. “T have seen om OE A tt et NN “That will do!” she said. ‘Forty minutes, aud this house, with all in it, is a heap of ruins!” “ Forty minutes!” said Jack, to himself. ‘‘There’s time to fight forty battles in forty minutes!” The Dark Woman then took the glass with the poison in it, and left the room. She carefully locked the door behind her. Sixteen-stringed Jack clasped one hand over his eyes in deep thought. “What are we going to do, Jack?” said Shucks. “Let me think for a few moments. Pray let me think !”* “ All right, Jack.” What should hedo? Could he not justify himself in taking the life of the Dark Woman, and so put an end at once to her crimes? No. He did not feel that he could do that, but he would foil her, and he would, if possible, cap- ture her. That was his determination. She should not take the life of Annie Gray. while he was there to prevent it; and as for the train that was laid to the bottle of gunpowder, which would blow up the house, he felt that if, as, no doubt, was the case, there were forty minutes of safety, he could easily put a stop to that. The first consideration was to prevent the poison from being taken by Annie Gray when she should reach the ‘‘ Bugle Inn,” which he had no doubt the Dark Woman had arranged that she shouid do very shortly. “ Shucks,” said Jack; “ you and Brads can do nothing just now but a little carpentry.” ‘“‘ Carpentry, Jack? How do you mean?” ‘Do you think that quietly, with your knives, you can get rid of enough of these old boards to enable you both to drop into the room below!” “To be sure!” “Tn how long time, Shucks ?” “ About ten minutes.” “ Good! Then there will be quarter of an hour to spare.” “What do you mean, Jack?” ‘Look down!” eT 100." ‘What do you see? Against the wall, I mean —to the right—close to the floor?” “A spark |” ahd Sie “ Creeping along |” “ What is it?” “A bit of string, alight and smouldering!” ‘Well, Shucks, you and Brads must get down into the room before the next half-hour, and put that out, or we shall all be blown up. Now you comprehend all about it ?” “T do, Jack! And what are you going to do?” ““T have other business on hand, and will come back to you as soon as it is done; but the Dark Woman will, likely enough, come to the room below before you leave it, and indeed I do not want you to leave it at all. I want you and Brads to wait there for her, and to seize her the moment she enters. She has locked the door on the out- side.” “We will doit, Jack!” “Then wait for me!” “ All’s right! Brads! Brads! Up, up! To work, old fellow, if you don’t want your arms to go one way and your legs another! Brads, I say! Wake up!” ‘Pere you are! What is it?” THE DARK WOMAN, Jack left Shucks to explain to Brads the urgent danger of the circumstances; and left the attic himself, in order to take measures to save Annie Gray from the cruel death that the Dark Woman, in her jealous rage, had designed for her; for however sudden might be the decease con- sequent upon partaking of the agua tofana, who shall say what awful and terrific pangs may not be concentrated in that brief period? That nothing would take place until the Regent and Annie Gray arrived at the inn, Jack was well assured; and without even waking Beans, or any one of the little establishment, Jack was able to leave the inn, and take up a station in the shadow of an old tree that held its sign. loves From there he saw the Regent and Annie arrive. It was a pang to Jack to see the young girl in her male attire hanging on the arm of the Regent, for he thought of his own child, and of what might have been her fate if he had not rescned her from St. James’s Palace. But there was not much time now for reflections on the past, or on what might have happened. It was a time for action; and Jack entered the inn again, soon after the Regent and Annie. The passage was very dark; but Jack, by the sound of the voices he heard, was pretty well aware that Beans had placed his visitors in what he called his own room. Now it could hardly be called a suspicion that was in Jack’s mind, that Beans was in league with the Dark Woman, inasmuch as the idea did not get so far as that, but it just occurred to him as a disagreeable possibility; and therefore it was that he was most particularly anxious not to meet Beans just at that present moment. In the passage there stood upon a small bracket a very dimly-burning oil-lamp. That, by a breath, Jack extinguished; and then the passage was very dark, being only, at its further end, where Beans met the Dark Woman with the glass of poison, lighted a little by the reflection of a lamp that was on the staircase. Hardly had Jack blown out the light in the passage, when Beans came out of the room where the Regent and Annie was, on his errand to the cellar for the wine he had asked for. Jack let him pass on, and saw him, in another moment, holding what looked like a confidential discourse with the Dark Woman. That was suspicious; and yet there was one thing which ought to have had the effect of dissi- pating any suspicions as against Beans, and that was the intention of the Dark Woman to blow up the house with gunpowder, in which case Beans would be involved in the general ruin. But, in the excitement of the moment, Jack did not reason, perhaps, very closely. With a quick and noiseless step, Jack made his way at once to the room in which the Regent and Annie were, and, without any ceremony, he opened the door, entered the apartment, and closed it behind him. Then, in a voice at once so low that it could not penetrate beyond the room, and so clear in its tones that it brought conviction with it, he said, ‘‘ For the love of life, do not permit that young girl to drink or eat in this house, or it will be her destruction !” The Regent started back; and Annie, who just heard the warning sufticiently to comprehend that it implied great danger, uttered a cry of terror, 109 “Do not make any alarm!” added Jack. “All -you have to do is to refuse to drink what will be brought to you!” ‘Good heaven!” said the Regent. ‘Then, ig this a den of murder that we have been brought to ?” “Flush! Be still, and say nothing until I appear! You may believe me to bea friend, since I have given you this warning! Iam close at hand!” Jack darted into a cupboard at the moment that Beans opened the door of the room, and came in with the glass of poison in his hand that had been handed to him by the Dark Woman. ‘Here is something,” he said, “ which, I am told and assured, is better than wine.” “Ok. good heavens!” said Annie. “You scoundrel!” cried the Regent. @ Sir 2” “f say, you scoundrel!’® “ What do you mean?” “*T sent you for wine!” ** Yes, but 4 * And you bring poison!” “ Poison ?” ‘Yes; and well you know it, too! But Iam armed, and I can protect myself and my young companion here!” Poison!” ejaculated Beans. ‘‘ Why, sir, you do me a great injustice; and to convince you, I will drink it myself.” “ No, Beans!” said Jack, as he stepped out of the cupboard at the moment that Beans was about to raise the glass of poison to his lips,—* no! You, too, are deceived.- That is poison, although you know it not.” ‘** Good gracious “ Set it down; it is deadly !” Beans, with a trembling hand, set down the cup of poison on the table. Jack immediately took it up and flung the contents into the fire~ place. “There!” he said. harm !” The Regent looked with a bewildered expres- sion from Jack to Beans, and from Beans to Jack, while Annie trembled excessively. “ Beans,” said Jack, ‘* will you be governed by me?” “Yes, Jack.” “Go, then, to her who hag, no doubt, given you this poison, and tell her it is taken.” “ By the—a—the—a——” “ The young lady.” “Lady!” said the Regent. ‘Don’t you see— that—that—a—this is a young gentleman, 2 friend of mine?” Jack smiled. “Go, Beans!—go and do as I bid you! give you plenty of reasons, by and by !” “T will, Jack.” 1? “That can do no one I will CHAPTER XXXIII. THE DARK WOMAN IS CAUGHT IN HER OWN SNARE. Brans at once left the room; and the moment he had done so, Jack looked keenly at the Regent, as he said, ‘‘I should alinost have thought, your ' gence. 110 THE DARK WOMAN. Royal Highuess, that your memory would have just a3 well come to you, and cry out, ‘I want my eerved your Royal Highness sufficiently well to enable you to remember me.’ The Regent looked curiously at Jack. “T have a confused recollection of you,” he said. “T thought so.” ** Who are you?” “T am one whom you have sought to injure in more ways than one; but T am one who takes his revenges in his own way, and does not allow other people to achieve them accidentally for him.” *T do not comprehend you.’ “No; I choose te be mysterious. But since I have saved the life of this young girl, I have some right, not only to be so, but to have my wishes respected, and my orders obeyed.” “What do you wish ?—what do you order ?” ‘‘T wish that you should know who it is that sought the life of this young creature, in order that you who can now, I grieve to say, be her only hope on earth, may take steps to defend and to protect her.” ** Who—who is it 2” ‘* Ah!” cried Annie; are——” “Hush!” said Jack. ‘I do not expect you to keep my secret; but, at least, do so in my pre- If you would really know the reason for this attempted murder, let it be supposed to have been achieved, and you will soon do so. Let Annie Gray lie down on yon settee, as if dead, and you will learn more than by any other means.” * And you?” said the Regent. you do?” “T do not do things by halves, your Royal Highness; and s0, having saved tbat young creature from one death, I will stay here to see that she is protected from the possibility of another,” Jack darted into the cupboard again as he spoke, for he heard a movement at the door, and, “T knew younow! You “What will “in a moment more the handle was turned, and the Dark Woman entered the room. The instant the Regent cast eyea upon her and recognised her, he uttered a cry of despair and terror. “¢ You !—you here, Linda?” ‘Even I!” she said. “ With you and about youever! Near you when you expect me not! I am the claimant and the avenger !” ‘Then it is you who—who—have-——” The Regent turned, and looked at Annie, who lay motionless as death on the settee. The Dark Woman took but one glance at the still form of the young girl. She was so possassed with the idea that Annie was no more, that she did not care to make a closer examination of her. “You see,” she said, “that the struggle is a vain one as against me!” “ Against you, Linda? What on earth do you mean ?” “YT want my son; and until I see hin—until I bold him ia these arms, I will baunt you like a fate! You know my conditions! Give me my son !” “Linda, I swear to you, now once and for all, that I no more know what has become of the boy j than you do! Dead, most likely; and I might son,’ as for you to come to me with such 4 demand !” “He does live!” “You say so!” “T know it! an iron heart! I am steeped in crime, but they are your crimes, not mine! Until you produce to me my son, you can know no peace, for I can know no peace! Your life shali be a torment and 2 dread; and such poor minions of your pleasures as that one now lying near you in death, shall be blighted, as she is blighted, by your first kiss of passion! I have nothing further to say to you now but what I have said. I told you I would say it! In the open street—in the most secret recesses of your palace,—bere, where you thought your- self by a mere accident—wherever you ate— wherever you go, I demand of you my son! Where is my son?” “But you are mad, Linda; you will listen to no reason! What motive can I have, if I could by any possibility find out where your son is, to keep him from you ?” “Do you ask that?” “ Indeed I do!” “You have a daughter!” ** All the world knows that; but what can that have to do with your son ?” ‘Your son, too!” “ Well--well, what then ?” “That the time might come when a pretender to the throne of these realms—a pretender fo ths position of heir apparent—might be perplexing to a reigning monarch, whose daughter perchance was a favourite child!” “You rave !—you rave !” “Am I not your wife?” * No!—no!” “T am !|—dastard !—liar!” A flash of anger came across the face of the Regent, and he raised his arm threateningly, as he said, ‘Beware of what you are about! You are so full of threats to all and any one who may not be exactly doing and saying what you wish, that you quite forget you may be yourself in danger!” ‘“‘f amin no danger, for one reazon—I am never in danger !” “Why not ?” “ Because I scorn danger » “ Ah! that may sound all very well and heroic, but the result will show !” “This is a needless discussion. that I am your wife!” ‘Pho! pho!” “ And my son is the son and heir of the Princes of Wales!” “Mad! mad! I tell you, Linda, that our marriage was a mere sham—a—a—kind of farce! Ha! ha! you can make nothing of it!” ‘We shall see !—we shall sea!” ‘But I comprehend now that you want to find this son of yours, that you speak of, in order that you may set him up with ridiculows claims to high rank |” The Dark Woman saw that she had in her anger said too much. She had to recover her lost ground, by saying, ‘‘Give him to me, and I will not molest you; I only ask that of you—at te she added to herself. ‘““] know nothing !” I repeat again ee Now, listen to me, O man with THE DARK WOMAN, 11] a de “ Give me, then, such a clue to him that I may find him!” “T have no clue.” mt “ You have—you must have! Who was present at his birth? Who tore him away? Where was he placed? In whose keeping was his infancy ? Give me all these particulars, and I will myself unravel the mystery of his destiny |” “ And if I were to point out all that which, truth to say, I know nothing now about, it would only be to arm you with fresh powers of annoy- ance against me!” * No, no, no!” ‘But the affirmative is evident; and I do not see why I should not give you into custody at once for murder |” “The death of that girl lies ag much at your door as at mine! And so soon as I am molested by the law, I will proclaim who and what I am, and I shail soon have a party round me in the State! The story of my wrongs—of my marriage —of the royal permission for that.marriage to take place—of the disappearance of my son,—ail shall ring in the public ears !” ‘Confusion seize you!” muttered the Regent, as he paced the room uneasily. ‘ Be it so, then ! I will seek for the iaformation you want, and you shall have it as soon as I can procure it.” >. When?” “ How can I tell?’ “T mean, when shall I come to you for it ?” “T will send to you where you please, and by what name you please, in about a week!” ‘““No; I will come to you this day, or rather this night week, myself! Farewell!” The Dark Woman hastily left the room, and the moment she did so she almost staggered into the passage, as she exclaimed, ‘Ah, i had for- gotten! What is the time?” She rushed towards the lamp on the staircase, and held her watch with trembling hands towards it, and then, with an expression of joy, she added, “ There are eight minutes yet to spare. I can be far off by then!” She ran up the stairs to the room she had securely locked. As she went she took the key from her pocket, and the moment she reached the door she dashed it into the lock, and rushed into the apartment, and right into the arms of Shucks. “That will-do!” he said, Nabbed!” said Brada. ’ The Dark Woman uttered a yell of rage and despair. “ Hold tight!” said Shucks. _ “Shes got a knife!’ said Brads, “ Wreneb it from her! ‘That's it! Take off my cravat, Brads, and tie her elbows together with it! VN bold her! Hoorah! All's right! Now, my lady, 1 fancy, you are secure. How do you find yourself, ma’am, eh ?” The Dark Woman was no match for these two men at close quarters. She was disarmed, and her two wrists were bound together in a few mo- ments, Then, with a wild laugh, she said, ‘‘ Ran- som! ransom! Ha! bal Ransom! There are about four minutes left!” _ “What does she mean, Brads?” “TJ don’t know, Shucks.” “JT mean this!” said the Dark Woman. “If you do not instantly release me, and fly from this house, you will be dead men in three minutes!” “Qh, is that all?” said Shucks, * You do not believe me?” “ Certainly not, ma’am.” “In two minutes and 4 half, then, you and all in this house will be dead and mangled |” ‘‘Mangled?” said Brads. “In two minutes! Are you mad?” “Take it easy, ma’am.” “T tell you that you will be killed-—that you will die a terrible death |” , “ Brads?” said Shucks. Yes,” said Shucks. ‘“* Have you got any baccy with you?” A little.” * That’s right !” The Dark Woman uttered a cry of terror. The fear of death was coming upon her—of a dreadful death that would put an end to all her projects-— that would involve the destruction of the Regent as well as herself—that would bury in one com- mon ruin all hope of her son being—what in her wild imagination she wanted him to be—King of England. She screamed and raved. * One minute !—one little minute more, and it is too late! Do not hold me so that I cannot turn to yon wall! Look for yourselves! There is a stone jar! Itis fallof powder! There is a string—a train! It has been rolled in damp gunpowder! Out with it, on your lives, or we are all dead—dead |” “Oh,” said Shucks, ‘‘she is out of her blessed mind !” “Quite!” said Brads. “ And it’s my idea, Brads-——” “ What?” “That she don’t know a bit what she’s a say- ing of” “Not a bit |” “ The jar!—the stone jar!” screamed Linda. ‘Does she mean the jug?’ said Shucks. “Mercy! Help! Murder! Oh, heaven! an- other second, perchance, and all is over! Help! help! These men are mad—-mad! Oh, to die such a death as this, and having accomplished nothing! Despair! Desth! death! Horror! horror !” She fell in a swoon on to the floor, striking her head against the boards, and inflicting a wound on - her forehead, from which the blood flowed. At that moment, Sixteen-stringed Jack stepped into the room. * Ste is finished!” he said. “She has had a fright, Jack,” said Shucks. “In course we cut the blessed string that was a-smouldering away, and a-going to blow us all up.” “ Was it near the powder ?” “ About a foot off.” “Tt was a narrow eacape.” “Rather, Jack! But what's to ba done with her now?” Jack shook his head, “TI find that a question difficult to answer, Shucks. She is amenable to justice, to be sure ; but then—then “4 “So are we!” * That's just it!” “Look here!” said Brads. ‘She betrayed the ‘Chickens,’ There's no doubt about that in the world; but it was well enough known that they were under orders of the Dark Woman, I pro- 112 ——- pose that we take. her to Newgate, and give her up there.” “That will do!” said Shucks. “Well,” said Jack, ‘‘be it so. Keep her for the present, though, in safety. I have something yet to do.” ‘And we have all something to do,” said Shucks; “for we mustn’t miss our game, Jack, you know, that brought us here.” “The Regent ?” said Brads. “No,” replied Jack; “you shall not miss him, I can well assure you, for he is safe in this house.” Both Shucks and Brads looked at Jack as if they doubted the evidence of their own senses, and then Jack added, “I don’t think we sball have any further trouble about the affair of the ten thousand pounds we want fromhim. But the *Bugle Inn’ must not be quite compromised ; and I propose that we let him start again on his journey—which has been intercepted—but stop him, with our faces masked, before he gets to the open bit of road across the common.” “But what's to be done with our old friend here in thé meantime ?” ‘*T would not trust her out of sight. We must take her with us. All we need do, so far as the security of the Regent is concerned, is to keep him in safety until the cheque is cashed at Coutts’s, his bankers’, and when we go to town to do that, we can lodge the Dark Woman at Wewgate at the same time.” ‘So be it !” ‘‘ And,” added Jack, “I have been thinking that as we are close at hand to Richmond Park, one of the old deserted keeper's lodges, of which there are several that have not been used for a tong tine, will do to take care of the Regent in.” -* Of course it will,” said Shucks. “Then let all that be agreed.” “Tf is agreed, Jack Singleton. What you think the right thing to do, we will think so like- wise. You are our captain now; and if ever two infants like us had cause to obey any one, we have to obey you, for I don't know what would have become of us both on Hampstead Heath, where we were bleeding to death, but for you.” “Say no more on that head,” replied Jack. “Our interests are the same, and since we will certainly keep faith with each other, I think we shall succeed in what we wish.” ‘‘Not a doubt of that,” added Shucks. “If you, Brads, and I, and Jack Singleton, don’t do the right thing, why I don’t know who will.” “Then,” said Jack, as he held for a moment his hand to his head, “let me think of what had better be done first. Yes, that is it. I have it. You two go and lie in wait on the little bit of common, just through the wood, for the Regent. I will detain him here until you shall have had time to place yourselves, and then I will send him on, for in the state of mind he is now in I fancy that whatever I advise him to do he will do. Go at once.” “ And our prisoner ?” ‘Take her most certainly with you. Bind both her eyes and hands well; and I should advise, too, that you take some measures to prevent her from giving an unnecessary alarm.” THE DARK WOMAN. : “We can gag her firmly,” said Brads, “ with a cork.” = “Be it so. I will go now again to the Regent, who will not stir from the ‘ Bugle’ until I tell him. was only intent upon unravelling, in the most practical way he could, the mysterious life of the — Dark Woman. The landing place on which Jack now was presented the same intensely dark aspect that the Solaeinteain ahi re fea peti inn matin etrmcanfp jie ea Fn ti TT a ct arth bth ttn th his toni ioe THE DARK WOMAN, ’ | \ on passage below had shown; and, in fact, that brief winter's day was now rapidly passing away, and the dim shades of evening were adding their gloomy powers to the closed up darkness of the astrologer’s house in Soho. By carefully feeling all round the walls of the landing, Jack found that there were three doors opening trom it, which, no doubt, led into the rooms on that floor. Then there was the stair- case which conducted to the upper portien of the house, and which were as dark as the rest of the place. In fact, it was quite evident that, for the purposes of mystery and seclusion, every window of the astrologer’s house was covered with some opaque substance, through which no ray of light could penetrate. “And what a dismal abode,” thought Jack, “this must be in which there is no dawn—in which no morning light falls on the eyes of the sleeper—in which there is no change from night No. 17.—Dark Woman. to day; but in which the melancholy, brooding shadows of a perpetual gloom pervade the air.” Sixteen-stringed Jack was effectually aroused from these refiections by a footstep which was the house; and he at the same time saw one of those exceedingly small star-like lights de- scending. We say the light was descending, because to Jack's senses that was all that appeared, inas- much as the few feeble rays that the light cast about it were not sufiicient to illumine the figure that carried it. Jack descended a step or two down the stairs he had so recently ascended. At all events, he thought he could go down before the person who was carrying the light, if that person should have an intention of proceeding to the lower part of the house. But such was not the intention. The bearer of P20 rr nn rr 9 a A RN cee er amen | | | | fee | 5 { | | upon the stairs above, leading to the upper part of } th ef mar pel Sg Saale 5 SR aay gS BA ah AS enn in Bb a ih i ye eae a NL a i ante zaseta Fat 130 the light paused on the landing, and then Jack heard the slight noise made by the turning the handle of a lock, and a door opened. Beyond that door all was dark as the entrance of some deep cavern. The little star-like light passed through the doorway, ana went on—on in the deep gloom, until Jack felt convinced it was some thirty or forty feet from him, while the doorway through which it had passed was free and open. It did not take Jack a moment to decide upon his course. He would follow the light and its bearer. Treading as softly as foot could fail, Sixteen- st ye Jack made his way through the doorway, and soft carpet, which, of itself, would have been quite sufficient to deaden the sound of any footsteps, even if no extraordinary caution had been used. But Jack was cautious, instinctively, under the circumstances in which he was placed, and he ad-~ vanced on tiptoe. The star-like light suddenly stopped. Jack stopped likewise. Then he saw it wave about for a few seconds, as though the bearer of it was uncertain of his route, and then it suddenly became stationary, about six feet from the floor, and all was still. It was at this moment that the sharp, elear sound of some very small, but very sweet-toned bell, came upon the still air of the house. “Ah!” said a voice, “‘ some one comes,” Jack recognised that voice as the same with that of the person the Dark Woman had named Sadi; and who had welcomed her to the house with such profound humility. Fearing, then, that in the darkness this Sadi might encounter him, Jack rapidly made his way on one side, towards where he felt certain he must come to the wall of the room. He did come to it. It was to his right hand that he had gone, and the first object that met his touch, as he stretched out his arms in that direc- tion, was a soft and heavy cloth curtain. The idea at once struck Jack that this curtain was over one of the windows of the room, but | before he would venture to take any positive steps to assure himself of that fact, he watched the progre » of the little star-like light from the apart- ment, as it was, no doubt, carried there by Sadi. The moment it was gone, and that Jack felt he was alone, he rapidly gathered up the cloth curtain in his hands, to find the side edge of it, which he soon did; and then, as he held it aside, a faint gleam of the twilight of the winter eye came into the room. The heavy black cloth curtain then covered one of the tall windows, The gleam of light that came in was too misty and uncertain to be of much use to Jack in a survey of the room. All he could see was that he was in an apartment of considerable size, and that the walls appeared to be hung with the same black cloth, such as he had found over the window. A better place of observation than the recess of that window, behind the cloth curtain, Jack could not possibly have; and at the moment that he saw the star-like light appear in the room | ‘again, he glided behind the curtain, cd Follow-—follow ! !” said a deep, solemn voice. Pt na Aye rch. ts emt cnt ain ae THE DARK WOMAN. LL LL : ound. that he was treading on some very | The tones were those of Sadi, but adapted te ve: the mysterious cadences of superstition. “I come,” said a voice, “to consult Astorath.” | | “Tt is well!” said Sadi.. ‘6 Can it be now done ?” “Tt may be, or it may not! inferior spirit !” “Then find a superior one, for I am not accuse © tomed to inferior spirits.” a There was a tone, half-jest, half-earnest, to- gether with a mocking expression about. the | speaker, that sufficiently betrayed the fact that he — put no faith in the pretended supernatural power of the astrologer. “Be itso!” said Sadi, “ Wait!” ‘* Here ?” ; “Yes, there! On your life, stir not! You are | surrounded by perils!” 1 ‘‘ Oh, indeed !” The little star-like light disappeared. The visitor began to hum, in alight and easy | way, a popular air. ‘“‘Is this man afraid or not?” thought Jack. At all events, I will have a good look at what | goes on.” By the aid of a small pocket-knife, Jack cut a perpendicular slit, of about four inches in length, T am, but an | SPSS in the heavy black curtain before him; by open- J ing which a little he was enabled to aeb well into | the apartment, but the darkness was so excessive / that the air seemed as if it moved about in huge black masses, as it will do if the eyes be closed | too nervously. This darkness, however, did not last many | seconds ; for it slowly seemed—if such an expres- | sion can ‘be used in respect to the dissipation of | darkness, which is a negative—to fade away. A faint light, about which there was a very © | beautiful roseate glow, pervaded the room, and with it came again the powerful aromatic odour — which had struck Jack’s senses when first he made | his way into the house. This roseate glow did not exceed a kind of | faint twilight; but in comparison with the in- | tense darkness that had pervaded it it was light. The size of the room could be seen—the dim | sombre hangings upon its walls could be seenh—and standing not far from the centre of the floor, the figure of the visitor could be seen. He was rather a tall man, enveloped ina cloak, © Jack could not, however, see his face. ‘Speak !” said a voice suddenly. But before the visitor could utter a word in | reply, a frightful scream burst through the air of 7} the room, and for one moment a tall green flame } shot up from floor to ceiling, and then expired as ay Mt Aaa a quickly as vanishes the sheet lightning on a sum=- | mer night. q That all this was done to affect the imagination _ j a of the visitor there could be no doubt; and with © any one of weak nerves and vivid perceptions it i ( which he had suffered to hang loosely from his — y | shoulders. vi 4 y might have such an effect, but it seemed to fail | K y upon the man in the cloak. Ti || With a familiar, dry, half-sarcastic tone of | voice, he said, “If Astorath be present, 1 would | speak with him.” “Speak, Sir Hinckton Moys!” said a low, deep voice, that seemed to come from a atone distance off. permite iy ences katie Lace hte» ide “ Ah!” said Sir Hinckton, for indeed it was he. You know me?” “ All are known !” “Very well! That saves trouble !” * You mock!” ‘‘Nay, I do not come to mock. I come to ask | for services for which I am right willing to barter anything that may command them.” “‘ And yet you doubt the power you pretend to invoke ?” ‘Well, perhaps I shall be content with a mun- dane service. I do not afiect the supernatural.” ‘“‘ But it will affect you!” ‘ In what sense ?” ¢Tn all senses. You are known.” “There is no great marvel in knowing me, for I believe there are hundreds of people in London who do so. If; however, you could tell me what my errand is here, I should have some cause to respect your divination.” “T will ask.” ‘‘Me? Oh, yes!” “ No, those who can tell all things.” “Demand!” said a strange voice, in screaming | accents, and yet apparently a long way off. { ‘] demand!” replied the voice that had hitherto spoken to Sir Hinckton Moys. “Hold! oh, hold! Do not splash me with the blood! My fine spirit will exhale!” “Peace, then, peace! ‘Tell all.” “J will! Ido!” Then followed some rapid, strange whispering, in a tongue unknown to Sir Hinckton Moys, and at its conclusion, he said, still mockingly, ‘* Do you now think, Astorath, that you have divined my motive in coming to you 2?” 66 No.” |. “Ah, I thought so!” “J do not think it!” So you have said.” i} “But Iknow it!” ij “Ah, indeed!” 1} You came here not for love—not for greed-— \} not for power!” ‘¢ What then ?” ‘For revenge!” “Good!” — : “You hate! You would be avenged on one who has awakened all your passionate detesta- tion. You would have the life of Allan Fearon.” “I know not how you have hit upon this strange information,” said Sir Hinckton Moys ; “but I will, without guile or deceit, admit the fact. Ah, I know now!” “You know what ?” \ How you know me, and my errand. I thought “‘ Speak your thought !” “Willes, the confidential valet of the Regent, has been here!” “No. You mock still, and you shall tremble _ yet, for the knowledge of the past as well as of the present is patent here. Is there in all your || past life one circumstance, which, if known, would || blast your fortunes for ever—would at once cast || you forth from your present position, and turn the voluptuary, who is your patron, into a bitter and implacable foe?” _ “I know not what you mean.” “And yet you tremble ?” “T know not what to think! No, no, you THE DARK WOMAN, a a a a a a a TT | Hinckton Moys. RR ee a RY ND RIN NE AES IT MTEL, CL RE OL BCATNL Sy IO OE A RE LS 131 cannot know that! It is a secret which lies in two breasts alone! No, no—I am mad to think that you can even dream it!” “And yet, even while you say so, you are forced to admit that there is such a secret on your soul !” ‘¢ No, no!” “You have admitted as much. Oh, beware!” “ Astorath !—charlatan!—fiend !—be you what you may,” cried Sir Hinckton Moys, passionately, ““I defy you! If, indeed, you can tell me such a secret, I will henceforth admit that ‘There is more in heaven, and on earth, Than is dreamt of in my philosophy.’ Speak! I defy you to the particular proof that you so vaguely hint at!” ‘Be it so! There was a storm. The loud- mouthed thunder rattled through the chambers of Buckingham House; and the forked lightning played in dazzling beauty on the turrets of'a palace. There was a princess. There was a man, heated by wine, and by passion. In the dead hour of the night which follows that of midnight —in that dread time when, betwixt the night-sky and the earth there float strange disembodied spirits, whose filmy life may not endure the faintest tinge of sunlight, that man rose from a couch of fever. Fire—unholy fire was in his eyes, and with stealthy steps he sought a chamber——the chamber of a princess * “Hold! Good heavens, = hold!” cried Sir } “T will hear no more!” : “Are you content ?” *“* Good heaven !” *¢ Are you content ?” “T am—I am! But you know that there was no. guilt. You know that the Princess Char- lotte promised me that she would not destroy me for that mad, wild act! You know that!” “ All is known!” ‘This is more than strange,” gasped Sir Hinck- ton Moys. “Oh, Astorath, however and from wherever you obtain your information—whether from spirits of the air, from goblins of the pit, or from mortal lips—I honour the skill, the divination, the power, call if which you will, and I will purchase your silence |” “* At what price ?” “* At such a price as you may please £3‘ place , upon it, so that it be within the compass of my means,” “« That is well!” “Will it please you then to name the price ?” “Twill! It is not within the province of gold, or even of the radiant diamond, or the glowing beauty of the ruby, to purchase service of me or of those who minister to me. The secrets of earth’s hidden mines are but too well known to those who eare not to breathe the upper air. It were easy for them to pluck forth from the hidden crevices of the nether world, the blazing jewels which human eyes will never see.” “ Then what service can I do you, Astorath, for that which I shall ask of you?” “The service of the heart and of the mind!” “TI do not comprehend.” “Tt shall be clear. But you had‘an errand | here: state that, and then the price of the service | will be told.” Sir Hinckton Moys hesitated for a moment or two. His imagination had been strongly acied a Actin aA CARRION seamen neh re Ree DELEON OLED OOO T CA Ramee sereorizer = K ETA een AOD ENE es RT LEER ait ENNIO —ypmpmrenernere i amare mg nr worsens upon; but yet he was most loath so soon to believe that the astrologer, with whom he thought he was conversing, could really have any hidden and mystical powers. Sir Hinckton was an infidel in all matters in any way connected with the unseen world; and he was slow to surrender his judgment and give up his scepticism, because he was astonished that a third person should be in possession cf a secret he had thought confined to the breasts of two. ‘“‘ Will you pardon mo, Astorath,” he said, “if I ask a question ?” ** Speak !” “Tf your knowledge and your power beso great as you would say, why ask me the reason of my visit here, when you must know 2?” “IT do know it!” ‘Then speak it!” “Tt is necessary that you should speak it. In order that those whom I control should act for you, you must speak your wishes. The circle is around you, and you can command things to be done.” ‘¢ What circle ?” ‘Flame and blood!” **T see no circle!” “* Behold it !” A flickering, amber-coloured flame in a moment ran round the feet of Sir Hinckton Moys, in a circle on the floor, and then expired. ‘* Well,” he said, ‘I admit that there is much here to astonish, if not to convince. But, Astorath, if you would make me a thorough convert to your powers, you will accomplish my revenge against Allan Fearon! I have no more to ask but that, and secrecy as regards what you know of that night of storm at Buckingham Louse.” “It is well; and now the price?” ‘‘ Ab, the price! What is it?” “There is another secret, which, although known to me by means of the spirits who attend upon me, yet should be by mortal agency, and in the ordinary way in which human beings ac- knowledge and seek for evidence, brought forth to the light of day.” What is it ?” “ The Regent !” “Ah! is it of him ?” Its!” ‘*T am all attention !” The voice of Astorath—the sham Astorath, who was none other than Linda, the Dark Woman— was raised to a higher and more artificial key now ; and probably that was done to conceal and get the better of a certain emotion which the subject evoked, and which would have been per- ceptible otherwise in her tones. “The secret is one that will alter the fate of dynasties and of nations. It will bea glorious task for you to aid in its realization. The Regent of this kingdom, George, Prince of Wales, is married.” “Yes! To the Princess Caroline of Brunswick. All the world knows that!” - “No! All the world seems to know it, for all the worfd calls it a legal union, when it is not so!” ‘Tn deed !” ‘No! There was a former marriage. . The Regent bad a wife and a son living when he took the hand of the Princess Caroline of Brunswick in his own, and called her his wife.” > eo ren nr ern ios RR ant erin ie cn re a a THE DARK WOMAN, A ateatiRer hana ce ea on ics gaa et eT “ Are you sure of that ?” ““T am sure!” “But you raust know well, Astorath, that the marriage of one so near to the throne of these realms as the Prince of Wales, is a nullity unless sanctioned by the Crown.” ‘‘ It was sanctioned by the Crown.” “You surprise me.” ' “Tt is to be expected that I should do so. The proofs of that marriage are wanting—that is to say, the ordinary proofs of it. The fate of the son of the Regent is obscure, even to the means which I have at command. We only know some of the facts. The price required of you, then, for the two services that are to be rendered to you, is that you will, with all your mind and with all your heart, aid in procuring such information as you can upon this subject.” “T will.” ““You swear it ?” ‘Oh, yes, most freely, I swear it! But I must confess I do not exactly see my way !” “You are on such intimate terms with the Regent, that you will have but to watch your time when his soul is off its guard—-when the demon of intoxication perchance has taken possession of his reason—and then, by such skilful questioning as you may well be able to call to your aid, you will get from him the secret required.” ‘* Let me comprebend clearly.” ‘*Of what are you in doubt?” ‘‘ What is the precise information wanted ?” ‘“* Kvidence, or the information where to get the evidence, of the marriage of the Prince of Wales with Linda Chevenaux, of Dover Court, in Berk- shire.” “Oh, thatis it! I fancy I have heard that name before at odd times.” “It is possible.” “ What is the next question ?” ‘“‘News of the fate, living or dead, of her son, who was born at Kew.” - “Well, I will do my best:to get the information for you, Astorath; and as now there is a sort of compact between us, I hope that I shall soon hear of the disaster of my enemy.” ‘**Of Allan Fearon ?” “That is the name!” “Within five weeks and one day from now, he will be a corpse.” “ Well, well, so be it! “The gallows !” “ Ah, indeed!” “Yes! We have scen it. He will perish by the hands of the common executioner. Will that content you?” “Tt will! it will! I still seem to feel the smart of those blows! Pshaw! Why do I speak of them? I shall be avenged, and I will come and thank you, Astorath, when the morning of the execution arrives!” “You must come before, for the execution will not take place unless your portion of the compact is kept to the letter.” “Be assured I will keep it. You shall soon have some information on the subject you have mentioned. And now I bid you farewell.” “* Farewell !” A wild, unearthly scream resounded through the apartment, and then, close to the door, ap< peared the little star-like light. What mode of death ?” pearson 4 ae ner i ae oe eR MN TIE SNE a ne a - Pe i eeeieabensctnenadhennteeameietnitanainememeetenmeee emetic menern vera natnae ema wate —— a NT ib a i rR N/R i, in ins mln se re THE DARK WOMAN. 133 lil: = Saba Pee Lg a eS Sa eae ee a oe ec “Follow!” said a deep, hollow voice. against it. Surely all will be well—all will be “Farewell, Astorath!” cried Sir Hinckton | well! Let me think! How my brain whirls! Moys. The pretended Queen Caroline has already fallen “Farewell!” replied a voice which seemed to | an easy prey to the vulgar arts of Bergami! She come from some tremendous distance, deep down | shall be brought to trial and divorced—perchance beneath the earth’s crust. executed! The Princess Charlotte shall die! Then with the field clear—clear from all pre- — . . tenders, I and mine may triumph. Yes, the day is coming—the dawn is at hand, and it shall be CHAPTER XXXVIII. but the precursor of the mid-day splendour of my reign !” SIXTEEN-STRINGED JACK WARNS ALLAN FEARON There was the heavy sound of the sudden OF HIS DANGER. closing of some massive door; and then all was still. . Tue deep interest, combined with surprise, with Sixteen-stringed Jack could hardly believe the which Sixteen-stringed Jack had listened to this | evidence of his own senses in regard to what he conference between the pretended Astorath and | had just heard. : Sir Hinckton Moys may be imagined. The magnitude and:importance of the plot, so It touched upon several subjects which, called | to call it, which he had heard declaimed so freely for a large amount of attention in his mind; and | by the Dark Woman perfectly astonished him ; the mere fact that he was there, an unknown and | and, for some time, he could not make up his undetected listener to such a discourse, was quite | mind what he ought to do. enough to dissipate to the winds any, the remotest But as his mind recovered from the shock and idea which Jack might have had of the super- | the surprise occasioned by the words of the Dark natural powers of Astorath or his representative. | Woman, one sentiment arose in the mind of Jack, More than once he had thought that there was | which overpowered all others; and that was one a tone about a word or two uttered by the astro- | of profound pity for these persons who were to be loger that was strangely like the cadences of the | swept away so recklessly and so _pitilessly from voice of the Dark Woman; but still Jack would | the path of the ambitious woman, who was not have liked absolutely to say that the Dark | evidently prepared to inflict any amount of suffer- Woman and the astrologer were one and the same | ing, or to commit any atrocity, provided it aided, person. or seemed to aid, her in the carrying out her The prominent feeling, however, now in the | projects. _miad of Jack was to get out of the house as ‘No, no,” said Jack; “all this won’t do! And quickly as he could, and warn Allan Fearon of | having heard it all, as I have, I must do the best the danger which awaited him. I can to frustrate it.” Of Allan Fearon he had heard a great deal This was all very well as an idea; but the from his daughter Lucy, whose intimacy and | difliculty was to make up his mind what precise residence in the same house with the sisters, | practical thing to do in the affair. Annie and Marian Gray, had made her weil Perhaps the mest straightforward thing, and acquainted with the fact of Allan’s love for Marian, | the best, would be to denounce the Dark Woman, and of his kindness generally to the two orphan | and put the police upon her track. girls as well as to herself. But there was one objection to such a course ; Moreover, Jack had seen something of Allan | ard that was the position of peril in which he on the occasion of his own escape from Mr. Lar- | himself stood, obnoxious as he was to the law. kins, the officer, and he was most resolved that Probably, however, with his sual daring and whatever snare might be laid for him Allan | romantic cast of character, Jack would have got should not fall into it, with his eyes altogether | the better of that feeling of caation; but his elosed upon it. thoughts reverted to that cavern on Hampstead But before Jack could make up his miiid to | Heath, where his darling child Lucy awaited him, emerge from behind the curtain, he was startled | and who was so entwined around his’ heart, that by hearing the unmistakable tones of the Dark | the mere idea of being separated from her was too Woman as they echoed through the dark air. agonizing to dwell upon. i “Triumph! triumph!” she cried. “I shall ‘No, no,” he said to himself; “I cannot—I triumph yet! The day is dawning yet for me | dare not even place myself in connexion with the and for mine! What care I who falls prone authorities, although I have so much to tell. The before the triumphal car of my ambition? What very astounding and important character of my care I what blood flows, and what brains burst in | revelations might mdnce them to detain me as 3 agony, so that I succeed? What crowns have | measure of precaution; and then what a world of been won by listening to the weak voice of | perils might encompass my child! The basilisk humanity? None! none! And if I, and if my | eyes xf the Regent might again light upon her; son are to wear the circlet of sovereignty, the | and possibly, while I fretted and fumed the hours means by which we reach the height must not be | away in a prison, she might become his victim.” criticised! I will reach it! I will sit by George The dreadful picture that these thoughts con- 1V on the throne of England! He shall acknow- | jured up before the mental vision of Jack effec- ledge me yet as his Queen-Consort! My son | tually put to flight: any:idea he at first had of shall be acknowledged as the Prince of Wales | denouncing personally the: Dark Woman. ‘when his father shall be king! What can hinder |. But there were rio such objections to his putting it? The license of the Crown—the legality of | Allan Fearon on his guard. the marriage! All is well—all is well! Neither The object) then of Jack was to get out of the Parliament nor people can possibly say aught | Dark Woman’s.house as quickly as he could, and ie + ax . *$- if .- 7 ; he doubted not but that in the darkness he would be able to effect an escape. | With this object, then, Jack crept from bebind the curtain; and stooping very low, he almost might be said to have crawled rather than walked across the large room. But to find the door was far from an easy matter, since the darkness was so intense that it was impossible to sppeal sucessfully to any sense but that of touch. There was no resource but to creep round the room, feeling the walls as he went until he should come to it. So Jack took a course in a right line, as nearly as he could, with his arms stretched out before him until he touched the wall. He felt then the black cloth with which it was covered, and he began to wonder if the door was covered up by that sombre hanging, when his hand touched the cold brass-work of the lock. “Thank heaven!” said Jack. Very cautiously he turned the handle, and the door yielded to bis touch. What was Jack’s surprise, however, when he opened the door about an inch or two, to find a bright «:!eam of light flash upon him, It was not the door that led on to the stair head that he had opene’, but one that conducted to an adjoining room on that floor. Jack did not pause to see if any one was in that room, but closing the door at once, he felt beneath the lock, to find if there was one of those little bolts which are common to door locks. There was one. To shoot it into its place was the work of a moment, and Jack felt certain that for a few seconds, at all events, the door was fast. A bell immediately sounded somewhere in the house. ; Once!—twice! — thrice! the bell sounded in a wild, quick, alarming manner. Jack had with speed ran round the room, feeling for another door, and he found one. By the cool air that struck upon his face, he felt convinced that he bad reached the top of the stairs. The darkness seemed like something that might be felt; and as step by step Jack advanced, he moved his hands before him to feel for the balus- trades of the staircase. Yes, he was right. He felt the balustrade. His foot was on the top step. Carefully, and yet swiftly, now he descended and reached the passage. “ Die!” said a voice. Something cold and sharp ran past Jack’s neck, ploughing up the skin in a painful manner as it did so. “Ah, a sword!” cried Jack. ‘You who wield it are, at all events, a human foe.” So vehemently had the sword-thrust been made at Jack’s neck that the blade passed its whole length by him, and the hilt struck him on the side of the face. , Sixteen-stringed Jack was quick, strong, and agile. He stepped only one step back, and then with his left hand he caught at the hilt of the sword, and with a sudden twist wrested it from the grasp of his unseen foe, and transferring it to his right hand, he made two straight-forward thrusts with it, as he said, “This is a welcome weapon, assassin that you are!” One of the thrusts Jack thought encountered a poft substance; but there was no cry or sound of ae Re OR TR RE a A NR BE THE DARK WOMAN. any sort to lead him to a knowledge that he had inflicted a wound upon his foe. And so, dealing cuts and thrusts into the densely dark air with the sword he had become so strangely possessed of, Jack went step by step along the passage of the astrologer’s house towards the street door. Twice, too, he turned and made slashes with the sword at the dark atmosphere behind him ; for an uneasy sensation would creep over him that he was followed by some unseen foe, who might in= | flict upon him deadly injury. But Jack felt confident, upon these occasions, that the sword only swung through the empty air. Another moment, and he reached the door. How was he to open it ? - How was he to comprehend and undo the pro= bably complex fastenings of the door of such a house as that ? The moment he ran his left hand along the side of the door, to try to discover some mode of re- leasing the lock, he was certain he heard the breath and the footsteps of some one behind him in the passage. That was an.idea which was no sooner at home in his mind than he faced about, and placing his back against the door, he held the sword out at arm’s length, as he cried out, “ Come on, villain! come on, assassin; and. you will yet find me no easy prey !” , With a vigorous wrist, then, Jack made the sword play through the air, which it did for a few seconds without encountering any opposition. Then the sword-blade suddenly rung upon another, and Jack Singleton felt assured that he was attacked by some one similarly armed. There was something terrible about that combat, conducted, as it was, completely in the dark, with a foe who was so profoundly silent. It was only now and then that the swords clashed together, and more than once Jack felt how narrowly he escaped deadly thrusts from his opponent’s weapon, which once passed his cheek so closely that another inch to the left would have sent the aword-point through his eye into his brain, This was a state of things which could not last. The excitement of such a combat was too much for the nervous system of Sixteen-stringed Jack, and he resolved to bring it to a close. With his left hand he snatched one of the small pocket-pistols he always had with him from his breast, and fired it straight before him. By the flash he saw his opponent. He saw a pair of sinister-looking eyes bent upon him, and for the moment that the illuminating power of the pistol-flash lasted, Jack was able to see that this man who was opposed to him was protected by some thick substance wound round his left arm. Doubtless, that had saved him from several thrusts made by Jack’s sword The pistol-bullet had evidently missed its object, in the dark; but Jack took a hint from his opponent. Feeling that he stood upon a very thick mat that was at the door, Jack suddenly stooped, and lifted it in his left hand, so that, when raised, it made a capital shield. ‘‘ Now, villain!” he said. As he spoke, Jack dashed forward, and made so vigorous an assault, that there arose a sudden cry; and then the fall of a heavy body assured Jack he had conquered. { | THE DARK WOMAN. But there was another person, who seemed only to be waiting such a possible issue to the conflict to interfere. That person was the Dark Woman. “Help! oh, mistress, help!” cried Sadi; for it was he who had pursued and fought with Jack Singleton—no doubt, in accordance with the signal given him by the thrice-rung bell. The moment these words came from Sadi, there appeared a strong glare of light from nearly the top of the first flight of stairs. Some lens was before a flame of some sort, and a broad ray of light was sent right along the pas- gage, quite dazzling the eyes of Jack for a few seconds; but he was able, by its aid, to see his position—to see the door, and that it was fastened by a spring-bar—to see, lying at his feet, the lapidary, in a pool of blood—to see the Dark Woman, with a pistol in her hand, which she coolly presented at him, Jack. “ Die, base spy!” she cried. She fired the pistol. Jack felt as if a blow with a switch had been given to his right arm. He knew that he was shot; but he knew, at the same moment, that it was but a flesh wound. One touch to the spring-bar enabled him to release the door from its fastening, and it swung Open on hinges, purposely made to give it an inclination so to do. The Dark Woman uttered a cry of rage. | Her victim had escaped her. ' With the sword still in his hand—the sword that he had wrested from Sadi—Jack sallied out into Frith Street, and thence into Soho Square. It was an inexpressible relief to him to feel that he was once more in the free, open air, after ail that he had passed through in that terrible house. Jack leant, for a few seconds, against the rail- ings of the square, and his breast heaved as he drank in the frosty atmosphere. He was insensible just then to the intense cold, and to the raw, misty atmosphere, It was yet eatly in the even- ing, and the dim oil-lamps shed but a sickly lustre, for, owing to the low temperature, the oil was in | a half state of congelation; but never had Jack thought the mere- fact of being in the open air one-half so pleasant. He was without a hat, though; and with a drawn sword in his hand, and with blood upon his neck, and more blood beginning to trickle from his arm, surely he would be an object of suspic’ ¢ to the watch, or to any ove who might see him. Indeed, a ‘watchman came along on the pave- ment opposite to where Jack stood, but he did not observe him; and Jack walked then hastily round the square to recover himself thoroughly; and then he saw a small chemist’s shop in Dean Street, as he passed the end of the short bit of street that leads from the square to that thoroughfare, ' Jack crossed over to the chemist’s shop. A young man was in it, playing the flute. Jack in- tended to ask for some dressing for his arm and | his neck, but the moment he appeared: at the door, | the chemist took fright, and called out, “ Thieves ! thieves! Watch! watch!” With an exclamation at his folly, that was far from being complimentary, Jack turned away, and walked down the street; and then, as the fog _ which came on on that night slowly thickened over London, Jack made up his mind what to do first. a ALO EEO AAAI NIEE ENON NN DN eh lee ea ABN ats ne at Ae nt ca A IR Nt NA ARN TE nemmenemennie ames ees eM eg ae “T will go and Pee wes another pesomane eee tadolly | 1) LW go audiecek the addtess or Atlan uaa, the address of Allan Fearon,” | he said, “ from Marian Gray. She will thank me for the caution I bring in regard to one whom she loves, and she will be glad to hear of Lucy, too. And now I recollect, I promised the dear child that I would call on Marian, on her account, and see how she was this hard, sharp weather.” The distance was not great. Jack concealed the sword by sliding it through the pocket of his coat, so that at a casual glance it would not be visible ; and at a swift pace he made his way towards Covent Garden. The want of a hat—for he had lost his own in the chase that Townshend had made after him— was the thing which would most likely draw at- tention to him; and the cold might make the loss still more disagreeable; for now that the first ex- citement of his escape from the astrologer’s house was passing away, Jack began to be sensible of a frigidity of atmosphere such as he had not yet ex- perienced during that desperate Siberian winter. ~ But this was a symptom that the frost was breaking up. It was a well-known fact that for the three or four days immediately preceding the great thaw the cold became most excruciating. Just as Jack emerged from King Street into Covent Garden Market, a man darted out upon him from under the piazzas. ** Hilloa!” he said. ‘ Who are you without a hat ?” “‘ Who are you with one?” said Jack. “Til let you know that, when we get to the watch-house! You are my prisoner, my fine fellow! I have been on the look-out for you these three nights !” “And you apprehend me because I have no hat ?” said Jack. Just so.” ‘Then Dll accommodate myself with yours.” With one well-directed blow, which caught the ofticious officer—for such he was—in the neck, Jack sent him right across the piazza, and with a heavy thud against a shop-door. The man’s hat fell off into the snow, and Jack picked it up and put it on, as be said, ‘‘ Now, I suppose, I don’t look half 80 suspicious ? Good night, my friend; I have a hat now!” Jack did not, then, wait for the alarm which the officer was seen to make, when he could gather himself up from the pavement, but he made his way into Bow Street, and thence to Martlett’s Court, where the sisters Gray had resided, and his “own child Lucy, and where Marian was still to be found, Many atime had Jack waited about the door of that hceuse, in various disguises, to see his darling Lucy come forth to go to the theatre, be- fore she knew that she had a father still in life. His love—his intense affection for Lucy was the great humanising influence upon the life of Jack Singleton, It pervaded all his thoughts and all his actions. It lent an air of culture to his mauners and to his language; and day by day, hour by hour, as he thought so tenderly and de- votedly of his daughter, Sixteen-stringed Jack was becoming less and less the highwayman, and more the father The house was one of four storeys in height in which Annie and Marian had resided. Marian still inhabited her old room, The bauns of her ae EERIE POY ANNE NPE TCC T LEE RE TD ON ALE OOP OT OE NTL IEICE | SE CLM NINE EES A I A FE A AN TNE BNA ATR EEE TR EET COA CE ST RAT TE ON OO I LER A MRT AAR RE IE A A SN SS 136 marriage with Allan had Sony a Up} fiend on the next Sunday they were to be married at St. Paul's, Covent Garden. It was Friday then—Friday night; and Marian, with a sparkle of joy in her gentle eyes, was making simple preparations for her wedding. At times, she would sigh deeply, for the thought of the lost Annie would obtrude itself in the midst of her own felicity. Allan had.told her of his adventure at the Palace, and -of - how and under what circumstances he had seen Annie; and the narration had brought bore abundant tears from Marian. But what could she do? What could any one do in such a case? There might be tears, regrets, and grief, but action was denied. Until the light of virtue should again reign in the bosom of Annie, no one could save her. Until abandoned, as she surely would be, by her royal protector, she would not feel how hoilow and baseless was the condition which she assumed, and all remonstrances would be surely lost upon her. And so, when the thought of Annie obtruded itself upon her, poor Marian could do nothing but weep and pray. The little room, thanks to the kind care of Allan, bore an aspect of much greater comfort on this evening than it had probably ever done be- fore. A bright fire was in the grate; the candle was not a wretched rush; and there were some more articles of furniture about the place. Marian was surprised to hear a tap at her room door, for she expected no one, But her surprise took the shape of fear when, upon opening the door, she saw a tall, stalwart man, with blood upon his face and hands. Marian was not one of the fainting class of young persons; nor was she in the habit of screaming, or creating an alarm, until’she was quite sure there was occasion for it; so, on this occasion, she only drew back a step, as she said, “What is it? Who are you?” ‘Do you not remember me?” asked Jack. “Oh, no, no!” ‘Ss Look at me well.” “ No, I do not know you. It is some mistake.” Marian was getting alarmed, and would have closed her door; but Jack smiled, as he added, “Tt is for Allan Fearon’s sake that I am here.” The mere expression of the name acted as a spell upon Marian, and she not only flung her door open wide, but she stepped one pace on to the landing, as she said, ‘‘ For Allan’s sake, you say?” “‘ Even so.” “ You come for his sake? Oh, is he safe?—is he well ?” “ Both, I hope and trust.” * Ah, I know you now !” J ack smiled. “You are Lucy’s father ” “Tam! Ah, what-is that ?” “What? Ob, what?” “ Aush!” gaid Jack, as he held up his hand in an attitude of attention, and then leant over the balustrade at the top of the stairs to listen. There was a confused sound of voices in the passage of the house below. RR EEN a | i I a eR rs aie Ne ene THE DARK WOMAN. “person ; and in‘that.case where's the odds, I want perl itianhlancicthinttentssirsdl ncn habeas tilifcthabisea scan rT a a he SG ae AO ee ER “T tell you J saw him come in,” said a voice. “Wow:can you say he did not, when the door is never fast, and can always be opened by a push 2” “ Well, and if it is,” ‘screamed ‘a ‘female: voice, “do you want to take away the character and the respectability of my house, you jackanapeés ? Is not every: room let to some honest though poor to know, if the.outer door’is left ajar, eh?” | « “ Silence, ;woman |” then said another voice, in much more stern accents. “Woman, indeed! Am I paying rent and taxes, with a sitting in St. Paul’s, Covent Garden, to be called a woman?» A pretty thing, indeed | But I won’t have it! I say I won't be talked to in that fashion! A: woman, indeed!” ‘You are a fool!” added the voice; ‘and ‘you are throwing away, as fast as you can, your chance of a ten pound note.” “A what?” “A ten pound note!” “No!” “YT say yes! Don’t you know me? I thought all the world knew me. Jam Townshend!” — *“ The officer ?—the runner ?” ‘To be sure !” “Oh, Mr. Townshend, I didn’t—indeed I didn’t know you !” “Of course not. What I want you to do is to keep quiet, if you can ;—not to speak a word, but to bring out of some room three or four chairs.” ‘‘ Chairs, Mr. Townshend? And what for ?” “Why, for anybody that may be coming down stairs in a hurry to fall over in the passage, to be sure. There is one in your house now that my Rat has seen.” “Yes,” said a diminutive_person, with a crouch- ing, sneaking-looking gait, who stepped forward at this moment,—“ yes, I saw him.” é This person was really named Gane; but he | went by the name of Townshend’s Rat, because it was well known that he played the part of jackal to the officer, and, by his syping about, often put him on the scent of gentlemen of the road, or of the more artistic cracksman’s craft, who, in the phraseology of the police, happened to be “‘ wanted” at times. “Yes; I saw him you want now, Mr. Towns- hend. Bless you, sir! I dodged him ali down King Street, and right through the market, and across to this court; and he pushed open the door of this house, and in he came, sir !” “That will do!” said Townshend. have him, dead or alive!” ‘¢ Yes, sir!” “You, Rat Gane, stay here, and pile the chairs up just at the foot of the stairs; so that if any one comes down hastily in the dark, he fapat fall !” 3 “ All right, sir!” , “ Yes,” muttered Townshend; ‘I will have him, dead or alive! Come on, Lavender ! 4H Lavender was a young Bow Street runner at that period, who acted with and under the orders of Townshend ; although, some years afterwards, he achieved considerable reputation for himself by his clever capture of several notorious offenders against the law. , “JT will follow you, Mr. Townshend,” said Lavender, “or I will go first; which you like.” “Follow me !” “T will aa ean te at opt «. le te et A tt dd li ep nent ee ee een eee re THE DARK WOMAN, EVENAUX, NDA DE CH F LI MINIATURE O REGENT’S “ THE | Sn oe —™ 2° ASs sie ee Si eeas gq be terse at Fo dade Bue (aS: oO sR Oo 8 ss om 4 gE 29 BBO Be So > & go Fee oe fo) mR © © zi REAS8 © aS afRanq (pemeriece Gs + a qd . aol ta ee = Sa oe aS oS or ms ap oo AD ..58 0 ¢ eect nh ood-s ae a2 28h 83 Cw wn 3 on os oO ors Seoegkisgaer CHER te Ws © ao eosesp AS How. S® ‘=| ey eet O28: Soe Aa a Non oa BE Sa Sat gf Sasa a= “8m 25x WSED Oo Qaeog 8. CF eS om By S Ea 2Pof . as ain & SS sis 4 @ o-oo a2 Se3aa "O° Shae, oO of was 423 °3 .~o ee SOBeae ee a GALE f= fale Sq te! o = 3 ma ae oo ay © 3 Sood aaa ary? es Scea eg is 0S Le eee BS Oo mPaaeha & ot By eee ee = SR ee oa oo oD oO o-9 "aa ct wo OO tA i Qs es aw ‘EA evead 2 5 ~~ Sega ' Tyeage a3 O3 wo | S = ode. Len 8 ee co i D2 pe Ret Bs 588 Gt ot eee ‘aa PaRNsaess "nw Ma ® QS Owls oF o a. 8 Fs oe BS Boros mSHSamoSarss ~ poy os SSE ‘A be es ae) aoow | | | | sevaeermeceanmnienteatainahsis tect tettit A Namen nt C8 Cte teeta NANA COR n Btn ere a 138 searched the rooms on the separate floors, Jack felt that the time for some rapid action on his part had arrived. . Lightly and quickly, Jack stepped back to ‘Marian’s room; and he spoke to her composedly, but with a quickness of enunciation which suffi- ciently indicated that he thought there was no time to lose. “T am beset,” he said, “most unexpectedly here by Townshend, the officer. Believe me, I would not have come here if I had had any suspicion that he or any of his myrmidons were on my track; but as such is the case, I will tell you at once what you must say to Allan Fearon.” “To Allan ?” “Yes. It was to put you and him upon your guard against an infamous plot for his destruc- tion that I came here.” “Oh, heavens!” ‘‘Hear me out, for I have no time to lose. I do not know how or in what way Allan Fearon will be soon involved in some accusation that, in its result, aims at his life; but such will be the case; and it is to the hatred of a man holding some offices about the Regent that he will owe the evil turn.” “ Sir Hinckton Moys ?” “That is the man.” “Ah, he is the villain who has induced my poor sister Annie to leave us.” “That he is villain enough for anything in the world, I can well conceive.” Sixteen-stringed Jack, while he spoke, took a rapid survey of the room, and perfecthy satisfied himself that there was no possible hiding-place in it that would elude the scrutiny of Townshend for two minutes. He then went at once to the little latticed window of the attic, and began to open it. “Forewarned,” he said, ‘is fore-armed, and you will I am sure lose no time in so forewarning Allan Fearon, so that he may know, when the blow is struck, from whence it comes.” “Oh, yes, yes! And if I could see any way of proving to you my gratitude—if I could but thank you as I ought, and as my full heart would fain dictate———” “Stop, stop! say not another word! I will leave you now! My only place of refuge is upon the house-tops; andit will be ample service to me if you take care to look carefully for every possible trace of my having been in this room, and of the mode in which I have left it, and remove such.” “Twill! I will!” “Thanks and farewell! Oh, I had forgotten! My daughter Lucy sends you ever her kindest love.” “Your daughter Lucy, the sprite?” ‘Yes, yes!” Fic Then it is quite true that in you she has found a father ?” “Itis! Itis! Farewell; and to-morrow lose no time in warning Allan Fearon of danger from Sir Hinckton Moys.” Sixteen-stringed Jack went out at the window of the attic on to the roof of the old house, which was a perilous place in that hard frosty weather to be in. Marian carefully closed the casement, and took all the pains possible to obliterate every indication of the fact that some one had just escaped from the attic by that route. THE DARK WOMAN. Townshend had in the meantime made a rapid but: perfectly strict investigation of the house; and in about two minutes after Jack had escaped, he tapped at Marian’s room door. ‘Come in,” said Marian, in a voice of as much composure as she could assume. Townshend opened the door, and looked in the room. Marian was at work, with quite a litter of cuttings, and tapes, and threads before her. “ Hilloa !” cried Townshend. ‘ Now, young woman, you are nabbed at last.” Marian looked astonished and terrified. “What is this? What do you mean?” “Oh, you know well enough! Wesaw Sixteen- stringed Jack come into this room. You may give him up if you like. My warraut includes you; but it says, I may let you go, if I take Jack. Let me see! Oh! ah! Here it is, from the Secretary of State! Hem! ‘My dear Townshend, if you can take Jack Singleton, I leave it to your own discretion to arrest or not any one who has harboured him.’ Ah, well, young woman, you hear 2?” A look of scorn was upon the face of Marian. The rather silly and transparent device of Towns- hend, which was only of a nature to impose upon some very ignorant person, had no effect upon Marian. “‘ Well,” he said; “where is he?” “1 don’t know who you are, or what you want; but I do know that your presence here igs an outrage !” “Oh, that’s it, is it? Well, my fine lady, what I want is Sixteen-stringed Jack. Who I am, you do know.” “Yes; arufiian.” “Ah! You had better,” he cried, “keep the door, Lavender.” ** All right, Mr. Townshend.” The Bow Street runner saw as quickly as Jack could have done that there were no hiding-places in the attic; and then his eyes turned to the window. “Oh, of course,” he said; ‘he is outside.” Marian did not give the least start or show of alarm; and Townshend dashed open the window and gazed out into the cold night air. He muttered to himself his disappointment, for across the house-tops, he knew that, if Jack were there, he would easily escape. With a sigh and a groan, Townshend closed the window. “Well,” he said, “I am quite satisfied, not only that he is not here, but that he never has been here.” Marian made no remark. ‘So you won’t speak—eh ?” Marian was still silent. “Oh! very well—very well! I will take you, then. Do you hear that—eh? Perhaps when you come before the justices you will find your tongue.” Still Marian did not speak. She did not believe that the officers had any power or authority to arrest her; and she did not believe that they would venture upon so arbitrary an act on their own impulses merely. But Townshend was in a great passion; and he was about to say something else, when Lavender called out, ‘ Hilloa! my fine fellow, who are you? and what do you want here?” Thera was a slight scufile, and in enother ee AOC, MIRA RINE SONAR a AA en ee I et tte its THE DARK WOMAN, enna nner ican ema A RT ae hy AE ne No A A EN AEF AP A AEA PAY rn wc 139 moment Allan Fearon stepped into the attic, with | voice, called out, “Jack, Jack! Are you there? a look of surprise and indignation on his face, as he said, “‘Dear Marian, what is the meaning of all this ?” “Oh, Allan! Allan!” Marian was by his side in a moment; and his left arm was flang around her, as he looked with flashing eyes at Townshend. “Well, my young spark,” said Townshend, “if you must know what we are about, I can tell you that we are in pursuit of a highwayman.” “But,” said Marian, ‘ there is no highwayman here.” “Well, I don’t say there is.” “Then, sir, your pursuit is over in this direc- tion,” said Allan; “and if you do not imme- diately leave this room, I will take measures to make you!” “You make me? Do you know who I am?” “No, nor care.” “My name is Townshend.” “That is nothing to me. Allow me, Marian. Nay, my darling, all will be well.” Allan took up the poker, and inserted its end into the fire. “Bah!” said Townshend. “Do you think I have nothing better to do than to have a squabble with every idle apprentice-boy I may meet. Come on, Lavender—come on !” Lavender turned aside his head to conceal a covert smile that was upon his lips; for he had not the highest, possible opinion of the courage of his chief, and Townshend left the attic. ‘“‘ Marian, dear Marian,” said Allan, “I come to bid you good night.” “ Hush! oh, hush!” “ What is it ?” ‘“‘T am certain that man is listening.” “Ah! Say you so?” Allan withdrew the poker from the fire. It had acquired a dull red heat. He tripped lightly to the attic door, and suddenly opening it about a couple of inches, he projected the hot poker out on to the landing ‘There was a yell of rage and pain, and then a clatter of feet down the stairs, as Townshend de- parted; but in his anger ‘and state of excitement he quite forgot his own cunning device of placing the chairs in the passage for any one to fall over, and the moment he reached them he went sprawl- ing over them. Marian was not slow to let Allan know what Jack Singleton had said, and although Allan listened with gravity and attention, he did not believe that his enemy had power to injure him. ‘¢ Be at peace, dear Marian,” he said. “I do not think for a moment that any real harm can be done to me. I will go no more to the Palace; for if I am asked to do so by my employer, I will at once candidly say that I have an enemy there, and would rather not; when, no doubt, some one else can be sent quite as well.” “Oh, Allan, Allan!” said Marian. ‘I only wish I could feel your confidence; but my heart is very, very heavy.” “ Cheer up, dear one, cheerup! Do you think that Jack Singleton will want to come back this way?” “T know not.” Allan opened the attic window, and in a low Allis clear now! Are you there?” There was no reply, so Allan concluded that Sixteen-stringed Jack had made his escape good by getting into some other house by the attics; and he closed Marian’s window, and bade her an affectionate good bye, and went home to his own humble lodging in the neighbourhood, Bae CHAPTER XXXIX. THE REGENT CONSULTS COLONEL HANGER ABOU! HIS DIFFICULTIES, Wuite all these circumstances in connexion with those in whose fortunes we feel interested were in course of procedure, his Royal Highness the Prince Regent began to be a prey to great anxiety. The persecutions of the Dark Woman began to have an effect upon his mind, and combined with his anxieties in regard to the Princess Charlotte, produced anything but a happy state of thought in the royal sybarite, who had not yet acquired sufficient stoicism to be altogether indifferent to what was going on about him. There were various little circumstances which had of late shaken his faith in Sir Hinckton Moys; and the undisguised aversion which Annie had exhibited towards Moys up to the period when they had made a sort of compact together for mutual interests, tended to revive the gather~ ing coolness between the Regent and that man who had been for long the minister of his plea- sures. | The Regent, too, had the peculiarity of most, persons in his position of life. He cultivated favouritism, and from no cause sufficient to ac- count for the fact, a person would for a time become a favourite, only to lose that position from some caprice which was as baseless as that which elected him to the position. As Sir Hinckton Moys, then, went out of favour with the Regent, a certain Colonel Hanger, whom we have incidentally mentioned, came in. This reprobate associate of the Regent’s had every possible vice which could recommend him to that exalted personage, and it was of him that the Prince determined to make a confidant at this juncture, concerning the troubles which beset his mind, Imagine, then, one of the private rooms of Carlton House, small, but most luxuriously ap- pointed, and in which everything that could make it a glittering, lounging little temple of luxury was to be found. The Regent lay at length upon a crimson velvet couch sipping tokay, which, for the last few weeks, he had taken a fancy to. Colonel Hanger was sitting in a high-backed chair opposite to the fire, looking so insolent, so bloated, and so vicious, that one might well won- der how even the Regent, who had about him some of the tastes and instincts of a gentleman, could endure him. But probably it was because Hanger was so thorough a scoundrel that the Regent esteemed his company; for with him there need be no scruples about anything, and his suggestions of A NC EPA US a a Tema met RE 2 i EE ET | | | | | | | : en ae ee RR A RL CR tn CY pe a ga Te 140 ee ooo dissipation and wickedness were of the most awful character. Hanger did not venture upon too great fami- liarity with the Regent in his way of speaking to him, The utmost extent he ever got was to call him “ Prince,” without any addition, as if it had been a surname, and the Regent took no notice of that. “TY am honoured by your Royal Highness’s offered confidence,” drawled Colonel Hanger, as he sipped his wine, ‘‘and I don’t doubt for a moment but I shall see my way.” “T hope you may. I mean to tell you all, Hanger.” “Well, Prince, out with it.” “ Pass the tokay.” “ With pleasure.” “Well, by Jove, it’s too absurd ; but still you know, Hanger, absurd things sometimes annoy one.” “To be sure they do. My tailor is an absurd thing, and he annoys me.” ‘“‘ But this is quite a different affair.” “Of course it is, Prince.” “Pass the tokay again. Well, Hanger, as I was saying, I am perfectly wretched.” “Ah!” “ As perfectly wretched as any man can be. I am in debt, to begin with.” “So am I.” “Pho! pho!” “Very good. But you, Prince, are in a much better position to cry ‘Pho! pho! in regard to debts than I am.” ‘* How so?” The Colonel shook his head, as he sipped his glass of tokay. ‘‘How so, Prince, do you say? Why, what can the rascally duns and creditors do to you? Nothing! They cannot arrest you, and put you in the Governor’s Bench.” “Ta! ha!” The Prince laughed languidly. “Well, well, Hanger, there may be something in what you say; but, after all, it is not the debt which is so great an annoyance.” ‘“* Certainly not.” "You say ‘Certainly not,’ as if you spoke from some foreknowledge.” “That is just it, Prince.” ‘Well, what is it, then?” “Your wife.” The Regent made a facial contortion ‘No, no; you are wrong.” ‘t Somebody else’s, then ?” ‘*No, again.” ‘Ym done, Prince. I am your Royal High- ness’s most humble and obedient servant, and can guess no further.” “Then I will tell you. A long time ago, I suppose I may say that I fell in love?” ‘Oh, dear!” “Don’t interrupt me, Hanger.” ‘‘T am all attention.” “Well, when I say I fell in love, it is, perhaps, too strong a term; but I can say that I took a fancy to a woman.” “ £ thought it was a woman !” “She was then exceedingly lovely. have her portrait now by me.” “T should like to see it, Prince.” — Indeed, I Te a RE I NE ER FT RR SB ET TRIE HR ee THE DARK WOMAN. “You shall.” “A thousand thanks !” “Go to that ebony cabinet, yonder. Stay; you will find the keys in yon drawer of the table with the verd antique top to it.” “T have some keys.” “Open the first of the small compartments. That at the top. There you haveit! Bring it here.” The Colonel brought a rather large-sized minia- ture to the Prince, who, still reclining on the velvet couch, touched the spring that opened the case, and took the miniature out from it. It represented a very charming young woman, with a hat, in which were entwined some wild flowers. She was attired in avery simple country ‘| costume, and looked innocent, and serene, and thoughtful. , “There!” said the Regent. son.” ““Who is she?” “J will tell you first who she was.” “Good!” “She was, then, the only daughter of old John de Chevenaux, who had an estate in Berkshire, called Dover Court.” Colonel Hanger nodded. ‘* And her name was Linda.” ‘© Go on, Prince!” “I became madly enamoured of her, I admit, and would have done anything in the world to get possession of her; but she was inflexible.” “* Indeed !” “Yes, I tried flattery—presents—tears—every- thing; but she made but one reply—and that was, that the only test of the reality of my affection which she could accept would be an offer of mar- riage. I made, at last, that offer to her.” “‘ A mock one ?” ‘““No! By heaven, a real marriage!” “ But the whole affair would be illegal without the consent of the Crown.” ‘‘ She knew that.” ‘‘Then she was not so scrupulous, after all?” “By Jove, she was, for she demanded of me the consent of the Crown.” ““The deuce she did!” “ And I produced it.” “You, Prince ?” “Yes; under the sign manual of the King. But I did not trouble him about it; and it is no small portion of my perplexities, that I don’t know now if that document be in existence or not.” ‘The plot thickens, Prince. “We were married.” be Ah he ‘“‘ A real marriage by a clergyman, who luckily since then is dead; and oddly enough the church was burnt down, and the register of the trans- action perished in the flames.” “Good!” ‘Well, in about a year, I found that Linda de Chevenaux had some faults,” “‘ Of course.” “ And that I was rather mistaken in her beauty. In fact I may say, that I would have been glad to get rid of her, and that I repented very much of having anything to say to her.” ‘“* Of course.” “What do you go on saying of course, for “That is the per- Go on.” renee tenn enorme com comes see preout* incre yeep Sn re rrr nn en ike, ee ee a ee es I THE DARK WOMAN, Hanger? It is not of course; for if I had found Linda de Chevenaux to be all that I thought her, I should have been constant to her. J thought her an angel.” ‘““My dear Prince, that is always the case.” “What is ?” “Why, we think the woman an angel until she is our own, and then we find the angel a woman.” “Well, well, she had a son. I don’t know what became of the child—not a bit. I might possibly find out. I do, indeed, think I have had some plaguing letters about him, from somebody who threatened that if they did not get some money of me, they would abandon the infant in some public thoroughfare. Now you know, Hanger, what brutes there are in the world.” “To be sure.” “Well, I paid no attention to the letters, and I should not at all wonder that they did desert the child.” “*No doubt.” “ And it may have died of neglect.” “Likely enough.” “Well, that was their brutality, you know.” “ Just so.” * After that little event, I paid no attention to Linda, for really her temper, which was never of the best, got to be quite unbearable, and she was put into a lunatic asylum to take care of her. Oh, Iwas quite willing to have every care taken of her.” “You were too good.” “Well, well, it is better to err on the safe side, Colonel. She was as I tell you, put into a lunatic asylum, to take care of her; and, totell the truth, I had really forgotten all about her until that night when there was such a disturbance at the opera.” “The night of the masquerade ?” “ Just so.” “T am deeply interested, Prince.” “From that night, then, I have known no peace from the persecutions of Linda de Chevenaux. By some means she had contrived to escape from the lunatic asylum in which she had been for so long confined, and she encountered me in a most uncomfortable manner at the Opera House. She seemed to be in league with, and to be supported by, bullies and bravoes; and she not only called herself my wife, but, in the most disagreeable way, began plaguing about her son. From that time forth she has haunted me.” “In the street ?” “Everywhere! Here—at St. James’s Palace— wherever I am—wherever I go, she has some diabolical means of getting at me! I have found her in my own private rooms—in my very bed- chamber! I must and will be rid of her!” “It is very strange!” said Colonel Hanger. “It is more than strange! Now, what am I to | a few seconds; and then he said, with a slight bow, “ Will your Royal Highness permit me, in reply to that, to say one word ?” “Oh, of course !” “ Bosh !” “You don’t believe it 2” “Not a bit! Bosh is good Turkish, I fancy— at least, I have been told so; and it struck me at the moment as the only proper reply to be made to the extravagant pretensions of Linda de Chevenaux.” “T admit that they sound extravagant; but what would you advise me to do ?” ‘“‘T have been thinking. If she have the power of coming to you in the way she says, let her exercise it, I beg of you, as soon as possible, and let me be present; and leave the rest of the matter in my hands.” “T will gladly.” “In that case, she will trouble you no more.” “ You—will—not kill her?” “Qh, dear, no! But some little accident may happen, with which you, Prince, will have nothing to do. Your Royal Highness, I think, has announced a supper-party on Monday next ?” “Yes; at The Cedars.” ‘Very well; summon this enchantress of the air to be present at it.” “How ?” ‘Open the window, and summon her. You will do one of two good things by the act. You will either find, by her not coming, that her pre- tended powers are what I call them, ‘bosh!’ or she will come; and if so, you may safely leave her to me, for I am alike fearless of man, woman, or fiend!” “You are avery useful fellow, Hanger, and you may depend upon it I will not forget you.” “ A thousand thanks.” “But, upon my word, it sounds like witchcraft and necromancy, and Rosicrucianism, and all that sort of thing, to call upon any one to come to a supper-party by opening the window and speaking to the air.” ‘Nevertheless do it, Prince; for I can well perceive that this woman has been clever enough to impose upon your imagination by her artful tricks.” ‘You do it, Hanger.” “In your name?” “Well, well; do so.” Colonel Hanger rose and went to one of the windows of the room. He drew the heavy silken curtains aside by a sharp pull at the gold cord that acted upon them, and then he unfastened the window. “You are really going to do it?” asked the Regent. ae I am.” The Colonel flung one half of the casement do? How am I to get rid of this woman at once | open. and for ever, with all her ridiculous claims ?” “Where is she to be found ?” “T don’t know.” A Nia have you no means, Prince, of finding er bP] “J will tell you just what she says:—‘ When you want me, you will find me inthe air! Say aloud that you have something to say to me, and I will come to you!’” ‘ Coionel Hanger looked fixedly at the Prince for A cold air, that in an instant careered all round the apartment like a living thing, made its way in. “Linda de Chevenaux,” said Colonel Hanger, “you are summoned and required by George, Prince of Wales, to appear at supper at The Cedars, near Kew, on Monday night next.” The Regent had got up and retreated to the further end of the room, behind a chair. The night wind howled into the apartment ; but there came no reply to the summons to Linda, ee SO ee nS NRL AN er - eT I IT TN LE SST SAI OEE CE EA A RI a in nen ra rs eS nN gn gm re eine ad ne wi et Ne Se See at tenn anne a tle AREA tre ' than she had been before. ae A meg 9 oN 142 “There,” said the Colonel, “I told you as much, Prince. It is the veriest bosh !” “Well, well; shut the window. By Jove! we shall all be blown away!” The Colonel closed the window. “Do you know, I feel comparatively easy now in my mind about her,” added the Regent. ‘TI should not have liked to try such an experiment myself; but since you have done it, and there was no sound or sign in reply, I begin to think with you on the subject.” ‘‘To be sure; and if she does not come to the supper party, your Royal Highness will dismiss from your mind all notion respecting her pre- tended powers.” “T will, indeed.” ‘And if she does come, I will arrange matters with her. I say it, perhaps, who ought not; but I don’t know any man in all England who is so fit as I am to get a friend out of a little difficulty of this kind.” “You may depend, then, Colonel, that if you do rid me once and for all of that woman, I shall feel you have done me a favour which can never be cancelled; and you can ask of me, at any time, whatever it may be in my power to grant to you.” The dissolute Captain Hanger rose and bowed profoundly. Not that he placed much reliance upon the promise of gratitude of the Prince of Wales; but still it was possible that it might serve him at some juncture. The Prince drank deeply of the tokay,-and he was in anything but a very steady condition when he sought the society of Annie Gray, who, since the adventure at the “Bugle Inn,” had become ten times more capricious and exacting But the Regent was still attracted and fascinated by her beauty, and he put up very well with all her extravagances, “particularly as, in reality, none of them cost him personally anything. The good, kind, hard-working people of Eng- land were either then, or they soon would be, paying for all the pleasures of the Prince of Wales. It will be recollected that Annie had announced her intention of sending a thousand pounds to her sister Marian; and although Marian would, most undoubtedly, have refused any such gift, knowing from whence it came, yet Annie had not the grace to try to enrich her sister, for she said no more about it. The intention once expressed seemed to be sufficient to satisfy the frivolous character of her mind; and it was evident that she had launched into a sea of pleasure, the waters of which partook somewhat of the character of those of oblivion; for she was fast forgetting her former life, and all its affections, and all its obligations. CHAPTER XL. WILLES PUTS THE DARK WOMAN ON HER GUARD, AND COLONEL HANGER FAILS IN HIS PLOT. Iv would be difficult to say whether the infamous and unscrupulous Colonel Hanger really thought that, in consequence of the invitation from the ee re nr et THE DARK WOMAN. open window, the personage who perseraiel cia Regent would really attend the sybarite supper or not, Probably, his feelings and perceptions upon the subject were of a compound character. The facts which the Regent communicated to him regarding the most mysterious appearances of the Dark Wonan in his private apartments at the. Palace, and the most mysterious fact of all, which he more at length detailed to him, of finding Linda in that apartment of St. James’s where he - had expected to see Annie Gray, after her mock marriage with the infamous Sir Hinckton Moys, impressed Hanger with the belief that there was some trickery and confederacy at work in the matter. ‘ It was Sir Hinckton Moys whom he suspected ; and he would have been delighted to find that his suspicions were true; for, in that case, the credit of Sir Hinckton with the Regent would be cer- tainly destroyed, and he (Colonel Hanger) would step into the vacant place much more completely than by any other process. Colonel. Hanger, therefore, kept his eyes and bis ears open to even the slightest circumstance that. could help him in coming to some definite conclusion on the subject; but the few days that intervened between that on which he had the con- fidential discourse with the Regent, which we have recorded, passed over, and he heard nothing that in any way could assist him to conclusions. It was on the Saturday, however, that Willes made his way to the house of the Countess de Launy, with his budget of Court intelligence. What that intelligence consisted of we shall learn from the interesting little conversation that took place between the confidential valet and the Countess. The Dark Woman, in her character of Countess de Launy, always took good care to remain at home in her splendid house at the West End of the town for some hours in the morning, where she would receive those members of the beau monde who had no scruples concerning who and what she was, and who chose to accept her acquaintanceship on her own terms. In this exquisite boudoir, then, where we have seen her once before, waited on by the pretty page, over whom she exercised so much tyranny, we find the Dark Woman again at the moment that the name of Willes is announced to her by the page. Ya There was a look of great exhaustion about the eyes of Linda, for during the last three days and nights she could hardly be said to have had any regular repose; moreover, she had gone through & great deal of excitement, and her thoughts were busy with many matters that might well breed intense anxiety. She had, after the interview with Sir Hinckton Moys, and after that terrible contest, which she urged on Sadi to have in the dark passage of the astrologer's house with Jack Singleton, ridden to the road near to the ‘‘ Bugle Inn,” in order to release Binks from his guard on that spot. One thing she had impressed upon the mind, such as it was, of the ferocious Binks so completely that she felt assured he would not break through. That one thing was a literal obedience to her orders. From a contemplation of the sort of intellect nn aU enn nnnneeeneeemetatetenainenterneietuensineenteenennasaeneeenenmnemnnnenneneneiimnmnatatad THH DARK WOMAN. she had to deal with in Binks, Linda had come so the conclusion that it would not do to trust anything whatever to his discretion. Therefore was it that he became a slave to the literal interpretation of her words as com- mands. And hence was it that she had fallen into such a snare at the “Bugle Inn.” She had ordered Binks to go back to the precise spot where he had overturned the Regent’s carriage, and there wait for her; and Binks had done so, and actually waited there the whole of that night and the whole of the next day, because the Dark Woman had had no opportunity of going to take him off his post until the morning came. It was after Sixteen-stringed Jack, then, had made good his escape from the astrologer’s house, that Linda mounted one of the horses she kept, and rode to the road near East Sheen. | She had paid every attention to Sadi, and had concluded that, of themselves, his wounds were not mortal, before she started ; but Sadi was so much hurt that he was quite unable to act efficiently for her at the astrologer’s house; and as he was the only person she had as yet trusted with her secret that she personated the astrologer, Astorath, she found his wounded condition a great hindrance in her projects. What exactly to do, consequent upon the dis- covery of what was going on in that house, and what was contemplated in regard to Allan Fearon by Jack Singleton, the Dark Woman scarcely knew. She would gladly and unscrupulously enough have put an end to all perplexity on that subject by the death of Jack, but how to accomplish that she did not see. Her only hope was in Binks; and she was, in truth, about to set him on the business of meeting and killing Jack Singleton, when the pretty page announced Willes. Any news from the Palace was always specially welcome to Linda; and she ordered that Willes should be immediately admitted. By the look of the valet, she saw at once that he had curious, if not personally important, in- telligence to communicate to her. “You are welcome,” she said. have you to tell me?” “Semething strange, my lady; and which I have been most anxious to communicate to your ladyship.” “What is it? Proceed!” “Why, your ladyship must know that Sir Hinckton Moys is rather out of favour.” ‘* With the Regent ?” “Exactly; and he has taken into his confidence that desperate adventurer, Colonel Hanger!” “‘T have heard of the man.” “They had quite a long, confidential, ‘chat to- gether about the—the—Dark Woman.” ° “Ah!” “Yes, or Linda de Chevenanx, as the Prince calls her.” “ But how, or why, do you associate the name of the Dark Woman with that of Linda de Chevenaux?” “Well, the Prince has over and over again spoken of them gs one and the same person.” — “Go on.” “ Well, a3 I was saying, my lady, they had quite ‘What now 2 143 along and confidential discourse about her, and about the best means of getting rid of her.” ““ Were you present ?” ‘Oh, no, no!” “ And yet you know ?” “ZT do. In my anxiety to convey to your lady- ship all the news in which you are pleased to take so much interest, [ have taken some trouble, and there are but few of the apartments in the occu- pation of the Regent’ that I cannot spy into from some adjoining one, and from which I cannot hear all that passes.” *¢ Willes, you are fond of jewels.” . “TJ, my lady ?” “Yes, say you are, and accept this diamond ring from me, It is a rare stone, do you not think ?” “It is, indeed!” ' Willes looked with eyes of delight and cupidity upon the diamond ring, which the Countess took from one of her own fingers, and handed to him. Willes did not know that it formed part of the plunder and produce of a robbery that had been effected by the now destroyed band of robbers, called ‘‘ Paul’s Chickens.” ‘“‘ Now proceed,” said Linda; ‘‘ and be sura you omit no particular of what passed on the occasion you allude to.” “T will not! I will not! The Prince told Colonel Hanger that he had a long time ago married Linda de Chevenaux, a daughter of one John Chevenaux, of the place, or estate, called Dover Court, in Berkshire; and he said that he had great difficulty in overcoming the scruples of the lady.” “* He said that?” “We did.” “Go on! go on!” “ He said, then, that it was only by the forgery of the royal license to wed her “i “Hold!” cried Linda. ‘ One moment!” “Yes, my lady, yes.” “Are you certain that in that confidential moment with the villain Hanger, he admitted or stated that royal license to be forged ?” ‘*‘ He did, most distinctly!” The Dark Woman covered her brow with her hand for a moment, and then she said, ‘* Have you heard how the old King is lately ?” “Bad. He cannot live long.” “How know you ?” “You may know, my lady, that one of the physicians is very nearly a namesake of mine, only my name is spelt with an e, and his with an @, Dr. Willis, then, said inmy hearing that the King could not live three months.” “Tt is well! Go on—go on!” “Then the Regent further said that Linda de Chevenaux had had a son.” The Countess gasped, but said nothing, Then, as if she felt it to be necessary to utter a few words to get rid of the almost palpable suspicion that was on the mind of Willes, that she and the lady of Dover Court were one and the same per- son, she said gently, ‘* My poor friend! Alas! alas! for her!” “Hem!” coughed Willes. It was quite clear that at every interview Willes had with the Countess de Launy, he was becoming more and more suspicious of her identity with the lady concerning whom she pretended so much of the interest of friendship. t Lae ee rN ee ee ren Nn i peemaereime Soee } ‘ i LL SRE FEIO DET NE PCI cen ot aite Nhe tina r ROR —ometateNRS Gece | aeons ten arth aN EN a tn en Ne rte mn A me ms Pernt fA Es Aee nim tat te We pant Mie Ge te one ORR nr Aarne Amdt 4 rr SN er OAR as eee An rn cane 0 mo 144 se The very qualities of mind that made Willes so MERE Not set’: | od eine Mae 30 useful to the Dark Woman were those which were sure to re-act against her, and engender all his suspicions. It will be seen whether or no Linda was acting judiciously by making a half-confidence with such a man as Willes. “Go on, Willes,” she said, after a pause,—“' go on with your recital.” “TY will. The Regent said that, as regarded this son of Linda de Chevenaux, she was for ever at all times persecuting him for information of its fate.” ‘* Ah, yes!” “ But that really he had paid so little attention to the whole affair after he had got thoroughly tired of Linda, that he could not, if he would, give her the information she required; and he went on to add that he naturally shrank from any inquiries in the matter, because he knew that if the son of Linda lived, and she, Linda, should succeed in getting into communication with him, that knowledge would be only used as another means of annoyance to him by the setting up of some fancied rights and claims on the part of the young man.’ “ He said that?” “He did, and much more; and then he asked the advice of Colonel Hanger, which the Colonel was not slow to give him.” A bitter smile came over the face of the Dark Woman. “ And that advice ?” she said. ‘ What was it 2?” “Tt was that this unfortunate Linda de Cheve- naux should be got rid of at once and for ever.” “Ts it possible that George, Prince of Wales, and. Regent of this kingdom, has sunk so low that the suggestion of murder can be made in his pre- sence ?” “Tt would seem so; for after the Regent had told tie Colonel that his persecutor might surel y be summoned by speaking to the apparently empty air, the Colonel opened the window, and in the name of the Regent, invited her to a supper that is to take place at The Cedars, close to Kew, cn Monday evening, and at which will be present all those who cling to the Regent as the sheet-anchor of their hopes.” “The Cedars, near to Kew?” said the Dark Woman, with an abstracted look. “Yes, that is the place. It is an eld country house, not far from the Green.” “And was there any reply made to the invita- tion 2?” “ None whatever.” ** And do they seem to think she will come ?” “They do.” “Tell me, Willes, what in your opinion will happen if she should accept that invitation; for now you know that I am in a position to inform my friend of it.” “ Arrest, or murder !” “Ah! They will try that, will they ?” “T think so. But, from what 1 know and have heard of Colonel Hanger, I should say that he would not scruple at the latter, if he thought that it suited his purpose better.” “The villain !” “‘ He is nothing else, I do believe.” ** Does he consult you? Does he trust you, Wille, ?” Ta net me ae me THE DARK WOMAN. “Not yet.” “Well, there is yet time. No one is placed so well as you are to procure information on these topics. You will come to me at the latest hour you can on Monday, and tell me all you have learnt about the mode of action which, by that time, that bold, bad man, Hanger, may lay down. Succeed in vee Willes, and you will find it such a day’s work that fortune will be in your grasp.” “Believe me, madam, I will do my best.” ** That is well! that is well!” The look of abstraction and thought that came over the face of the Dark Woman let Willes know that it was time to go; and he bowed low as he said, wT have the honour to bid you fareweil, madam.” “Farewell! farewell! “‘T will, indeed.” Willes left the house; and the Dark Woman paced the little room in ‘which she had received the spy with disordered strides, muttering-as she did so, ‘Yes, they will try to kill me; or what is worse, to immure me again in the cell of a mad- house—that fearful home from which, after so Oh, what a Remember !” many years of suffering, I escaped. fate again forme! No, no!—a thousand times, no! It must not—it will not be! Better that I— that the Regent—that all about him should suffer one common death, than that that should be the case. Far better that the agua tofana should do a deadly duty at that supper on Monday, and that the terrified nation should be called upon to look upon a ghastly band of corpses, with the Regent at their head, than that I should again sink into the living tomb of a madhouse cell. Horror! Oh, horror!” Some awfully vivid recollections of sufferings she had endured during her long years of incar- ceration in a madhous2 came over the soul of the Dark Woman, and she shook with emotion, and glared around her in terror. She dashed her trembling hand into the bosom of her dress, to assure herself. that she still had there the remains of the bottle of aqua tofana, and it seemed to bea great relief to her to find that she had such a ready means of death about her. Then she sank upon a chair, and was, for some time, in a state that looked as if it only hovered between life and death. She was startled from that condition by the entrance of the page. “What is it? ner comes? Keep them off! Never !——never again, I say!” The page shrank back with some appearance of fright before this exhibition of feeling; but the Dark Woman made an effort to recover her com- posure; and so far succeeded as to say, with an appearance of calmness, “ What is it? What have you to say ?” ‘Mr. Chetwynd, my lady, desires to see you.” “Mr. Chetwynd? Who is he? I know him not! » The page shook bis head, to signify that he was in the same state of ignorance. “Admit him!” said the Dark Woman. In a few moments a mild, gentlemanly-looking young man, of evidently ‘aristocratic style and manner, was introduced to the boudoir of the Countess de Lanny. She received him with one of her blandest smiles, and looked ingniringly in his face, i | a er TT j THE DARK WOMAN. SS YET Wl”, NY Wp / { ‘ Lo YG “Madam,” he said, with some slight degree of hesitation, “I have the honour to be private and confidential secretary to my Lord Iichester, the Secretary of State,” * Ah, indeed ?” | “Yes, madam; and his lordship requests me to | say that he has had the honour to receive from you a note respecting two men, named respec- tively Brads and Shucks, who were given into custody by your ladyship, at Charing Cross.” The Dark Woman bowed slightly. : “ His lordship further requested me to hand to your ladyship a sort of statement or deposition made by those two men, and to wait your lady- ship’s answer to a memorandum which his lord- ship has made at the foot of the deposition.” As he spoke, the young secretary handed, in a very respectful manner, to Linda, a folded paper. She opened it and glanced her eyes down it. It was a full detail of who and what she was, No, 19.—Darx Woman. Ss Vins KI a AE \ Ww y WS Gi me signed by both Shucks and Brads, and an account of how they had taken her prisoner at the “ Bugla Inn,” and how she had turned the tables upon them at Charing Cross, by suddenly avowing her- self to be the Countess de Launy. It ended by accusing her, the Countess de Launy, of being no other than the well-known- by-name Dark Woman, and the ci-devant leader of the band of thieves and housebreakers called ‘Paul's Chickens.” At the foot of the deposition was the memo- randum by Lord Ilchester, which the private secretary had made mention of. It was as follows :— “Tf Lady De Launy should happen to think that the air of Paris or Brussels would be more suitable to her constitution just at present, the depositions of the two men, Shucks and Brads, will not be considered until next week,” ee a STE Te OTE es DE 146 This was an evident hint to escape, and giving her two or three days to do it in. | The Dark Woman looked up in the face of the | young secretary inquiringly. He had one hand i in the breast-pocket of his coat. *“‘ Have you anything else for me?” she asked. “Yes, madam; if you care to haveit. Itis a passport from the Foreign Office, which will frank you through all Europe at any time.” “Indeed !” The secretary bowed. “I will take it,” said Linda; “because such a thing is handy if one should ever wish to make a tour, although I have no such intention at pre- sent.” “Ob, madam——” The young man paused. | “What would you say, sir?” “T was going to be so presumptuous as to advise,” ‘That is never @ presumption, when it is dic- tated by a kind heart and a sincere friendship.” The colour déepéned upon the face of the young secretary for a moment, and then eéemed to retreat to his heart, leaving him deadly pale. He was | silent for some few moments, and then he said, i ‘Madam, I Bave heard enough to convince me »that you ate in danger.” “ Indeed!” “* Oh, yes; and I implore you, for your own sake, a8 well as for the sake of—of——” * Of whom?” “Your most humble servait, fo provide for | your safety.’ “ How 2” | “ By instant flight.” | “Per you think that this silly story, hatched in Newgate by these two criminals, is true; and that fs the Countess de Launy now before you you see none éther than the most mysterious and much- dreaded Dark Woman ?” “ [—that is, I He “Way, you admit as much; and yet, thinking all that—believing all that, you would fain save | me.” “ T would!—I would!” “ And why ?” *‘ Because—because——Ah, madam, can you not divine that I love you?” * You ?—you ?” “Y admit—I willingly admit that it is pre- sumption. Ifully admit all that. But when did the heart ever listen to the dictates of*the head, madam ? you.” The Dark Woman rose up, and approached the voung secretary, with all her dazzling beauty. She placed her hands on his shoulders, and looked him in the face as she said, ‘I thank you with all my heart! but I am in no danger; and if you will accept me as a friend, and if you will bea friend to me———” “Oh, yes, yes!” “Well,” she then added, with a smile, that completed—if it wanted completion—the fasci- nating influence she held over the mind of the young man,—“ well, be at peace, then. I am the Countess de Tauny; and will remain here in London as such until I take a higher title.” A higher title?” “Yes; and one that may enable me to be a I love you, and would fain save — THE DARK WOMAN. good friend to my renga you to my Lerd I chester.” “ Ah, madam |” “You pause? What more have you to say?” “ Ought I—can I believe that you look upon — I will now go with my Lord Iichester in any other light but that of | an acquaintance which his rank and your rank justifies ?” ‘*Be content. There is not a stray lock of your hair the safety of which I would not prefer to the soul's salvation of such a man as IIchester.” The young secretary shrank back appalled at the moment by the vehemence with which these words were spoken; and then he bowed his head as he said, “I am answered. I am ‘content. Command me,” ‘* Be it so.” “ You wish to go to the Earl’s house ?” “Or the Home Office.” “ He is at the latter.” “Then I will go there with you.” The Dark Woman touched the bell on her table, and the page was at the door in # moment. “My carriagein five minutes.” The page was gone. The five minutes passed away, and had just done so, when the door was flung opem By the page, who announced the carriage; and da, with the young enamoured secretary by her side, was soon on ker road to the Home Office. There was no look of apprehensiow about her as she thus went, so to speak, into what might seem to be the very jaws of danger; but well did the politic mind of Linda de Chevenaux estimate that saying that the danger you adyanee to meet at once loses one-half its terrors, ' She felt that the only way to get rid of what would otherwise be, perhaps, a serious) complica- tion, was openly fo outface the adéusation of Brads and Shucks; and as the luxurious carriage rolled onwards over the half-melted sow in the streets, she made up her mind that if it were’ necessary she would even appear at thé trial of the two “ Paul's Chickens,” and outface all that they could say. With the Earl of Ilchester she did not antici- pate any difficulty whatever. On reaching the Home Office the seerefary left her for a few moments in a small room while he went into the cabinet of the Secretary of State to announce her presence; but he returned more quickly than she expected, and said, in an anxious whisper, | “Colonel Hanger is with his lordship, and Ah, fu villain Hanger?” “Yes, and—and u “ And what?” “‘ His lordship has communicated to him the depositions of the men, Brads and Shucks.” ‘“‘ And so broken faith with me?” ‘It seems so.” An expression of pain came over the face of the Countess. At that moment, a door opened, which communicated with a passage that passed the door of the small room in which Linda was. She heard the voice of the Earl. ‘Pray present,” he said, ‘my dutiful respects to his Royal Highness, and say that his com- mands shall be most punctually attended to.” “JT will, my lerd. It will save his Royal Highness a world of trouble.” | | | | | | ee ‘ pete rome lp erage ops een nF tn aa SoS NR SE LS CL IO ET }--———-——___—_ __.._ erro THE DARK WOMAN. “No doubt! no doubt !” “1 have the honour, thea, to bid your lordship good morning.” . Humming a popular air, Colonel Hanger passed the door of the small apartment in which the Countess was waiting, and left the Home Office. Another moment and, with a sbarp ting, the hand-bell of the Earl sounded. His lordship will see you,” said the secretary, “if you please. But if not, I will now leave this place with you; and wot lose sight of you, or of your safety, until you are embarked for the Con- tinent.” “‘¥ thank you, but I will see Lord Ilchester.” — CHAPTER XLI. SHOWS HOW THE DARK WOMAN TRIUMPHED OVER THE SECRETARY OF STATE. Tue Secretary of State for the Home Department was in his private cabinet, from which Colonel Hanger had just departed; and, at the sight of the Countess de Launy, he put on such a strange look of coldness and affected surprise, that shé was determined he should speak first, in order that she might come to some conclusion as to what he really meant. **Oh, Countess, Countess,” he said, “ how much you have deceived ms! How truly may it be said that we know nobody!” ‘Go on, my lord. What mean you?” “ What mean I, Countess? Why, you are, it appears, one who stands so personally obsoxicus to the Regent, that I can no longer save you from his just indignation.” “ Just indignation ?” “Ay, just indignation ! pears, are recognised the following persons, me see-——” ‘Take your time, my lord.” “First—the Countess de Launy.” ** Granted.” “ Second—Linda de Chevenaux.” ** Admitted.” “Third—the Dark Woman, and far-famed mistress of the thieves and assassins named Paul’s Chi kens.” * That is true!” “Tre? True? You admit it all, then?” *To you I do.” it But ” ‘Because Iam perfectly safe in so doing, as you are my friend, you know.” 5; ‘‘ Countess, Countess! I tried to be your friend ; and up to a certain point I was your friend.” ‘* Does friendship, then, cease with you at a certain point ?” . “Hear me, and yon will no longer ask that question. The most officious and troublesome chaplain of Newgate got hold of the depositions of those two rascals, Shucks and Brads, and made a copy of them, and took them to a relative of his, & troublesome and stupid sub-dean of the Chapel Royal, of the name of Mould, who, thinking it would answer his purpose of seeking advancement 80 to do, took the paper to the Regent.” “Ah! Then, my Lord Ichester, you did not yourself make the communication to the Regent?” In you, now, it ap- Let > er ea ene ee ee 147 “Not I!” ‘‘T am glad to hear that. We shall understand each other so much the better for that.” “But, Countess, we cannot understand each other, and we must not understand each other. I tell you it is all ever, and I am doing wrong now to speak to you. Further concealment is out of the question, and you must be given into cus- tody.” “ By you 2” ‘No, no!” “ By whom, then?” “Colonel Hanger is even now about to seck assistance to go to your house and arrest you.” ** Has he gone direct ?” ‘© No, no!” “ Then you have time to send an order which, as the head of the magistracy, you are empowered to do, that I am by no means to be molested.” “Oh, I cannot!” “But you will!” **No, Countess, no! The—a—dream of passion that made me—a—look upon you as an angel— that dream of imagination has passed away.” “ And realities commence,” said Linda. “They do, indeed.” ‘¢ Stern ones!” “Very stern ones.” ‘¢ A prison!” A cell!” “A triall” ‘¢ Yes, Countess; I fear, a trial!” “You have cause.” **T cause ?” 4 “Txactly so. I have a little communication to make to you, my lord.” “You bad better not. Anything you say I may be compelled, you know, to repeat.” ‘Oh, no; your lordship will not repeat this. It was on the eleventh of last month that I was in this very room with your lordship, and in the very midst of a most interesting conference, just as your lordship had said, with a sigh, that you were the humblest of my slaves and admirers, the Regent was announced.” ““T remember.” “Oh, you remember? That is well.” “ But what bas that to do with———” ‘* Hear me out, and you will see. With the acuteness of the diplomatist, and the fears of the man, you will see.” Lord [chester began to look uneasy. “T cannot, my dear Countess, imagine for a moment what the little circumstance you allude to can avail under the present state of things. Believe me that if I could only consult my own inclination, nothing can be further from my wish than in any way to inconvenience you. But what can I do?” “That is a matter for your own consideration. All I can myself say is, that it is necessary that your lordship should in some way release me from the troublesome affair that forms the topic of our conversation.” There was so much coolness and ease about the manner of the Dark Woman that Lord Ilchester was confounded by it, and he began to feel a thousand unknown fears. “YT will take good care,” he said, “that, whila Iam in office, that man Mould gets no prefer-~ ment,” Beemer ee terre re PAS rita ar ie nile ERCP NE EAE POA RA PP 0 re TS ON TO A ES $$$ rar i “That is well; bu * “But what?” ‘‘T was saying——” “Ah! yes, you were. You were saying some- thing that had reference to an occasion when you were here on the eleventh of June.” “T was. The Regent was suddenly announced ; and then I told you, that if he once saw me, I would never call on you again; and you hid me in that small closet adjoining, and which you always keep locked.” “T did! I did! But I am quite certain that you overheard nothing that could be at all com- promising.” “Certainly not; for the whole discourse of the Regent was about a newly-invented sauce that he had purchased the recipe for.” “Tt was! it was!” ‘But in that closet there was a small. box, about nine inches in length and four in breadth, and remarkably shallow.” bc Ab 13? “You start! You bite your lips! amazed, as well as terrified !” Lord Ilchester did not now say another word until he had made a rush from the cabinet into the closet where the Dark Woman had been con- cealed on the occasion alluded to, and he returned ‘in a moment with the identical box in his hand she had mentioned. “‘Tt is here !—it is safe!” he said, with an air of triumph. “Yes, the box.” - “ The—the—box, you say! bend!” The despairing tone in which the Secretary of State uttered those two words “I comprehend” was quite sufficient for the Dark Woman, and she slightly inclined her head as she said, ‘I see you comprehend. You open the box. You fancied no key but that which you wear on your watch- chain would do so, and you are right. But the hinges are frail, and were easily displaced, and as easily pressed down again into their apparently ordinary condition. In that box, which you now perceive is empty, there were two letters, with copies of the replies to them.” The Secretary groaned. “Both those letters were from Fouche, the Minister of Police to Napoleon Bonaparte. They were written to you; and one offered you such terms ‘i “ Fold !—hold!” “Such terms, I say, that, coupled with your reply, proves you guilty——” “No, no!” * Of high treason !” “ Hush!—oh, hush!” “T have the letters.” “My dear Countess |” “My dear Secretary !” “ If you only knew the devotion—the absolute and—and complete manner in which I am pre- pared to do you any and every possible service— if you only knew how I am, from this time forth, your most devoted, humble servant, as I have ever been your most sincere admirer——” “T do know it.” ‘You make me only too happy by saying so.” ‘No, my Lord Ilchester, you are anything but happy.” You look Ah! I compre- THE DARK WOMAN, “Oh, yes, yes!” “ Permit me to differ with your lordship. And now to business.” “ Business ?” “Yes. What will you give for the safety ot those letters from the ex-Minister of Police, Fouche—for he is an ex-Minister now, being in disgrace ?” “TI will give you what you most require, Countess—that is, safety. I will take good care that you are not molested in any way. I will myself go to the Regent, and I will say to him that it is all a mistake. I will disarm all sus- picion against you, and we shall be excellent friends and firmer allies than ever. You shall return to your house; and the police, if they have invaded your house, shall, by an order from me, be sent from it. By virtue of my office, I can protect you, and divert suspicion from you.” “Tt is too late, my lord.” ** Too late 2” “Yes. The protection of your authority might for a time save me, by being thrown about me; but even you, in your high office, cannot undo what is done. The Regent will not forget that he has been told the Countess de Launy and Linda de Chevenaux are one and the same person.” ** What is to be done?” “Tam not unreasonable. I will not ask you to do more than is fairly in your power to do.” “A thousand thanks !” “ But what you can do I must ask you to do.” “ And I will do it.” “J must be allowed to make one visit to my house before I abandon it for ever.” “You shall.” hi “And I can only do that by your lordship being so good as to go with me.” “T—with you? But how can I, now—after what is known—after a warrant mo “You may safely leave that to me, my lord; and be assured that I will in no way compromise you. It wants now but four hours of being twi- light. One hour after that, which will be at five o'clock, I will come to you. And that you may know me, I will send in to you the name of Thomas Waller.” “ And that will be you?” “Tt will.” “Then you will come disguised ?” “Most effectually. Your lordship’s authority will be sufficient to enable me then, with you, to go to my house, and remove whatever I wish to take away from it. What I shall lose by, then, never seeing its interior again, your lordship will make up to me 2?” “Tt will, And—and the letters ?” ‘Of Fouche ?” “Yes, yes!” “J will take such religious care of them, that the possibility of their harming you shall not exist.” ‘‘ Nay, you will give them back to me?” (Oh, nol? . 5 “Then I can make no terms with you.” ** Be it so.” ‘ “ And, in that case, you will be arrested as you leave this cabinet.” “T expect as much. And, in that case, the letters will be in the hands of the Duke of Port- land within two hours from now.” THE DARK WOMAN. “The Duke of Portland? Why the Duke of Portland ?” } “Because, just now he is the bitter and un- compromising foe of the Ministry, on account of wanting office himself; and he will gladly use so powerful a weapon as those letters would be, to ruin the present Administration.” ‘Countess, you are well acquainted with the little political history of the hour.” “T am.” ““T agree to all your terms without reservation.” “‘ My Lord Ilchester, you never made a wiser speech than that in all your life.” The Secretary of State sighed. He then touched a spring in the wall, which communicated with some bell, although no sound came to the recesses of that cabinet. The young private secretary ap- peared. “ Chetwynd,” said Lord Ilchester, ‘‘I conceal nothing from you. Circumstances render it neces- sary that the Countess de Launy should be en- tirely unmolested.” Chetwynd bowed. ‘6 You will, therefore, dismiss the men.” “T will, my lord.” The Countess drew a long breath. “So I was right?” she said. ‘The officers of police were waiting for me ?” “They were. I would have done my utmost to serve you; but your arrest appeared to me to be inevitable.” “ Until you saw such good counter reasons ?” The Earl bowed. “Well, my lord, there is one thing I shall never quarrel with you for, and that is for can- dour. I would ten times rather understand you as I do now, with your avowal that I do so, than be duped by any shallow. show of generosity. We will be mutually candid, and we will be mutually careful. At five o'clock a card will be sent to you with the name of Mr. Thomas Waller upon it, and you will know that it is I who per- sonate that character.” " “JT will be here.” The Countess rose and made a mock bow, so lowly and reverential was it. The Secretary of State rung the visitor’s exit bell sharply, and in two minutes she was in her carriage again. But she did not intend to go home. Drawing closer the ample shawl in which she was enveloped around her, she considered’ for a moment, and as the footman stood waiting for orders at the door of the carriage, she said, “ To Stubbs and Martin’s, the drapers, at the corner of the Burlington Arcade.”* ‘Yes, my lady. Burlington Arcade.” The coachman made a gesture with his whip that he understood, and off rolled the carriage. The distance was short, and the vehicle was soon at the Piccadilly entrance to the Arcade. The Countess then alighted, and without so much as turning her head to take a last glance at the Carriage she was never to enter more, or at the Servants she never expected to see again, she slowly walked up the Arcade and disappeared from it into Vigo Street. She was well muffled up in the warm shawl, for the day was bitterly cold, and she walked rapidly on towards Soho. It was not above twenty minutes’ walk, and the Dark Woman then reached her house—that house which had become hers by SS ee ent pein Sermeeene een 149 right of conquest—in Frith Street, which, at all events, she hoped would be to her a place of refuge for a time. The only uneasiness she had concerning it was in regard to Sixteen-stringed Jack. CHAPTER XLII. THE DARK WOMAN MAKES A LAST VISIT _TO HER HOUSE, AND INCURS GREAT DANGER. Iv was precisely at five o’clock on that evening that the Earl of Ichester, who had, to the great disgust of all the clerks, messengers, and door- keepers of the Home Office, reached it about half an hour before, was informed that a gentleman of the name of Thomas Waller desired to see him. ‘‘ Show him in,” was the brief order. In a few moments the Dark Woman, most accurately disguised as a middle-aged, or rather elderly gentleman, with a cloak that at that time was called a roquelaire, made her appear- ance. In a voice that was so decidedly masculine that it astonished the Earl, she said, ‘‘ May I hope that your lordship is quite well ?” * Quite, Countess.” “ Hush!” “T beg pardon; I mean Mr. Waller. and fully at your service.” ““T perceive that your carriage is at the door, therefore we will go at once.” “ At your pleasure.” Quite, No one in the Secretary of State’s office for a single moment suspected that the respectable- looking gentleman in the roquelaire, for whom it now seemed that the Secretary of State had been waiting, was the fair and accomplished Countess de Launy, who was so well known to all the officials of the Home Office. The Minister’s carriage was at the door, and they set off at once for the Countess’s honse. “T hope, my lord,’ she said, “that you have taken every precaution ?” “*T have.” “That is well.” “T sent one of my own messengers to say that nothing was to be touched or moved until I came.” “You did wisely.” “So well, I hope, and so wisely, that I trust you will think better of your determination, and will yet let me have those letters.” “Soon, I will.” “ Ah, you mean to-day—to-night ?” “No. But be assured that so long as you do not play me false, you are as safe in regard to them as if you had them resting on your own heart; and be assured, too, that I will return them to you as soon as I can do so with perfect safety. Here we are at my house—the house which I shall enter now with you, and never enter again.” “Perhaps,” said the Secretary, to himself. The house-door wag opened by Linda’s regular servants, who had not left, although they were in a state of great consternation in regard to the presence of two officers of police, who had taken possession of the place. The messenger from the 150 Home Office, however, had restricted them in their acts to merely staying in the house, and now that the Earl of Ilchester himself arrived they were all subservience and civility. “T trust,” said the Earl, ‘that nothing has been touched, or removed, or in any way medidled with in this house, up to the present time.” *‘ Your lordship may rest perfectly assured on that head,” replied the messenger from the Home Office, “Quite so, my lord,” added the two constables. “That is wed. Now, Mr. Waller, you shall say where you would like to go first,” “This way,” said the Dark Woman, and she proceeded up the principal staircase, followed closely by the Earl of Ilchester, who kept a wary eye on her and all her movements. The fact. was that he had all the day, after his rather uncomforiable interview with her in the morning, cherished a hope that he might be able to see and recover the letters from the French Minister of Police on which he set such store. The Dark Woman had a suspicion that the house had not been so entirely respected during the hours that had intervened between twelve o'clock and five, as the Secretary of State would fain make her believe; but she was perfectly easy on that score, a3 the papers and documents which she wished to take from it were, she well knew, too well hidden to be found by any casual survey. When they reached—which they did in a few seconds, for the Dark Woman went directly to it— that small boudoir which she usually sat in, she paused, and turned to the Earl, saying, ‘‘ Now, my lord, I have a very slight favour to ask of rou.” oe It is already granted, be it what it may.” ‘Yon are considerate. It is this—that you will step into the acjoining room, and not return to this until I send for you” ‘‘ Ah, then, Countess,” said the Earl, as he cast a curieus glance about him, “you have some biding place in this boudoir which ot “‘ Which your lordship has failed to discover? I have.” “ Nay, nay!” ‘- Make no excuses, my lord. J daresay, what- ever you have done, ! should, in similar circum- stanees, have done myself.” The Earl looked just a little red in the face, and at once passed through an open doorway into the next room. The Dark Woman closed the door upon him. He heard the key turned in the lock. “‘ Never mind!” he said.—‘‘ never mind! She will, no doubt, have the letters of Fouche in her possession when we leave the house together; and if she gets away with them, I give her leave, that isall!” . By the compressed lips, and the determined look of the Earl about the eyes, it was quite evident that he meant to take some desperate means of recovering the documents to which the Countess had aliuded, and which were to him of the most vital importance. But he had to deal with a far subtler spirit than his own, and his defeat was certain. The moment the Dark Woman was alone, she touched a spring in the wall, which communicated with a bell in the hall, and then she waited calmly an eneeeeemnennemeenemenenneemeneenenen eee eT THE DARK WOMAN. Tn about three minutes, the page appeared, with a look of surprise upon his pretty face. The Dark V/oman addressed the boy in a tone of voice that he could not possibly recognise. Are you aware that your mistress, the Coun- tess de Launy, is in danger?” ST am, sir.” “Are you well pleased at that?” ~ “No, sir.” “Why ?” ‘She was cruel, but yet at times she was kind; and in comparison with what I was, this place is heaven.” “Indeed! And what were you?” “A poor ckarity-——” The boy paused. “Why do you pause? Why do you not say a poor charity girl, for girl you are ?” “Oh, sir, sir! Do not—oh, do not tell! I am a girl! I was in the most wretched workhouse! Oh, sir, I only ask you to tell me when I can go to the Countess !” “Would you be faithful to her ?” ““T would, indeed!” Hs Cn your hopes of heaven? Will you swear it?” “TY do!——I will!” **Do you not know me?” The Countess now spoke in her natural voice; and the young girl who had played the part of the pretty page in her household dropped to her feet, and clasped her hands, as she said, “‘ Ah, itis you! It is you, dear lady! Oh, trust me, and let me serve you stili!” “You shall!—you shall! TY will!—I will!” The Countess spoke, then, almost in a whisper. “You will. take with you a small packet which Speak low.” T will now give you, and you will watch your © opportunity, when no one sees you, or in any way attends to what you do, or where you go, and you will leave the house. You will go to Frith Street, Soho, and you will walk up and down on the left hand side, as you go into the Square, until F come to you.” “T will do all.that.” b “But before you leave this house you will change the fanciful costume you now ‘wear for more ordinary apparel, which you have in your sleeping-room, I think.” ‘Oh, yes, yes, madam.” “ Attend, then. Stand there for a few moments.” The Dark Woman placed the page against the lock of the door that led to the room in which — the Secretary of State was waiting her pleasure, and then she felt assured that the sharpest eyes, if he possessed them, could not see through any crevice of the lock into the room. She took down asmall painting from the wall and broke some paper, which was pasted over the back of the frame, apparently to keep the picture from the dust. © Lying quite flat between this paper and the back canvass of the picture was a small sealed packet. “Take this,” she said to the page; ‘and re- member that my life depends upon the care you take of it.” “Oh, yes, yes; I will, indeed!” “ Now go.” The page left the room. From her breast pocket—the pocket of the Fe St Se te ee Se Se ee a pec i“ Se ae ee *, sr es THE DARK WOMAN, ST eapacious coat she had on ander the roquelaire— the Dark Woman now took a packet, cimilarly sealed to that one which she had given te the page; and she placed it in another pocket, so that the corner of it rather ostemtatiously appeared projectizg from it. Then she unlocked and flung open the door of the room, and said, ‘Come forth, my lord. I have all I wanted in this house.” The Earl of Ilchester came forth from the room, and looked eagerly about him. On the table he saw the small picture, with the torn paper at its back, and he, ina moment, divined that it had been a hiding place. ‘Ah! you are clever!” he said, Not so clever, however, it seems, as to deceive the penetration of your lordship.” “Well, well, shall we go now ?” # As you please.” ts’ And where shall I have the pleasure to take ou? My carriage is quite at your service.” “Put me down anywhere in the streets.. I can shift for myself, no doubt. But there is one thing | yet unsettled.” Ah, yes! “ Indeed 1” “ Yes; it is how, and when, and where I shall see you again, Is it not, most charming Coun- tess?” et No.” “No? You say no?” ‘Certainly not! It is the compensation for my house and goods. I want three thousand That I can guess!” pounds.” “You shall have them. Come to me to- morrow.” ‘No, Here are writing materials. Write me an order for the money at once.” *T am so much, my dear Countess, your de- voted slave, that, you see, I comply with your most extravagant demands, and so I write you the order. There it is, on my own bankers; but I cannot afford it, and it must come out of the secret service money for this year.” __ ‘4s you please. Now, my lord, Iam ready.” The Secretary of State locked quite pleased. He saw the end of the sealed packet projecting from the pocket of the Countess, a3 she had fully infended he should, and he made no doubt but that there were the letters of Fouche. . The carriage waited at the door. The coach- man was half-frozen. The footman had made his way into the hall of the house, and was toasting himself at a good fire. “Home!” said the Secretary of State, as he stepped into the carriage, after the Countess; and then he added, ‘My dear Countess, I will put you down when and where you may please to say.” “Thanks, my lord.” The moment fhe carriage drove off, a man darted out of the deep, dark doorway of the next house. He easily overtook it, and, with one jerk at the legs of the footman, he dislodged that functionary from the foot-board behind, and laid him sprawling in the deep snow in the roadway. That man was Binks. Fhe ruffian had had his orders from the Dark Woman, and he was carrying them out with all the unscrupulous audacity which characterised him, | | 151 The carriage went. on as if nothing bad hap- pened, and so suddenly was the act done, that even the coachman was not aware that the person on the footman’s perch behind was a very different looking one to that he supposed. The carriage turned into Bond Street. Then the compression of the lips of the Secretary of State became closer; and there was a slight paleness about his face as he spoke'to the Dark Woman. ' ‘“‘ Thus far,” he said, ‘‘E have, perhaps, with a ready acquiescence in your wishes, and a weak- ness of purpose which you will be the first to despise, allowed you to act just as you wished.” “You have.” * But I can go no further.” “ What do you mean?” “You have in the pocket of the coat, which so well disguises you, a sealed packet, which I have no doubt contains those letters which, if mot essen- tial to my immediate interests to obtain, are cer- tainly so to my peace of mind. ‘Zhe coachman now on the box of this chariot is a police officer. The footman behind is ancther; and I am armed, end say to you, ‘You are my prisoner, and I de- mand the packet you have about you.’ ” “ So you have betrayed me?” “You may call it what you will.” “ Alas! alas!” * You accept defeat then, and will make no re- sistance? if so, 1 will make terms with you. Give me the packet, and you may go free.” * You will not have me arrested ?” “No. If you will let everything between us be the same as if was, and give me that sealed packet ‘ : “This?” gaid the Dark Woman, as she took from the pocket of her coat the sealed packet. ‘“Yes, Give me that, and I will stop the coach, and you may go free.” “ Take it. Sir, you have played me false, and I yield to your superior finesse. I will alight here.” “Very well.” The Secretary pulled the check-string, and the coach was stopped. Binks got down from behind, and opened the door. The darkness was too great for the Secretary of State to see that it was not the officer disguised as a footman who was performing that office, and having no suspicion that anything had happened amiss with his plans, he did not take the trouble to look curiously at Binks, as he stood with the open door of the carriage partially hiding him. “Then farewell, my lord,” said the Countess, as she stepped from the vehicle. The Hari laughed only. The moment, then, that Linda was fairly out of the carriage, he called out, “ Officer, do your duty! Coachman, drive on!” The coach went off, and the Earl of Iichester, as he sunk back on the Juxurious cushion of his carriage, said to himself, ‘She has easily fallen before my superior capacity for a plot. in custody now, and that will please the Regent. I have Fouche’s letters, and that pleases me. Ha! hal!’ . Never for a moment doubting but that the sealed packet he had taken from the Countess contained the letters he was so anxious to get pos- session of, the Earl broke it open. ae She is: 152 He found within an old newspaper. On the top of that was a delicate-coloured note, very nicely folded. It contained the following words :— ‘The Countess de Launy presents her compli- ments to the Earl of Ichester, and hopes the newspaper enclosed, although out of date, may amuse him. It has some details concerning Mons. Fouche in it. The Countess likewise hopes that the Earl of Ilchester will look after Markwell, the officer, who was disguised as his footman, and who was left in the road some few doors from the Countess’s house. ‘“The Countess begs to add that she and the Earl of Ilchester will) most undoubtedly meet again, when she wil], in her own way, thank him for the past.” The Secretary of State uttered a howl of rage and vexation when he had finished this epistle, and sunk back again in the carriage with a look of despair. In half an hour the Dark Woman was safely in her house in Frith Street, having found the page waiting for her, according to her orders, with the packet which, in reality, contained Fouche’s letters. Then the Dark Woman felt herself so tired and exhausted that she sank on to the floor of one of the rooms, and fell into a deep sleep. Binks watched in the hall of the honse. The page waited by the Dark Woman. Sadi was groaning with the agony of the wounds he had received in his encounter with Sixteen-stringed Jack in one of the attics of the house, It was at an early hour on the following morn- ing that the Dark Woman sent the following note to Willes, the Regent’s valet :— “She who need not be named will hencefor- ward see Willes at the house of the astrologer.” That note brought Willes as soon as possible to Frith Street, for he had a tolerable budget of news for the Dark Woman. Before his arrival, she had made up her mind to the most prudent course in regard to him, which was, to trust him; and, accordingly, sbe did so by informing him that it was perfectly true that she was both the Countess de Launy and the Dark Woman who persecuted the Regent. ‘“‘I do so,” she said, ‘because I am his wife; and the time will come—for beings of another world, to whom all things-are known, have declared as much—when I shall be acknowledged as such; in which case, those who stand by me now and do me good service shall choose their own rewards.” Willes was profuse in his asseverations that he would be perfectly true to her, and do her all the service in his power; and, as a proof, he added, “‘T have found out exactly what Colon :1 Hanger means to do at the supper if you should come to it. : ‘“* He means to try to murder me?” ‘He does, indeed. He has some pistols with which he prides himself upon never missing a shot, and all the evening he intends to be pre- tending to play with them, so that, should you appear, and he take your life, he will say that it THE DARK WOMAN. a nr cen panera was a most umpremeditated act, and only done in a panic for fear of the life of the Regent being in danger.” “Listen to me, Willes.” “Twill. I cherish every word you say.” ‘You will find means to get into the room of Colonel Hanger, I dare cay ?” “Oh, yes, easily! He will be all the evening at The Cedars, and will dress there.” “Then, if you can succeed in removing the bullets from the pistols he will have, you will do me good service.” ‘““I think I can do that.” “Tf you can, you will make me some signal; | or, perhaps, you can actually meet me on the out- | The | Regent will not let me out of the rooms after he | arrives; but there is a tall French window, which | opens into a conservatory one way, and the | If you please, I will con- | side of the villa?” “‘No, no; I don’t think I can do that. supper-room the other. ceal you, after dark, in that conservatory; and should I succeed in removing the bullets from the | pistols in use by Colonel Hanger, I will wear in | the button-hole of my coat a red flower.” ‘So be it. I will be there. act as he would have me. Oh, no, no, no! yet he has power.” The Dark Woman uttered these words to her- | self; but her object was that they should be heard | and commented upon by Willes. ‘“‘May I presume to ask, madam, to whom you | allude?” said the valet. ‘* To the Earl of Ichester.” “The Secretary of State?” “Oh, yes. I make no concealment to you, Willes, that he is a friend of mine, and is acting | with me in every way.” “Indeed !”’ ‘Yes. and tens of thousands, that I can use as I please. He sent me this draft, which you will see is dated to-day, for three thousand pounds.” ‘*T see it is, madam.” '“ Well, Willes, I don’t want the money. of any use to you?” ‘*To me? to me, honoured madam and mis- | tress? Three thousand pounds to me?” “Oh, yes. That will be but a small instalment | of what, in the end, I will give you.” : “Oh, madam; command my life—my utmos powers! Iam your slave!” “Meet me, then, on the night of the supper, by the gates of Kew Gardens, at sunset, and hide me | in that conservatory you speak of.” “T will—I will; and, oh, madam, if ever you had a most devoted and humble slave, it is my- self.” TI believe it.” Willes departed, and the Dark Woman putona | look of unutterable scorn, as she said, ‘Gold has bought that man, body and soul! He was wavering, and would have betrayed me. I could see it by . his tone and the familiar manner in which he was beginning to address me; but now the large bribe of three thousand pounds has bought his soul, What is money, compared with my objects ?” Tah speed mp eee ete amines ren a ee nent aed a I do not choose to And | He cannot help thinking that I must | be short of money, while I have thousands—ay, | Is it | THE DARK WOMAN, 154 CHAPTER XLII. BHOWS HOW THE REGENT GAVE UP THE CONTEST of Wales was to give one of those recherché suppers, for which, since he had been appointed Regent, he had become famous, or infamous, as the case might be. He just had the grace not to give them in any one of the royal residences, where he certainly might have given them; but where they would have been utider the observation of the regular officials of the Palace. There were several villa residences dotted about the suburbs of London, where he was in the habit of carrying on those orgies, at which were as- sembled a good deal of talent and a good deal of debauchery. There was to be found Sir Hinckton Moys, Colonel Hanger, Beau Brummel; Sheridan, the witty and the unwise; Moore, the poet, for a brief space, until he retired in disgust from the coarse vices of the feast; and many others more or Jess known to fame, or rather notoriety, in the days of the Regency. There, too, were to be found ladies, by courtesy so called, who had sunk far lower even than poor Annie Gray, and who had no occasion to sink at all. There was to be seen, although then a compara- tively young woman, the afterwards infamous Mar- chioness of C——-, who, years after the period of our tale, robbed the death-chamber of the sybarite monarch, George the Fourth. A. few light-hearted actresses, too, graced the scene, and now and then our “ brother of York” _ would be present with a certain lady who was commander-in-chief of His Majesty’s forces, in all but the actual name, for some years. The pretty Mrs. Robinson was one of the guests—she who, when disguised in male attire, as she was very fond of being, captivated a lady in the Pump- room at Bath, who made a formal offer of mar- riage to her the next morning, with a fortune of fifty thousand pounds, and when she found the gay and handsome Don Giovanni was a woman, poisoned herself in a fit of chagrin. Well, those times have passed away, never to return. The very atmosphere of public opinion speaks a perpetual lesson now to kings, queens, and princes, which in our favoured land they are by far too wise to disregard. Monarchy is decorous in England. Willes was so completely the slave of the Dark | Woman, since the three thousand pounds had been given to him, that he was at the gate of Kew WITH THE DARK WOMAN. Tur Monday night arrived on which the Prince Gardens a good quarter of an hour before the time mentioned; and when a close carriage drove up and paused at the edge of the pretty green, he darted up to the window with an eagerness to do good service, that let Linda feel that she could thoroughly depend upon him, The coachman of this close carriage was Binks; footman there was none. “‘May I have the honour to hope, dear madam,” said Willes, with almost tears in his eyes, “ that you are quite well?” sé I am, ” “Oh, T am so pleased : OG LOR NM a) matt 6 a ae Ne cee» mam St Men ptedt Nan ln ane CPE ES: Ny ‘ THE DARK WOMAN. a A A = = en a ni. ein nt i et hgh “Can you accomplish what you promised ?” ° ‘‘Oh, yes, madam, most easily. The fact is, several ladies are expected, and it is my duty to conduct them to the villa, so there can be no | difficulty whatever; only it is now about a quarter |_ past five only, and the Prince will not sit down to | supper until nine.” “No matter, I will wait. pistols of Colonel Hanger ?” “Oh, that is quite a good joke. Ha! ha! Pray pardon your most humble servant for laughing; but the Regent has made him quite superstitious, and he loaded both his pistols with silver.” “ With silver ?” “Yes. It appears he had heard somewhere, that it was only a silver bullet that would avail against one protected by the Evil One, so he hammered and rolled up two shillings, and placed them in his pistols instead of bullets.” “‘ Are you sure?” ““Oh, yes. He thought he would be so very clever, and he called to me this morning and told me that he intended, after supper, to propose a game or trial of skill for guineas with the Regent, | as to who should hit off, with pistol-shots, the most of the glass pendants of the chandelier at the far end of the room. That, you see, most honoured madam, was his excuse for having the | pistols there at all.” “T see,’ ‘‘ Well, I pretended I thought it would take amazingly, as being quite an original amusement ;. and then he said to me that I might as well bring the pistols to him after the supper was re~ moved, and the wine placed on the table; and — he handed them to me, and then he said suddenly, as if it was quite a recollection, ‘Oh, by the by, | Willes, it’s only a joke; but after the Prince has | fired and missed once, which to be sure he will, I | will say that I will bet a fifty pounds note I hit | off more than two of the chandelier drops with a | shilling. They will think I mean to throw a | shilling ; but I want to load the pistols with shil- | ling pieces instead of bullets. Here are two I | have hammered up.’” “And so he gave them to you?” | “He did, madam and mistress, and here they i are.’ “Ah, you will give them to me! No, not |. both. You will give me one of them. Load the | pistol with the other, but do not give it to him. a It will do for reference in the morning, or after I 7. have left.” | “T see what you mean, madam, and all shall | be done as you wish.” | “That is well. Now conduct me to the con- | servatory you have mentioned. Binks, you will — \ put up at yonder inn— the ‘Crown,’ I think © i- it is.’ “T knows it,” said Binks. * T will come to you there.” ‘All's right !” ; Binks drove off. Willes looked after him wiiteh some surprise as he said, “Madam, that coach-— man has not the manners exactly of those belong- |) ing to the Court.” “That is true,” replied Linda; ‘but he has |. other manners that please me better. Were I to command him to kill you here upon the spot, he |. would do so, and never ask me for a reason why.” What about the toe natenen NAN ae ne ae NG a te TORN me Tht eet NTI PA Vs ttn ees 2 Spee Msioy THE DARK WOMAN, Willes did not seem much to admire this quality in Binks, and he merely bowed as he now led the way for the Dark Woman to the villa named The Cedars, The gate to the beautifully-kept grounds of the villa was quite close at hand, so that the Countess was, in a few moments, quite free from the half- melted snow with which the roadway and the green were encumbered. . Willes trod the pretty walk of the garden into which he conducted the Dark Woman with an air of reverence and respect, for it was quite sacred to the footsteps of the Regent and his guests. It was somewhat strange that this man, Willes, should have any feeling of respect or veneration for George, Prince of Wales, and his associates, but he really had, for they were the greatest peopl» he knew, and he was naturally of a servile disposition, so that rank and title had more than their proper effect upon him. He even spoke in a sort of courtly whisper. You will perceive, madam,” he said, “ that this garden is always kept in the most beautiful order. It is called the summer garden; but we shall, in afew moments, enter the winter garden of the villa.” “You make that distinction between two por- tions of the same garden ?” “Oh, no, no, madam! Not exactly of the same garden, but certainly of the same grounds. The winter garden is covered entirely over with glass, and heated by hot water pipes. This is the way to it, madam.” Willes opened a small glazed door, and con- ducted the Dark Woman into what was nothing more nor less than a gigantic conservatory, the roof of which was so high, that it went over the tops of some tolerably well-grown trees that were there. A profusion of flowers, the delicate odours of which perfumed the atmosphere, were in full bloom, and the ground on which the Dark Woman trod was of the finest, softest gravel, and of a beautiful colour, in contrast with the emerald green of grass plots and borders which were inter- mingled with it. “ And this,” she said, “is one of the private villas which report says belong to the Regent, although ostensibly in the occupation ef some one else ?” . “ Precisely so, madam.” “Tt is well.” The Dark Woman uttered those words with a peculiar bitterness. Willes had got into the habit of making a sort of half-bow to every word or two that Linda gave utterance to. It was a habit that had burst at once, like first love, into full life, from the mo- ment that she had given him the draft for three thonsand pounds, * It was truly astonishing what an effect that effort of liberality on the part of the Dark Woman had had upon the Regent’s valet. . “Are we near the conservatory you spoke of ?” she said, after a pause of some few moments’ duration. “We are, madam. It is an exotic conser- vatory, and from it you will be able to command a perfect view of the supper-room of the Re- gent.” “That is what I wish; and I will admit, TRAN RN et cept ets BIAS OY ht 155 Willes, that you have kept your word, and per: formed your service to me most faithfully.” ‘Oh, madam, your approbation is everything.” There was quite a tearful expression of counte- nance about Willes’s tones as he spoke. In fact, he was getting weak and infatuated about the Dark Woman, and at that time he was quite pre- pared to do anything in the world for her, and to obey her in all things. A very few moments now brought them to an- other door, which conducted them at once to the exotic conservatory which Willes had mentioned. It was full of most magnificent plants. Some of these were arranged upon stages, and between those stages and the wall were steps by which the upper stages could be reached, and the plants attended to, Opening from this conservatory there was a French window, which reached from the ceiling to the floor of the Regent's supper-room. The room was already lighted, and two larga fires—one at each end—were hissing, and splutter- ing, and sending out bright red rays of light into the room. The apartment was one of such size that it was evident it must have been an addition to the villa, as the original plan of the building could not have involved an apartment of any such dimensions. It was lit by massive chandeliers, carrying a profusion of wax lights; and girandoles on the walls, in the sconces of which were more lights, added much to the brilliancy of the room. What with crimson silk curtains, and gilding, and all kinds of rich decoration that such au apartment was susceptible of, the first sight of it struck the Dark Woman’s imagination with plea- sure. She stretched out her arms, as she said, “* Here, here, in such scenes as this, is my proper home !” Willes was about to make some’reply, when a door at the further end of the magnificent apart- ment opened. ‘“‘ Hide, ob, hide, honoured madam!” he said, hurriedly. ‘If we are seen, we are lost!” The Dark Woman stepped back a pace or two into the conservatory, where she was completely hidden amid the large leaves of the exotics. As there was no light in the conservatory, she felt that she would be perfectly secure there from observation, and she looked calmly into the supper-room, as two or three servants made some additions to the table. ‘*You can go,” she said, to Willes. ‘You have done all that I asked of you.” ““ Yes, madam ; but when it is your good plea- sure to leave I will be here, at the door of this conservatory, leading into the winter garden.” “That will be well. I might miss my way on a return, although I have marked it well. Go now !” “‘T have the honour,” added Willes, as he mada a low bow, “to wish your ladyship every possible success in your enterprise.” Another moment, and Willes was gone. The Dark Woman ascended the steps at the back of the stage that-held some of the plants, and she found that from that elevated position she could command an admirable view of the supper-table, and, indeed, of the whole room. The servants were still busy in laying the table With fine damask napkins and vases of rose-water. sehen RS AE ORNS ALE RESET TN IR EOASEN COSMAS ML ABLURMSA AN YAIR SUN ANAND RAL Hor LU Nhe oR PAM RAD Beceev a nm menneh we RA RAS A a GMO Se daca ANP IR II REECE NIR YR AE NI AROS EE MS ETT NEN IIT RS HT IESE INTELL TTY, 156 By several of the places, too, very exquisite bouquets of rare flowers were placed. With a pang of jealousy the Countess saw one of the bouquets placed by the side of the Regent's place at the head of the table. That, she guessed, was for Annie Gray, whom she had already made one abortive effort to de- stroy. “ Hail! hail!” she muttered to herself. “That pretty toy of the hour may yet be broken!” So interesting to the Dark Woman were all these preparations for the supper of the Regent, that she lost none of the details, and nine o'clock came before she had thought one-half of the time had passed away. The lights were now lit in the candelabra on the table, and all was prepared. Then a side door epened, and a sort of proces- sion of serving men came in, each of whom carried a dish. The table was laid in an instant. Then there followed these serving men fifteen pages, attired in pretty costume, and each with a white napkin over his arm. These pages placed fifteen chairs at the long table. “That, then,” thought the Dark Woman, “ will be the number of the guests.” She was right. But hardly had she had time to make the re- mark to herself when laughter, loud, shrill, hoarse, and of every possible key, made itself heard. A couple of folding doors were flung open at the end of the supper-room furthest from the con- servatory, and the Prince of Wales appeared in full evening costume—that evening costume of the period which is now so rarely seen. It consisted of smallclothes of silk, and black silk stockings ; of a blue coat with gilt buttons, two sets of which were at the cuffs; a waistcoat of a pala buff colour, or perfectly white, and a cravat of great size. The ample frill, too, of the shirt was folded over and confined by a brilliant pin, while from the fob or watch-pocket of the smallclothes de- pended a massive watch-chain, carrying some costly seals, The extreme bucks of the Regency were fre- quently in the habit of carrying two watches, which had certainly a significant look as the seals dangled about. But it was not upon the costume of the Regent that the regards of the Dark Woman were fixed. If was upon the fair girl that leant upon his arm. He conducted Annie Gray. to the supper-room ; and she was most magnificently attired. A low-bodied dress—very short, too, in the waist, and clasped around her slender form by a complete circlet of diamonds—gave her the ap- pearance of being most richly attired, which, in truth, she was. The colour of the silk dress she wore was a very pale shot-rose tint; and in her hair was twisted several rows of pearls, which must, from their size, have been of immense value. Indeed, Annie Gray, the poor wardrobe-maker of Martlett’s Court, Bow Street, certainly looked more like a princess than a needy work-girl as she entered that princely apartment on the arm of the Regent of England. Her youth, too, and her beauty, well became the splendour with which she was surrounded ; and as Annie happened just then to be light- THE DARK WOMAN, hearted and joyous, her face was exquisitely beautiful, as it broke into dimples, while sks laughed and spoke with vivacity. Immediately following the Regent came the other guests. There were eight ladies, including Annie Gray, and but seven gentlemen. Sir Hinckton Moys came with a lady on each atm; and then the folding-doors were closed, and the whole party bowed as the Regent, with Aunis, walked up the room to the head of the table. That post of honour was at the part of the room close to the French window which opened into the conservatory. Little did the Regent suspect that his perse- cutor and enemy, the Dark Woman, was so near to him. Nobody seated themselves until Annie and the Regent had done so; and not then until tre Prince said, with a slight inclination of the head, “Pray be seated.” Then there was a rustling of silks and satine, ‘and a slight movement of chairs, as the party took their places. All this was very ceremonious, because the evening was commencing, and there was no one who could be a greater stickler for forms, and ceremonies, and etiquette than the Prince of Wales while he was sober. The Regent then made a signal, and the covers were removed. The supper began. It is doubtful if any one there present cared about the rich and costly viands that were on the table. No doubt, the greater number of the guests had dined well, and dined late, and they rather looked for amusement from the later riot of the evening than cared for the choice specimens of cookery which were placed before them. ‘It was, however, a little peculiarity of the Regent that he could always eat well, and he pro- bably enjoyed the supper more than any one else. Annie, too, had a young and healthful appetite, and she supped well. But little was said during the repast, and the Dark Woman glared upon it all from her place of concealment in a state of mind that grew each moment more wild and fierce. If looks could have been converted into daggers or subtle poisoneus essences, poor Annie would not have lived long at that table. And so the supper passed away, and at length the table was cleared, and with a despatch that nothing but the most accurate drilling could have effected, a magnificent collection of fruits and wines was placed on the table. The Prince Regent then merely said the words, “ That will do,” and in a moment the pages, who had been waiting, left the room. A peal of laughter burst from the assembled guests, and was continued, peal after peal, ap- parently from no cause. ‘What is it? What—what is the meaning of this ?” said the Regent. The laughter continued, and then there came a look of impatience upon the face of the Prince, as he added, ‘“‘Oh, I daresay it is a good joke; but it would be all the better if I knew it.” “Why, George,’ drawled a voice from the lower end of the table, “you know that on the asi: occasion, when I did you the honour of coming to sup with you———” ee > A A A A A A : pmwenene see ee ee = a = a a ee Te ee a a car ane oes —— ee oe re as THE DARK WOMAN, a aa — —o «Me the honour ?—~me ?” “Yes,” drawled the voice. “Well, you are the most impudent fellow, Brummel, that I know, and I fancy always will be,” “Yes; that’s true, George. And as I was say- ing, you know, you complained that we were all too serious, so we made up our minds to begin to laugh at once to-night, and as I find I am here, I laugh, too. He! he! he!” pall 44’ “Find yourself here, Brummel 2” said Sir Hinckton Moys. ‘‘ What do you mean by that?” ‘‘ Ah, well, you see, I go to sleep.” “ But what has that to do with it?” “Oh, everything—everything. My man, you see, wakes me up at the proper time, and then I dress. Sometimes it’s a failure, and then I go to bed again.” “ A failure to dress ?” cried another of the guests. “Ah, yes. It is impossible, on some unpro- pitious days, to tie one’s cravat properly, and then I go to bed again; but when all goes well, my fellow puts me into a coach, and takes me some- where, and to-night I find myself here. Ah!” Beau Brummel was, or affected to be, quite exhausted, after rendering this explanation. The Regent laughed, and the decanters flashed around the table. “Who,” cried one of the ladies, ‘can tell me anything about the Couutess de Launy ?” *Confound her!” cried the Regent. “Do you know her, then, George?” asked Annie. “To I know her? Ah, well; we will drop that subject. I don’t want to hear about her, although I am afraid that we shall hear too much!” “ Why so?—why so?” cried several. “Oh, it’s no secret,” said Sir Hinckton Moys, “T don’t know that, Moys,” interrupted the Regent. : “Then I am silent,” said Sir Hinckton, as he bowed right down to the table. ‘Ts it a secret, George?” said Annie. “My dear, do not you trouble yourself about her, I pray you. It is, and it is not, a secret; for I believe that by this time the person calling her- self the Countess de Launy is in Newgate.” “‘ Newgate!” exclaimed several. this, Can we not have some music?” “‘ Vocal?” asked one. sing.” “ Be it so.” One of the ladies at the foot of the table sang | very sweetly a pretty little romance, in French, and the applause was very general. ‘* Now,” said the Regent, as his face was each moment getting more and more flushed with the wine he was drinking rather recklessly,—‘' now, | who has anything to say that will be amusing? We are all dull to-night.” ‘*T h.ve,” said Colonel Hanger, suddenly. He had not before spoken, and his voice at- tracted general attention. “ What is it, Hanger ?” “ Why, you know that the Duchess of B is jealous of her not over-attractive husband?” ** Yes, yes.” “Well, yesterday, there was quite a little comesy in May Fair.” "What was it ?—-what was it ?” ne ae re tT NE ete ** Come, come,” cried the Regent, ‘‘no more of “Tf so, Mercandanti will ORT Ee A Eg AIR IN EVE Ut te “ The Duchess was, for once, in the carriage with the Duke; and as they were passing through a street in May Fair, there came tripping al ng a young girl, who caught the regards of tho eyes of the Duke in quite sufficient a manner to be dis- pleasing to the Duchess. The girl went into a house, which the Duke and the Duchess both took good note of, for they both meant to go back to it. After getting some mile or so off, the Duchess, with quite an air of pleasantry, asked the Duke where she should put him down, as she would be shopping for the next few hours; and he, de- lighted to get at liberty, said that he was going to the Treasury, and was accordingly set down / there. The Duchess at once drove off to the | house where the charming young girl had dis- appeared, and, wrapping herself in her shawl, she left the carriage in the next street, under the archway of Dobson’s livery-stables, and herself | boldly knocked at the door of the house.” “There, there,” cried the Regent at this point of the story, ‘it will come to nothing, I know!” “ Nay, nay!” ‘‘Hear it out, George,” said Annie. “But I know Hanger of old. When he gets a little further on, he will say, ‘ Dear me, I forget | the end!’” “Oh, no, no!” said Colonel Hanger. “I will | not say that now, you may depend, for it is a | good story.” | ‘Go on—go on, Hanger!” cried several voices. | ** Well, go on, then!’’ said the Prince. ‘‘ Well, the Duchess knocked at the door of the house, which was that of a decent tradesman ; | and, when some one epened it, she said, * Will | you allow me, as I feel rather faint, to sit | down in your passage for a fow minutes?’ The people of the house were civil enough, and would have led her into their parlour, but she said she preferred the passage, as there was more E and they accommodated her with a chair { | there, on which she sat in patience for about ten minutes, until a sharp rap came at the door, when, before any of the family could come to it, she opened it, and, as she expected, confronted the Duke, her husband, saying, ‘Come in, my dear; I expected you!’ So astonished was the Duke. that he turned at once and fled, and has not been heard of since.” “And when was that ?” laughed the Prince. “Yesterday,” said a voice. ‘But I will take _ good care not to be so ontwitted another time.” A roar of laughter followed these words from the veritable Duke, who was the hero of the anec- dote. “Well,” cried the Prince, “I will tell you a atory !” “A story !—a story!” cried all the guests. “You will be so good as to fill your glasses.” “ATL! all!” “ And Brummel will be so good as to come and _ sit on this side of me!” | “Me? Ah! Me?” “To be sure, I would ask anybody, if it were possible that there could be two Brummels in the world 2?” : “No, no, no!” “Why, George,” said Beau Brummel, as he | came and sat; down on the left of the Regent, “if you go on in that reckless way, you will be taken | for a wit.” + A tO i a NCE EE AN a ce en NN NI SEN ta PRA SN AN 5 PA AC Ot RL SEN Pa FO SBA RR EL FERRER ae ODER REECE RA SI AYN SDN ALPE L ELEN VOL DET LOA LOSI MS AE PUB BD 158 2 RENAN AE LIA ALIOORE ES A REITER ON MAN A NTR AE nae He nt ascmigee THE DARK WOMAN. “The story !—the story! The Regent’s story!” ** Well, I will tell it to you. Once upon a time there was a king; and he was so fond of drink that when he had his courtiers around him, and they would not or could not take any more, he used to fill a glass, like this before me, and instead of saying, ‘Drink,’ to the one who was next to him, he used to say, ‘Open your mouth,’ as I may say to you, Colonel Hanger; of course, passing ‘over the ladies. Open your mouth!” “Yes,” said Hanger. * Well, why don’t you?” ‘Why don’t I what ?” “ Open your mouth ?” Ol!” ‘There |” The Regent, the moment Colonel Hanger opened his mouth to say, “Oh!” flung the whole contents of the glass before him right in his face, and then burst into a roar of laughter. For a few seconds there was a flush of anger on the face of Colonel Hanger, and then his features expanded into a laugh, as he cried out, “A royal joke!—a royal joke! Let it pass!” Even as he spoke, he raised his glass and flung its contents into the face of his neighbour. There was a shout of laughter at this; and the Regent was so delighted that he clapped his hands and laughed till the tears ran down his face. The person who had had Colonel Hanger’s wine flung in his face did not delay a moment, but flung his into his next neighbour’s eyes; and he again, spitting and spluttering from the sudden assault, flung his iato Sir Hinckton Moys’ face. The Regent was in ecstacies. “Qh, don’t!—don’t! . No more!” he cried. “You will kill me, all of you, with laughing! Oh! look at Moys! Oh! oh!” Another moment, and splash came a fall glass of claret in the face of Beau Brummel, and it showered over that cravat, which, according to his own account, had been sufficient of a success in the tying to warrant him in coming out that night. The appearance of the exquisite, with the red wine pouring down his face, and on to that imma- culate cravat, and thence to his waistcoat, while he sat transfixed with seeming horror, was so excessively ridiculous, that the whole table was in a roar, and everybody seemed to forget his own misfortune. Annie shrieked with laughter. The Regent held his sides, and shook convul- sively. Then Beau Brummel spoke. “Ah! It is—decidedly the very best joke I have heard or seen for along time. Now, good friends all, and you, my dear George, I have only one thing to say—ah if “What is it? What is it, Beau?” “Why, an unfinished joke would be like an unfinished play, or a conundrum without an answer; so, as this is too good an one to be lost, what say you to still passing it on, eh ?” Even as he spoke, Brummel took up his full glass, and, with one jerk of his hand, sent every drop of it into the face of the Regent. At the moment, there was a roar—half of laughter, half of surprise—round the table; but it was hushed to silence in an instant when the Regent sprang to his feet, with an exclamation that was more forcible than polite. ER Re rte Lien em ore oe Se Sete Fd Beau Brummel looked perfectly unconcerned. “This,” gasped the Regent, —‘ this—to—tg me—to us! I—a—this is no joke!” “Sit down, George,” said the Beau; “it is a joke.” ‘Mr, Brummel’s carriage !” shouted the Regent. The guests all rose up. Beau Brummel stretched forth his hand, and took a nectarine, and commenced carelessly eat~ ing it. “Mr. Brummel’s carriage!” cried the Regent again; and then he sunk on his chair again, and looked white with passion. “George,” said Brummel quietly, “you are a gentleman. I have accidentally spilt some wine over you. I apologize most sincerely. When a gentleman commits an ungentlemanly act, he at once apologizes; and all that a gentleman ever requires from another gentleman is an apology. I apologize for throwing some wine in your face, because I am a gentleman.” The Regent bit his lips. Brummel went on eating the nectarine, Then he who had had the glass of wine cast first in his face by the Regent, and who had called out those words which we have recorded—‘ A royal joke; pass it on!” made a bow to his neigh- bour whom he had similarly saluted, and said, ° ‘* Sir, accept my apologies.” That one did the same, until the one who had | flung his wine at Brummel apologized to him, The Prince was left, as before, alone. As before, he seemed to be exempt from what had taken place all round; but, in the former case, he had something to receive—Brummel’s He bowed, wine—now he had something to do. rather stiffly to the person into whose face he had first thrown the wine, and who was no other than Colonel Hanger, and said, “‘ Colonel, I apologize.” The Colonel bowed. “Well, I’m sure!” said Annie. ‘“ Now that you have all so politely apologized to each other, perhaps some of you will apologize to me, for I am splashed with the wine on both sides,” “We all do !—we all do!” / . “Well, well,” said the Regent, as he hastily swallowed a fall glass of the tokay he was so fond of, “that’s all over. What are we to do now ?” “Will your Royal) Highness,” said Colonel Hanger, “allow me to propose a little recrea- tion ?” Oh, certainly !” CHAPTER XLIV. THE DARK WOMAN ASTONISHES AND ALARMS THE, REGENT AND HIS GUESTS. Tue Prince had had too much conversation with Colonel Hanger about Linda not to know per-, fectly well what his meaning was. His object was to get possession, in some seem=- ingly easy and natural way, of his pistols, so that if in the course of that evening the invitation to Linda to appear should really be productive of ii her presence, he might rid his royal patron of her at once and for ever. We do not mean for moment to state that his Royal Highness the Prince of Wales had made 5 A Per 6a arnt oo 5 a I nA on iaeeieuietiieiaieetaatiebaiiinieetnie stint sie neal camaeeteme meee —reresnias 0 . 2 sonereer See en erre meee emnmmcemenet 8 LS ‘ i - as hh ae } Y £4 a ih ny a ae Ie iN A te oe a A A OL any agreement with the unprincipled Colonel Hanger actually to murder Linda de Chevenaux ; but he did hope that the Colonel would be able to effect her capture; in which case she would once more have been condemned to some such a seclu- sion in a lunatic asylum as that from which she had escaped. How or by what means, however, she could possibly make her appearance in that house the Regent could not divine. He little suspected that she had such an ally in the villa as Willes. But yet so remarkable had already been her appearances at St. James’s Palace, as well as at Carlton House, that the Prince, as the evening wore on, began to feel an increasing uneasiness, and a sort of conviction that it would not entirely pass away without some remarkable manifestation of the presence of the Dark Woman. One thing he had quite made up his mind to, and that was that he would not expose himself alone to an encounter with her. As to whether she was apprehended or not, he was not in ‘a condition to decide; for he had re- ceived several contradictory accounts from Lord Ilchester, and a promised message, that was to let him know positively when she was in custody, had not reached the villa. The intention of the Regent was, if he had been duly informed of her arrest, to take her at once out of the hands of the authorities, and hand her over to the keeper of an asylum, who resided in a very lonely part of the coast of Sussex, and who, he was perfectly assured, would do all that man could do to keep her in safe custody. When Colonel Hanger, then, made this request of the Regent, that he might propose something amusing, and when the Regent acceded to it, the supper guests looked on with eyes of interest to see what would come of the proposition. Colonel Hanger looked about him, but there were no servants in the apartment, and he said, “ Have I your Highness’s permission to ring for Willes, your Highness’s valet?” “ Certainly—oh, certainly |” Colonel Hanger touched a bell-handle, and Willes, who had expected the summons, came, with a low bow, into the room. “In my apartment, Willes,” said Hanger, “ you will find, lying, I fancy, on the dressing-table, a pair of pistols, Will you kindly bring them ?” “Certainly, Colonel.” “Oh, I can’t bear pistols,” said one of the ladies. “‘ Some of us will be sure to be shot!” “Nay; hear me,” said Hanger. ‘“ What I pro- pose is an old game that the staff officers at Malta used to be fond of. It is shooting at the chandelier drops for a guinea a hit and a guinea a | miss.” “Very good!” said the Regent; but it was said in a voice that had no hilarity in it. After, however, the Prince Regent had said, "Very good!” no one liked exactly to dissent | from the proposition ; and when Willes camo back | With the pistols, Colonel Hanger leant over the | -back of his chair, as he whispered, “Have you | prepared them?” “%T have.” | “With the silver bullets 2” “Yes, Colonel.” _ The Colonel took one of the pistols in his hand, d Willes held the other. eet eneneel mee AR AL ti diet Fe em on A ne Ae I a i en eerie Maras enemas THE DARK WOMAN, 159 ‘“* Hold!” said the Prince, suddenly. ‘ Before wé begin this game, I want to ask you all what you think of the possibility of any one receiving a message which is only uttered to the air? There is a woman, who is mad—who has been mad for years past. You may all have heard of the Dark Woman.” A general expression of assent came from every one, “Well,” added the Regent, who had certainly taken too much wine to be quite prudent,—“ well, I will tell you, she persecutes me—she pretends that she has some claim on me, and that I know something she wants to know; and that she will come and hear what I can tell her at any time that I choose to summon her by merely speaking to the open air the summons.” Several of the guests langhed. Some cried out, “* Absurd! absurd!” Others shook their heads and looked expectant, for they thought that there might be some pre- viously arranged practical joke or comedy between the Prince and Colonel Hanger, to which all that was passing was but a sort of prelude: “ What shall I say ?” added the Prince. “ Dare we all believe in such things, or not ?” Everybody laughed. “Ah!” said Brummel. “George, you don’t mean to say that she is a dark woman ?” She calls herself so.” ‘¢ But that is not your taste?” “*T said nothing about my taste. thing to me, and never has been,” “Are you sure, you bad George?” said Annie, as sho held up her finger threateningly. “(Quite sure. Colonel Hanger, here, can attest what I say, when I state that in order to test the pretended powers of this woman, he, in my name, invited her to come here this evening.” : “Tiere? here ?” : “Yes, to this villa—to this house—into which it is simply imposslble for any one to make way, She is no- .| unless duly accredited and invited by me, and conducted by my people.” “That is so,” said the Colonel. There was a look of curiosity and incredulity upon the faces of the guests. “ As,” continued the Regent, ‘by some audacity, or some trickery, she did make her way to my private apartments in Carlton House, I have re- solved to test her powers, as I say, and see if she © can come here.” ““Oh, yes, yes,” said Annie; “I saw her, and she is a dreadful woman. I remember all about her now. She tried to carry me off.” “Then,” said Beau Brummel, ‘‘I admire her taste, at all events.” Annie repaid the Beau for this compliment by a smile. “She has been duly summoned,” added the Regent, ‘to make her appearance here, in the manner that she said she could do so; for when I asked her how I should communicate with her, assuming that I wished to do so, she replied, ‘ that the air would convey the words to her,’ or some- thing to that effect.” “Yes,” added Colonel Hanger; ‘and in pursu- ance of the orders of his Royal Highness, I say that I summoned this woman to appear at this supper to-night.” ‘And she comes not,” said Sir Hinckton Moys, a ca ee eee aE a UI Irn SIR ROR eames: sees amar tecareemereerenereeseemeeerememneenmeenmemenae temeraaen neem eae nena TT ee Te ee ee ee S “Just £0; she comes not.” Willes, at this moment, shrunk back into the recess of a window; and if any one had happened to see his face, they would have been alarmed at the ghastly paleness that was upon it. The Regent's gnests looked from one to the other, to try to gather from each other what was the real meaning of what was going on. They still for the most part had an impression that some practical joke was at the bottom of the whole affair, and they waited its development with curiosity. But the flushed face of the Regent, and the look of irony and villany on the countenance of Colonel Hanger, might well have taught the guests to think that there was more seriousness in the matter than usually characterized the proceedings at those little voluptuous suppers. “T think, now, with all deference to your Royal Highness,” said Colonel Hanger, in a cold, harsh voice, which he attempted.to render soft and courteous, but completely failed in such attempt,— ‘‘T think, now, that it will be but: a proper thing to summon by voice this presumptuous person.” “Ah,” said Brummel, “ this is a joke!” “No, no!” “Oh, yes! But as my cravat is already ruined, it don’t matter to me in the least.” Some laughed at this. It was a seasonable relief from the gravity which was creeping over the proceedings; but the Regent said, in a louder voice than he had yet spoken in, “I can tell you ‘all that it is .a most curious circumstance that there are two thieves or housebreakers in Newgate now, who accuse this person, who calls herself the Dark Woman, of being the mistress, of the gang of thieves called Paul’s Chickens; and likewise of being identical with a person who has been in London the whole of the season, and who has called herself the Countess de Launy.” “ Why—ah—oh, dear!” said Brummel; “ you don’t mean to say, George, that the charming Countess de Launy is.a Dark Woman, or the captain of s@gang of thieves ?” “So it is said.” “Yes,” added Colonel Hanger; “and. if she should come here now on. being, summoned, I fancy it will have to be from a cell at New- gate.” ‘Summon her!—-summon her!” cried several voices. “J will, if- Colonel Hanger looked at the Regent for his approbation ; and he replied to the look by say- ing, “I would gladly, once and for all, get rid of the troublesome persecutions of that woman. Let us bow test her powers.” “Very good!” said the Colonel; and he rose from. his chair. There was a complete silence in the brilliant apartment. The guests disposed themselves in different attitudes of expectation of some remark- able event; and the Colonel spoke in rather a high and artificial tone of voice as he said, “In the name of the Regent, I summon Linda de Chevenaux !” Not a sound was heard in reply, and the echoes of the Colonel’s voice died away among the gilt freize of the ceiling. “Again!” said the Regent. “In the name of George, Prince of Wales, and Regent of England, I summon Linda de A he tn Prt eae at el em i A A ar THE DARK WOMAN, —— naux to appear!” Still all was silent. The supper guests breathed more freely. Beau Brummel cracked a walnut. Some of the ladies smiled. Willes looked out from the window recess, into which he had shrunk for shelter. ‘* Again!” said the Regent. “The third time will do,” said Beau Brummel. “In the name of the Regent of England,” said Colonel Hanger, “I summon Linda de Cheve- naux, calling herself the Dark Woman, to ap- pear !” The French window that opened into the con- servatory was dashed aside, and the Dark Woman made one step into the supper-room as she said, in a high, clear voice, “ZI am here !” The Prince of Wales started to his feet. Annie, with a scream, clung to him. All the guests rose instantly, and the ladies uttered cries of terror. “Ah!” shouted Colonel Hanger, “it is well done! Is she bullet-proof ?” Bang! went the pistol that he had held in his hand during the whole of this singular scene, and which he had possessed himself of with the sole purpose of taking the life of the Dark Woman. The noise of the pistol’s discharge, the smoke, the concussion of. air in the room which made the drops of the chandelier rattle the one against the other, and the general shriek that came from the females present, as a sort of echo to the report, made up, for a few moments, a scene of great con- fusion. But there stood the Dark Woman in a mag- nificent dress of black velvet, in. precisely the same attitude she had assumed on first entering the room. The Colonel looked amazed. The Regent ‘was pale as; death, and kept his glaring eyes fixed upon the Dark Woman, while Annie clasped him in her arms, and seemed to be about to slide down to the floor in a swoon. Then the Dark Woman spoke. Her accents were of that high. and exalted character which were sure to strike home to every ear and to every understanding. “George, Prince of Wales,” she said, Regent of England, I ask you for my son!” The Regent shrunk from before her ardent gaze. “Oh, save mel” gaid Annie, faintly. will surely kill me yet!” “By Jove!” ejaculated Beau Brummel. The Dark Woman spoke again. “In bed, or at the festive board—at home or abroad, in the veriest recesses of a palace, or beneath the thatch of a hovel—surrounded by the great or by the wicked, I will seek you, George, Prince of Wales, and ask you for my son ! Where is my son ?—where is my son ?” The Prince of Wales, in hastily rising, had thrown over his chair and did not know it, or had forgotten it. Te reeled back to sit down, and struck against the chair that Annie had occupied, and half fell to the floor. “Save the Regent!” cried a voice,— Regent |” A rush was made to support him, but he struggled to his fest, as he cried, “ Seize her! and “She ‘ save the ne es sit tae na se THE DARK WOMAN, ns TT Tia peer (MMMEL TTC eget ee k t 1 | I 7 aa: ew LLLLLL LLL LOL rea ra as een a eA ti 2 Lhd fy eg Fe oe ae lol Bong eoae..en £#¢ seize her ! body |” “TI will!” cried Colonel Hanger; and he made a rush towards the conservatory, and fell heavily ‘over some one who seemed to be on his hands and knees, exactly in the way. That was Willes, who in that attitude had crept round the room towards the conservatory, and then, before the Colonel could regain his feet, the Dark Woman had gone. Willes darted into the conservatory still in the posture which he had assumed, to the discom- fiture of the Colonel, and the moment he was past the threshold of it he pulled shut the half-window that had been flung open, and bolted it. “Fly, madam—fly!” he said. “I follow you,” replied Linda. Through the conservatory—out of that into the winter garden, and thence into the open air, went Willes, closely followed by Linda. There No, 21.—Dark Woman. Do not let her go! Seize her, some- terre ee nr nga re iene aemeinaisrinen were some lights flashing in the grounds of the villa, in the direction of the ordinary entrance gates. “We shall be seen,” said the Countess. “No, no!” “But there are lights and peopie !” “YT have provided against all that, madam,” said Willes; ‘and if you do not mind mounting a ladder, you may pass over the wall at this point, and you will find yourself at once facing the green.” “ Where is the ladder ?” “Here, madam!—here! I hid it among th» snow with the thought that you might want it.” “ You have done well, and I will not forget it.” ““Oh, madam, you have already been 80 very kind and liberal, that it is impossible I can do too much for you to show my gratitude !” Willes took from close under the wall of the villa garden, where it was most securely hidden, a endian rn i a a ica tt pheasant 162 light ladder that was used by the gardeners, and “ What?” inquired the Regent. which reached to the top of the wall. _ “Ascend, madam,” he said,—“ ascend, while I hold it.” ; The Dark Woman was on the wall in a few seconds. Willes followed her; and then, with more dex- terity than any one would have given him credit for, he raised the ladder, and put it down on the outer face of the wall. ‘Now, madam,” he said, ‘‘ you will be safe.” “Yes; and you have done me good service, which I will never forget. When you seek me again, let it be at the house of the astrologer, in Frith Street.” Before Willes could reply, a confused sound of voices camg from the villa garden, and the flash of lights was seen in the-intervals of the trees and bushes. * This way !—this way !” cried Colonel Hanger. * She cannot escape! It is impossible that she can escape! This way !—this way!” The Dark Woman was gone; and Willes swung the light ladder over the wall again, and hastily descended, and replaced it flat among the snow. Then he darted along a narrow path; and he had nO sooner got some distance from the wall than he cried out, ‘I see her!—I see her now! Fol- low!—follow! This is the way !” Several of the servants, with flambeaux, now pushed their way hurtiedly through the shrubs and flower-beds in the direction where Willes was; and Colonel Hanger, too, ran towards him. “ Where ?—where is she?” he said. “There!—there !” _ **T don’t see her!” . “Ah! she darts round the shrubbery! Follow! follow! She cannot escape!” Colonel Hanger and the servants ran on in the direction indicated by Willes, who then quietly made his own way into the villa, as he refiarked to himself, with a smile, “She is safe! She will make my fortune; and her service is the best I can have. Let those fools hunt after her in vain.” The Regent and his guests, with the exception of Colotiel Hanger, had remaitied in the supper- room, and when Willes walked gently in, the Prince called out to him, saying; ‘Is she captured, Willes ?” “T think so, your Royal Highness.” “Ah, indeed !” “TY left Colonel Hanger, your Royal Highness, “ such close pursuit that he is sure to capture er.’ ‘That is well,” said the Regent; and then he muttered to himself, “He knows what to do.” In a few minutes, however, the Colonel re- turned, looking vexed and disappointed. ~ “Escaped, by Jove !” An angry flush came upon the face of the Regent, as he said, ‘So, Colonel, you are, after all, completely foiled by a woman ?” ‘A fiend say, rather,” “And,” said Annie, “TI am still to be kept in the same fear. She will kill me yet.” “No, no, my dear,” said the Regent. dismiss all such fears. You are safe.” “T don’t kfiow that,” replied Annie, as she wept, or pretended to weep. “TI will not—I cannot believe it!” cried the Colonel, suddenly, in a passionate tone. “‘ Pray THE DARK WOMAN. “ Why, that there could have been a bullet in this pistol. Where is Willes ?” “T am here,” said Willes, in a quiet tone. ‘Oh, you are there, are you? Come forward, rascal, at once!—come forward, I say !” “It is possible,” said Willes, in the same quiet tone in which he had already spoken,—“‘it is pos- sible that there may be rascals here, although I am none; but however difficultit may be to per- suade Colonel Hanger of that fact, it will be easy to persuade him of another truth; and that is, that I am the humble servant of his Royal ighness the Regent, and obey no orders but 8. “Come forward, Willes,” said the Prince. “Your Royal Highness is my master, and I obey you with pleasure.” . Willes stepped forward, “Did I, or did I not,” said the Colonel, ‘ask you to load these pistols for me?” “You did.” “Did I, or did I not, give you two shillings ?” Willes smiled. “You did, Colonel, give me two shillings beaten up into bullets, with which to load your pistols, and I so loaded them, and brought them to you. You said that you always gave supetstition full sway in your mind, and that you were well aware that the Dark Woman could only be hit by a silver bullet.” . ‘“ Then you meant murder?” said Brammel. The Colonel looked confused. ““T meant to try to frighten that woman who has appeared and disappeared so mysteriously, in order to take her into custody; because, while she remained at large, I did tot think the life of the Régent safe from her. That was my motive.” The communication of such a motive, of course, closed every niouth there present from the utter- ance of any further criticisms of the acts of the H hi Colonél, and he turned to Willes, saying, “If you~ loaded the pistols according to my desire, where is the other one ?” “ Here |” Willes produced the pistol. . The Colonel levelled it at the chandelier as he said sharply, ‘Have I your Royal Highness’s permission to test if this pistol has a bullet in it - or not?” ‘¢ Yes.” Colonel Hanger fired. There was a crashing sound, and some half- dozen drops from the glass chandelier fell scatter- ing to the floor in fragments. Oe agin ee ae an Ri ae con So ee Le mean eis eS eS he se The silver bullet passed on its way, and lodged - in the panel of the opposite wall. ‘ “Ah!” said Beau Brommel; “there can be no mistake about that !” . * None!” said Willes. ** And here, on the floor by the conservatory, I find a bullet.” As he spoke, Willes held up the bullet, which — a | he had, in truth, received from the Dark Woman, | — and which was calculated to produce a very start-— ling and dramatic effect upon the Regent and his friends, The-bullet, on examination, proved to be a . shilling beaten into a round shape, and it was blackened with powder, as if it had been dis- — charged from a pistol—which, no doubt, it had— for the Dark Woman had had it quite long enough — trace ee A ALATA EL TDL ALARA LA ALL LA ALAA! DEA AA ALA ALAA ALA LDA ALAA ALAA LCA NA tt tt pl lta THE DARK WOMAN, in her possession, since Willes had given if to her the day before, thoroughly to prepare if. — Colonel Hanger looked at it with surprise. “It is certainly,” he said, “‘one of the silver balls I gave to Willes to place in my pistols, and it has certainly been discharged; but how it came to miss her I am at a Joss to conjecture.” ‘‘T hope and trust, however,” said Willes, with a slight bow, “that I am cleared from any harsh surmises that the gallant Colonel may have enter- tained in regard to me.” ‘Oh, yes, yes!” “J cannot comprehend all this,” cried the Regent. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I bid you ail good night !” é‘ The guests immediately rose; and the Regent, with an aspect of great disturbance, passed out of the supper-room, with Annie hanging on his arm. CHAPTER XLV. THE DARK WOMAN PAYS A VISIT TO SHUCKS AND BRADS IN NEWGATE. Noruine had been ever further from the intention of the Dark Woman than to give Shucks and Brads into the hands of the police. A moment's reflection would have been at any time sufficient to convince her of the extreme impolicy of having anything whatever to do with the police authorities in any shape or way. But when she called out for the officers at Charing Cress, her own liberty was at stake, and she had no resource but to do just what she did, and take the after consequences, which, as we have seen, were sufficiently perplexing. One of those consequences was, that Linda was compelled to give up her handsome establishment at the West End of the town, and even her name as Countess de Launy, and to make as good a retreat as she could to the astrologer’s house in Soho. And, indeed, had it not been that she was pro- vided against the direct consequences of any sudden calamity by the hold she had upon the fears of the Secretary of State, she would have found the conjunction of circumstances too strong ’ for her. As it was, however, she was free ones again to act, and she had a hope that she might be able, by her visit to the supper-party at Kew, so to impress upon the Regent the uselessness of con- tending with her, that he might begin to exert himself to give her the information she required of him. ; But Shucks and Brads were in Newgate, and she had a dread of the revelations they might be induced to make, should they be fairly brought to trial. In addition to what they might say, there was likewise the excitement and the publicity of the whole affair to dread, which would keep ative a constant search for her; and by the matter finding its way into the public papers, which it would of course do at great length, if Shucks and Brads came before a jury, some troublesome and in- genious minds would be set upon the task of dis- covering all that might remain mysterious. * y ee en Arg i nl uci hse ceteris saaitenevatres : 168 What the Dark Woman desired was not to awaken public curiosity or public attention, but to produce as much mystery and effect as possible . within a limited circle. Tf she could impress upon the mind of the Prince of Wales that she had acquired some irre~ sistible powers against him, contention would be in vain. She thought that, in sheer despair, he would afford to her the information she required. Upon all these suppositions, then, and acting upon these ideas, the Dark Woman was now as desirous and anxious.for the escape or the death of her old friends, Shucks and Brads, as she had been, by the force of circumstances, compelled to be for their apprehension, Linda de Chevenaux then made aresolye which was full of those bold characteristics which made up her most extraordinary character. That resolve was, that despite all that had taken place to alienate the two housebreakers, Shucks and Brads, from her, and despite all the risks she might run, she would visit them in New- gate. 5 : It was eleven o’clock, then, on the morning that followed the supper-party at the Regent’s villa at Kew, that a neat card was brought into the breakfast-room of the Earl of Ilchester, and on it he saw the name, ‘Mr. Thomas Waller.” A flush fora moment came over the face of the Minister, as he recollected the ignominious defeat be had the day before met with at the hands of the Countess de Launy; but he could not refuse to see one who still had possession of such im- portant documents as the letters from Fouche to him, and his replies. The footman was waiting respectfully at the door of the breakfast-room for a reply to the card, The Earl looked up. . *‘ She is waiting ?” ‘She, my lord!” ““No, no—I mean he!—this gentleman.” * Yes, my lord.” ‘Show her—I mean him—in.” The footman bowed, and left the room, full of wonder at the confused manner of one s0 usually self-possessed and insolently calm and cool as the Earl. In a few moments, Mr. Thomas Waller, alias the Dark Woman, was quietly seated at the breakfast-table of the Secretary of State. There was an abashed look about the Earl which, with all his tact, he could not rid him- self of. ‘“‘ Are we alone?” asked Linda, “Oh, yes, yes !” * No listeners ?” “None, none !” “Well, my lord, I thought I wonld come to you to say that I forgive you.” ‘* You—forgive—me ?” * Even so. For the trick that your lordship thought to play me.” “Trick, say you? And what am I to charac- terize the deception which you practised upon me?” “By whatever term you please. It was de- fensive; and, being so, it was justifiable.” “T don’t know that.” “But I do. And, although you say you do not, you do likewise.” ‘t Look here!” exclaimed the Karl of Ichester, en te 164 THE DARK WOMAN. suddenly rising from his chair. ‘I have but to touch this bell now before me, and, when it is replied to, I have but to say a few words, and, in half an hour, you would be in Newgate.” The Dark Woman calmly took out a watch from the pocket of the waistcoat that formed part of her male attire, and glanced at it. “‘T am afraid I cannot be there in the time you mention, but I shall be soon after.” “Where ?—where ?” “In Newgate.” “Oh, you admit it!” “ Admit what?” ‘“‘' That that will be your destination.” “Tt is to tell you that I am about to go there, that is the cause of my visit here this morning. I want an order to visit two prisoners in New- gate.” “ You ?—you ?” Even I.” “You will venture? You will have the—the incredible audacity to go to Newgate?” ‘“‘T will. I wish to see those two men who are now there, and who have striven to do me so- much mischief, and I come to you for an order of admission.” “* Countess— Dark Woman--Thomas Waller, whatever and whoever you may be, I tell you, once and for all, that I have come to a deter~ mination.” «What is it ?” ““T cannot and will not live the slave of con- stant fear; I will outface those letters which you say you have!” 46 Stop 1 Ue ** Wherefore ?” “You know I have them! Do not seek to delude yourself into any doubt upon that subject, I pray !” “Well, well! I say that I will outface the transaction, for I cannot and will not exist in a constant dread that will in time paralyse all my energies,” “My lord,” said Linda, ‘if I could have trusted you, which you took abundant care to convince me I could not, those letters, in the first place, would never have been taken ; and in the next. if they had been taken, they would have been restored to you, rather than you should suffer the least uneasiness in regard to them.” *“ Restore them now, then!” Linda shook her head. “You know 1 dare not. You know yourself, my lord, too well; but your anxieties need not be great in regard to them, for they will never see the light so long as you keep faith with me! ‘What have I done to you? What have I attempted to do to you, that you should arm yourself against me? You thought, or you pretended to think me beautiful, and you sought my ruin. Ah, my lord, are you not rather more angry that you have not succeeded in your own bad intentions than at any- thing wicked you may fancy I have done?” The Earl tried twice to look into the eyes of the Countess, but even his audacity was not equal to the task. “ Reflect !” she added. ‘Cast away from you the desire to injure me, and I will be most care- ful not to injure you; and so soon as I can make up my mind to believe that I can trust you, I will bring you your letters, and say to you, ‘Ilchester, I give you power to harm me—will you be the villain to do so ?” “No, no! Oh, no!” “ Well, we shall comprehend each other better after this. I ask of you only asimple matter now. It is but an order to let’ Mr. Thomas Waller have a private interview with two persons in New- gate.” “You shall have it, Countess. You astonish, and perplex me! I know not what to say to you, or what to think of you !” “Think what you please, and say what you please; but always remember one thing, that I hurt not when I am unhurt—that I am not vicious for vice’s sake, and that the same passions that make me revengeful make me grateful.” ‘* T will believe you.” “You may do so, and profit by the belief.” “There is the order.” “On your honour, now ?” “On my honour, what?” “This order is fair and clear, and there is no secret word or sign about it that will lead me into mischief ?”’ ‘‘On my honour, there is not!” “T am content.” The Dark Woman rose, and with a bow that was perfectly masculine, she quitted the apartment. Within half an hour of that interview with . the Secretary of State, a hackney coach stopped at the door of Newgate. It was driven by a tall, stout man, who had his face so wrapped up, that it would have been quite impossible for any one to have recognised him, let them have known him ever so well. And, in good truth, this coachman, who was no other than Binks, had no very ardent desire to be identified at the gate of Newgate. The Dark Woman was in the coach, still in her male attire as Mr. Thomas Waller, and never had actress more completely succeeded in obliterating all feminine traces and aspects from her appearance than had the Dark Woman on this occasion. She alighted with perfect composure, and rung at the wicket gate. A turnkey presented himself. “Take this order,” said Linda, ‘to any one who has suflicient authority to act upon it.” “ Hoy, Jem!” cried the turnkey ; ‘‘ you look at this here !” ‘““Tt’s for the Governor,” said the other turn- key who was on duty. “It’s an order to see a couple of prisoners. Come in, sir.” The Dark Woman stepped at once into the vestibule of Newgate. The iron gate swung shut behind her; but she did not betray, by the slightest shade of colour, or the least tremor of muscle, the idea that she might be in danger. Yet, for all she knew to the contrary, the Secre- tary of State might have played her false. What s0 easy as to do so? Might he not have at once sent a messenger to Newgate with such a missive as would secure her immediate arrest? Might there not be something even on the face of the very order she was armed with, which would prove her destruction, despite the fact that he had given his word of honour to the contrary? The turnkey who had gone to the Governor with the order was a long time on his message; but he came back at last, and in a grumbling es sort of tone said, “‘ You are to come this way, sir.” “T will follow you,” said Linda. Along some gloomy passages that echoed to the tread, through some cells or rooms that were empty, and past several doors that were scrupu- lously locked behind them, the turnkey and the Dark Woman went, until she thought that they must be in the very centre of the gloomy stone ‘pile of building. | Then the turnkey paused at the door of a cell, on which there was the number two. ‘¢ Here you are,” he said. “ Are they there?” ‘To be sure they are.” “ Alone ?” “ Ah, yes, I should say so; all but the rats and the mice. Perhaps, sir, you have altered your mind, and don’t want to see them now ?” “No; I never alter my mind.” “Come on, then.” The turnkey opened the door, and then, to the surprise of the Dark Woman, she saw that it did not lead directly into a cell in which were Shucks and Brads, but that it opened on to a narrow pas- sage, from which might, by small doors, be -reached several cells. ' One was immediately opposite to her. A grating was in the upper part of the door of this cell, and the Dark Woman immediately said, ““That will do well.” “ What will ?” |; “The grating. I only wish to say something to the two men by order of the Secretary of State, and the door of their cell need not be opened. I fancy you will be just as well pleased to be so certain of your prisoners’ safety, as you will then be.” “To be sure. Hoy!” The turnkey rattled with his keys upon the door of the cell. “Hoy! I say.” “What now, stupid?” asked Brads from the ~ cell, “‘ A visitor.” “What visitor ?” “You may go now,” said the Dark Woman, in a low tone to the turnkey. “Oh, may 1? I don’t know about that! I fancy I ought to hear whatever is said to them as is under my lock in the Stone Jug, you see!” “Very well.” Linda moved away from the cell-door. “Why, where are you a going now, eh?” ‘‘T am going back to the Secretary of State, to tell him that one of the under turnkeys of New- gate denies his orders, and puts himself in the way of his wishes.” , “Oh, bother! have it your own way: I don't want to interfere. There! I’m a-going.” | The turnkey, muttering all sorts of growling maledictions, walked away. ' The Dark Woman waited until he was fairly out of sight and hearing, and then she tapped at the door of the cell. “What now ?” said Brads. “Are you both here?” said the Dark Woman. “Oh, you all of you know that well enough,” replied Brads ‘Speak for yourself, Shucks, my beauty: they want to know how you are.” “Not much the worse,” said Shucks. aa gg ee rer THE DARK WOMAN. 165 “Ah!” said the Dark Woman, still using tha assumed masculine voice which she had the wonder- ful power to do,— ah, now that I know that you are both here, I have something to say to you.” “To say to us?” “Yes, and it is a something that you will do well to listen to with attention. That is to say, if you value your lives.” ‘¢ And who may you be when you are at home?” said Brads. “Tt matters not. Let it suffice to you both, that I come to you as a friend, if you please to have one; but if, on the contrary, you choose both of you to persevere in the course you have commenced, you may perish unlamented and un- pitied.” “What do you mean?” growled Shucks. “I don’t understand one-half you say, nor what you mean at all.” “Then I will speak plainer.” “Doso. That’s right.” ‘You have, then, thought proper, both of you, to set up your wits against one who can conquer you with ease. You have made war against a forces that you cannot hope to resist. In foolishly be- coming the foes of the Dark Woman '§ “Ah!” cried Brads; ‘' that’s it, is it?” “‘T guessed as much,” said Shucks. “You guessed reasonably and rightly, then; and if you have any capacity for reflection left, you will see that you have but one chance of safety remaining.” ‘¢ What may that be?” asked Brads. ‘* Ah! tell us that?” said Shucks. “T will, although I almost wonder that it does not suggest itself to you. It is, that you must make some terms with the Dark Woman.” ‘** It’s too late,” said Brads, “Ever so much too late,” said Shucks. “Why ?” ‘Because we have told all we know already. There was an end of all faith between us and her, when she broke with the Chickens at Doctors’ Commons. She meant to kill us, of course, along with the rest, but we had the luck to get away.” “Listen to me!” ‘‘ Well, we hear?” “T come from the Dark Woman.” “Oh, do you?” “Yes, and she authorizes me to say that you shall both escape from Newgate, notwithstanding all you have said and done contrary to her interests, if from this time forth you will not interfere with her in any way.” “‘Can she take us out of the Stone Jug ?” asked Brads. “Not perhaps actually by opening the door for you; but she knows you well, and that you are both men who can help yourselves.” ‘Yes, if we had the tools.” “ What tools ?” ““A few files, a bunch of picklocks, and a jemmy —that’s a crowbar, if you don’t happen to know the English language so well as we do.” ‘tT know what you mean quite well.” As the Dark Woman spoke, she projected through the bars at the top of the cell-door a smal] but beautifully finished file, which fell with a clank on to the stone floor of the cell. ‘You hear that ?” she said. “Ah! that sounds like metal!” said Shucks. 166 THE DARK WOMAN, | “tis metal. You said you wanted a file: you now have two.” Even as she. spoke, the Dark Woman put through the bars another file, of similar temper, but of different size. | “Ah!” cried Brads, ‘‘I can tell you, whoever you are, that if you are as smart with a bunch of picklocks and a crowbar as you are with the files, I shall consider we are all but free men.” “ There!” ; As the Dark Woman spoke, something was passed through the bars of the cell, and fell with a rattling kind of clank upon the cell floor. | “A rare bunch of picklocks, by all that’s good !” exclaimed Brads. _ “Hush! not so loud.” | “Alls right!” { | “The very walls of this place, it is said, have ears. Be cautious and resolute. There is the last weapon you wanted.” With a heavy blow, the jemmy or crowbar fell to the floor.. It was small, but of such a finely tempered piece of steel, that it was fit for any work, and of immense strength. It merely con- sisted of a straight piece of steel, about two feet in length, and half an inch in thickness each way. One end of it was rounded, but the other was made into a double point and edge, and slightly curved like the fangs of a hammer. Altogether, it was a most powerful instrument; and in skilful hands would perform wonders in the way of attack- ang doors, and hinges, and locks. “There,” said the Dark Woman,—‘' there are the tools that, in such hands as yours, will readily free you from Newgate.” “6Oh, there’s no doubt about that,” said Brads. ‘Ts there, Shucks ?” “‘Not a bit.” ‘Sit is well,” added Linda. ‘You are now in possession of the means of escape from Newgate, -probably this night; and yet I have exacted from you no promise as regards the Dark Woman, whose messenger I am, and who has sent: you the means of freedom. What am I to say to her, when I return to her, and tell I have seen you both ?” Shucks and Brads were both silent for a few moments. Then the Dark Woman heard Brads say in a whisper, 4‘ What do you think, Shucks?” “‘ Whatever you like, Brads.” “ Shall I speak, then ?” “Do so.” “Very well. Hem! Mr. What’s your name, you can tell the Dark Woman that for this bit of polite attention we are content to cry quits ; and have no more to say to her, if she will leave us alone. Will that do?” “T suppose it will. Good day.” ‘Good day, and good luck to you.” “Ah, I forgot!” “What? Eh?” “J was once in a cell myself, from which I made an escape with some such tools as those I have brought to you; but. having to work much during the night to get out of my prison, I found the comfort and the advantage of small doses of pure spirit as I proceeded.” ‘‘Now don’t go on in that way,” said Brads. “] know well enough what a precious comfurt a little drop of brandy would be as we work our way out of the Stone Jug.” “So do I,” said Shucks, with a sigh. "" * o’clock at night that Binks again sallied forth into the open air. Moon, in a very limp state, was hanging heavily upon his arm, and trying to sing a Bacchanalian song. ‘“ Steady,” said Binks. ‘** The vine boys, the vine,’” said Moon. ‘** Fair Chloe was a charming maid, She lived where vire-leaves grew ; And ever as she drained the cup, She drank to me and you.’ Ha! ha! What do I care for Mrs. Nothing !—I say, nothing, Smith! right good fellow, What's that ?” Something had fallen with a jingling sound on to the pavement. It was Moon’s latch-key. “ What is it, eh ?” No, 24.—Dark Woman, Moon? You are a you are! Ha! ha! MHurrah! RS te eS eeseerrctmaresinnditheinties sepbdchda satel enaentlihdeetieeiedinene iabeiaeamienaenndin einenenetianaaiaanetadaicen altetheieadianaimenaeeeeniaiaeentia naatetedaammmenmon na nee ammeenin aaa ——= Z —, : if QR 2 > ZY =< Y, ae) Reel | Ute i il, Se LUNTITEN LAU Le nM Tse. Se i == “Your key.” “My key. Where? I find, Smith—I feel— as if—as if—if I were to stoop now, up would come the pavement, and hit me on the nose.” “Then I'll pick up the key. There! I have put it into'your pocket again.” “All's right! All’s right! Where are we, Smith? Isay, where are we? Tell me that?” ‘Close at home.” * No—I How very odd! I see—no, I don’t see sSome—gsome iron bars—no, not iron bars, but iron rails. Why, I tell you what, Smith!” “ What ?” “You are drunk |” “Hal ha!” “Oh! it’s all very well to try and pass it off with a laugh; but drunk youare, Smith. Murder! Ah!” “That will do,” said Binks. The housebreaker had brought the unfortunate Moon out of his way so considerably, that in lieu : of being in the street where Mr. Webber’s gold lace establishment formed a prominent kind of Jandmark from which the trimming sellers shop could be seen, they had reached Leicester Square, which presented at that period a strangely different aspect to what it does at present. The old palace, now called Saville House, had only been just vacated by one of the cousins of the late king; and the interior of the square was at that period well kept up in its garden condition by shrubs and some tall and stately trees, brought from the royal gardens at Kew, for the special adornment of the ‘palace. The square was a fashionable one, as may be supposed, from a royal residence occupying so great a space on one of its sides; and although a few Jesuits and Jacobins might be lurking about, and even lodging in the immediate vicinity of Soho, yet the neighbourhood had: by no means degenerated into its present condition, as a place of refuge for the refuse of the French population, and the arena for the exercise of the abilities of reckless and unprincipled adventurers. But in this season the snow lay heaped up in huge masses around the square, and as the object had been to clear it both for traffic and conveni- ence, the gangs of labourers had been employed for many days throwing the snow over the iron railings into the interior. There it accumulated into many irregular mounds: from the midst rose the statue of the first George, covered with the white particles upon every salient point upon which they could fall. The night was gloomy, and the few flitting | wanderers who were shivering their way home, or shedding half-frozen tears at the thought that they had none to go to,-paid no attention to Binks and his inebriated companion. Nor did the shout of terror which Moon uttered, coupled even as it was with the cry of | murder, suffice to.induce any one to turn aside, and possibly involve themselves in one cf those street brawls or acts of violence, and probably bloodshed, so common at the period Mr. Moon was more frightened than hurt. Binks had merely taken hold, of him by the back of his neck with one hand, and by another convenieut portion of his apparel with the other, and by a slight exercise of his herculean strength, had sent him flying, as if discharged from some gigantic piece of ordnance, over the square rail- ings among the mounds of snow. And then it was that Moon had uttered the shout of terror, An instant more, and he had disappeared. Falling upon one of the heaps of loose snow, he sunk at least twelve feet in it in a moment. “That'll do,” said Binks. ‘There’li be a thaw in a few weeks, and then they'll find him, Now for business.” Whether Binks considered that up to this period pleasure had been the order of the day or not it is difficult to say; but certainly Moon would have dissented from that proposition as he lay entombed in snow, which gradually melting from before his breath, left him a long dreamy look- ing funnel through which to inhale the breath of | life, but through which his voice only sounded like a faint and distaat echo. ne a ac er THE DARK WOMAN, Binks whistled a popular air, as with his hands | in-his pockets, to protect them from the keenness of the frost, he made his way towards Mr. Web- ber’s house. - But not the slightest attention did Binks pay even to the exterior of that large, well-built, and well-secured establishment. Tt was to the half tumble-down ancient house of the tailors’ trimming seller, next’ door, that he directed his steps. And it may now be well supposed, from the quantity of hot and strong compounds which Binks had imbibed during the course of that evening, that he was in his acutest possible men- tal condition, inasmuch as that was the process by which he cleared instead of confusing his faculties. And Binks fully remembered all that Moon had said about the kind of reception which Mrs. Moon would be likely to bestow upon him on his arrival with the latch-key after twelve o ’elock at night. _ Yes! oh yes!” said Binks, as he shook his head. ‘That'll do.” Now at the opposite corner of the street stood a watch-box, and as the watchman had just made almost a superhuman effort, by walking up one side of the street and down the other, and inform- ing such of its inbabitants as were awake, or were trying to get to sleep, but were startled into wide wakefulness by the intelligence that it was ‘‘ past twelve o'clock, and a frosty night,” he had retired _ to his box, and pulling his woollen nightcap over | his ears, had left the world to take care of itself | for some four or five hours at least. But Binks wanted him. The way that Binks adopted of letting the | guardian of the night know that he required some service of him was by selecting a good sized brick from a stack of those commodities that was in the street for some repairing purpose, and flinging it at the watch-box, which ‘it hit, with a sound which awakened its tenant with a yell of alarm. The watchman rolled out of his box in a moment. Lantern, stick, rattle, coat, and a stone bottle, in which there was some comforting liquid, all at once sprawled in the snow at the feet of | Binks. ‘“‘ There he goes |” said Binks. “TI saw him.” “Murder! Hilloa! watch! Past twelve o’clock! What's the matter ?” “They're always a doing something,” | Binks, ‘ those boys. a stone at your box.” “* A stone?’ said the watchman, scrambling to his feet; ‘‘it must have been a chimney-pot. Come, come, young fellow, who are you? I shall have to knock you down, and then take you u iY ac What! don’t you know me?” said Binks. i ‘¢I'm little Tommy Moon.” “ Little what ?” said the watchman, surveying Binks, six feet three, from top to toe. “Tommy Moon, they calls me. Don’t you know Mr. Moon’s, the trimming seller, opposite?” *“* To be sure I do.” ““-Very well; then they let meme out to-night, and gave me the latch-key. But I’m so precious | cold, or else I don’t know the lock, that I can’t get the door open with it. However, it don’t matter. Good night, old fellow.” ‘Come, come; that won't do for me. I see I said I do believe one of ’em flung oe a i a ; - ® : “ ’ SS eee must take you up. How do I know it isn't burglary, bigamy, and murder. Where’s your latch-key ?” “Here it is.” “Then I'll go over myself, and see if it fits the door; and if so be as you are little Tommy, why they'll know you there. So come on, young fellow, and don’t be obstropolus.” Now this was just what Binks wanted, and he followed the watchman over the way to the tailors’ trimming seller’s, with a meek look of sub- mission. The watchman set down. his lantern on the door-step, and fitting the key to the lock, growled out, ‘‘Itis the key; but how you came by it, young fellow, I don’t know; and I dare say I shall have to take you to the round-house, after all.” ‘Don’t, now,” said Binks. Charles, you know ‘i “None of your imprance, if you please. goes the door open, at all events.” Binks stepped aside, and with a shout which might be mistaken for an Amazonian war-cry, Mrs. Moon made a dash from the passage of the house, with not only the kitchen poker in her hand, as had been anticipated by Moon, but with the thick end of it in an active state of inflamma- tion, withdrawn as it had just been from the kitchen fire. . “ll teach you to be coming home at all sorts of hours in the night, you miserable wretch !” ex-: claimed Mrs. Moon; and at the same time the first intimation that the watchman had of the nature of the attack made upon him, consisted of the hot “Tt’s all right, There poker being laid at ono side of his neck, and | moved to and fro with a sawing motion, as though the object was to get his head off by that means as quickly as possible. A volley of smoke, and a strong odour of burnt wool and cotton, betrayed the progress of the incendiary attack ; and so terrified and confounded was the watchman, that he stood still for several moments, while this most uncomfortable process proceeded. “Go it!” said Binks; ‘lots of roast weal.” The watchman uttered a terrible cry. He turned, and made but one leap, six feet into the snow. ‘“‘ How do you like it?” screamed Mrs. Moon. “Murder! fire! A engin’! a engin’!” The watchman fled, and Mrs. Moon, blinded by fury, pursued him. How could she see if it were a watchman, or her own lawful property ? Had she not been round to the “ King’s Head,” at ten o'clock, and found no Moon there?—and had she not then fretted, fumed, and raged for two mortal hours and a half, and then had she not heard the latch. key in the lock? How then was it likely that she should be discriminating in her vengeance ? Binks saw the watchman going at frantic speed down the street. PE He saw Mrs. Moon waving the red-hot poker as she pursued him; and every now and then he saw the watchman give a wild leap into the air, asa touch from the formidable weapon warned him what a fiery foe was in the rear. “Well,” said Binks, “I think that'll do, They’re a comin’ it rather, they are. Now for business. How amusing folks is, sometimes!” THE DARK WOMAN. eee Binks coolly-walked into the house, and closed the door on the inside, But first, he took care ta possess himself of the latch-key, in case Mrs, Moon should prematurely return, and possibly put him to inconvenience before he had concluded the little affair he had to carry out at Mr. Webber's. All was silent in the street, and the probability was that he would haye ample time, practised as he was in all affairs connected with housebreak- ing, to do all he wished, previous to meeting with any interruption. CHAPTER L. MR, BINKS POSSESSES HIMSELF OF SOME REMARK-= ABLE BOOTY. THE house of the tailors’ trimming seller was one of those pointed fronted old wooden mansions of Charles the First’s time—some few specimens of which remain in the older streets of London. The passage was narrow and dark, and its flooring about a foot lower than the ordinary level of the street. But Binks’s professional avocations had made him iolerably familiar with most specimens of house architecture in London; and he went on without fear of being able to make his way to those upper rooms, which would join the more pretentious and modern house of Mr. | Webber And now Binks paused at the foot of the stair- case, and taking from his pocket a very thick pair. of knitted socks of large size, he drew them on over his boots. Then, as he ascended the stairs, he walked close to the wall; for the housebreaker’s experience told him that by so doing, very few staircases creaked beneath the tread, however old they might be. Binks could not possibly say that the house was destitute of inhabitants, now that he had cleared out the Moons from their portion of the premises, therefore he adopted every means in his power of conducting the affair well and to a suc- cessful issue, He reached the landing of the first floor. All was profoundly dark. | Binks felt about carefully with his hands, and feund that he was in an oblong corridor, about fourteen feet in length and three in width, but no continuation of the staircase could he find. © Nevertheless, Binks knew very well that he was not at the top of the house. And now he lit one of those thieves’ matches, as they were then called, and which shed a feeble light round it for a few seconds. “ Ah, that’s it!” he said. you are !” There was a tall, narrow door to his left hand, and that opened almost on to a perpendicular flight of steps, which led to the two or three miserable attics on the sloping roof of the house. The housebreaker ascended softly—for possibly some servant girl or apprentice boy might be sleep< ing in those upper rooms. But not a sound indicative of anybody met his ears, nor the least scintilla of light came from under the doors of any of the rooms, * All's right! Here - et ee iene er ph meen anenatenenienesee,| — 188 THE DARK WOMAN. LL LL LLL LLL A, This was the floor, however, from which Binks intended to commence operations, therefore it was essential to him to see that it was’ vacant. Nothing could exceed the artistic skill with which Binks was at work upon this burglary at Mr. Webber's, the gold lace merchant; and little did that individual think that his premises, weil secured as they were, could be liable to such an attack as was now being made upon them The attics were three in number. Binks crept softly to the door of the first one, and tried the lock. Tt was not fastened in any way. Without the slightest disturbance he opened the door of that attic, and put his head into the room. Then any one who couia have seen Binks at that moment would have thought him some re- markably deaf man, who was making a powerful effort to hear. He had placed a hand behind each of his ears in a hollow shape, so that no sound that might~ come from the room, or from any one within it, should have a chancs of escaping his perception. There is no doubt but that the lightest breath of the most profound repose would have been heard by him. But all was still. Binks felt quite satisfied that there was no one in that attic. He closed the door very gently; and then, with the same noiseless tread that had characterized all his movements in that house, he proceeded to the attic adjoining. With the same precautions, he opened the door of that room. In a moment, Binks felt certain that some one was sleeping there. The regular, heavy breathing of a person in sleep came upon his ears. But not by any interjectional sound, or by the slightest impatient movement of hand or foot, did Binks take any notice of the fact. He was quite prepared for such a contingency as this, He meant to secure the silence of whoever might be there. Now, Binks was a brutal and unscrupulous man, but yet he was not in love with murder for its own sake, and if he could succeed in what he had to do without it, he was willing to abstain from a deed of blood. But if not, he was just the person to persuade himself that there was a stern necessity, which, to his mind, would make the act anything but a matter of regret. He stepped carefully into the room. That the house was now perfectly free from inhabitants, with the exception of himself and whoever might be sleeping in that attic, Binks felt quite sure, and, therefore, he had no dread of an alarm. ' “Hem!” said Binks. With a sharp cry, the person, whoever it was that slept in the attic, awoke. “ What is it? What?” said a voice, It was the voice of a boy. ** Hem!” said Binks again “Who are you? Is it master ?” said the boy, Ves” 6h No. ”» ‘‘ Well, that’s civil.” ‘‘T don’t know your voice.” “But you will sooa. And my touch, too, if you make any disturbance.” “Help !” ** Silence !” “* Who are you?” “T want that question answered, my lad. Who are you?” “T am Mr. Moon’s shop- ‘boy, and they let me open here on the shavings.” “Kind—very! What's your name ?” “* Joseph.” “ Joseph what ?” “* Bunce.” “Very good, Joseph Bunce! Now, my boy, I don’t want to do you any harm whatsoever; but if you will have your throat cut, or the top of your skull stove in, why you can.’ “No, no! Murder!” ‘* Perhaps so. But all you have to do is to keep quiet, and then nobody will do you any harm ; only 1 must Keep you quiet in my own way, you see,’ There was a bright little flash of light, and there stood Binks, revealed to the eyes of Joseph, with one of the thieves’ matches in his hand, the sudden ignition of which had produced the bright flash of light. ‘“* Now for it,” said Binks. The boy started from his miserable bed on the shavings, with which the floor was littered, and uttered a cry of alarm. “Be quiet, will you ?—or—— The appearance of Binks was so terrifying that the boy almost gave himself up for lost. He was no longer able to control his -ears sufficiently to be quiet. He commenced screaming and crying for help in loud tones. “Oh,” said Binks; “so you-will have it, will you, eh? I must stop that throat of yours.” ““Oh, no, no! Have merey upon me! Oh, don’t kill me! I will be quiet—I will be good! Dear, good sir, don’t kill me! Murder! murder!” Binks made a rush at the boy. “Help! Murder!” “Stop a bit,” said Binks. He paused to light, with the still burning match he held in his hand, a rushlight, by the aid of which the boy had sought the wretched attic, and which was on a box in one corner of the room. As Binks lit this. little bit of rusblight, and as it began to shed a faint and sickly lustre about it, the boy clung to his feet, and with tears and sobs begged him to spare his life. “You will not kill me?. Ob, spareme! Iam but a poor boy, dear sir! I have done no harm to you—no harm to anybody! I will be so quiet, so good! I will—I will!” Then the terrified boy screamed aloud. ‘‘'That’s what you call being quiet, is it?” said Binks, with an oath. “Help! Oh, mercy!” Binks seized the boy by the shoulder. 39 Thea half-ragged portion of apparel which the raffian got hold of was torn away in the struggle, and left the boy’s breast and shoulder bare. ~ Binks had drawn a knife from a secret pocket in which he kept it, and was brandishing it high in the air, THE DARK WOMAN, os The light of the rushlight glanced upon the blade of the terrible weapon. The boy uttered one last ery, and closed his eyes. ; * Bat why does Binks now commence trembling, a3 though struck with a sudden palsy? Why does the knife drop from his right hand, and why does that awful look of terror shine out of his eyes ? ” On the left breast of the boy there is tattooed a key—a regularly-shaped key, in small blue dots; and there it is before the eyes of Binks. There it is in the faint light from the rush candle—plain and evident to his observation. Binks uttered a strange sound. It was a some- thing between a gasp and a shout. “Boy! boy! boy!” The boy opened his eyes, and looked up into the face of the murderer with a shudder. He then saw, lying at his feet, the knife with which his life had been threatened. “Ah!” he cried; “you will not kill me? you have not the heart to kill me ?” Binks was unable to support himself upon his huge feet. With such a trembling, that it completely for a time prostrated all his strength, he sunk down on his knees to the floor by the side of the terrified boy. ’ “Speak! speak!” he said, in gasping tones. “Speak to me; tell me—tell me rm “Tell you what? Oh! I will tell you any- thing, if you will not kill me.” ‘¢ Who—who From where—— What s Binks found a difficulty in giving utterance to the words that crowded to his lips. He grasped at his own throat, and then, in spasmodic efforts, he was just able to say, ‘Tell me who and what you are, and where you came from ?” “Oh, yes! I am Joseph Bunce, and I came from Marylebone Workhouse.” & Ah!” “No! no!” “What do you mean? Do yon deny it now? Was it not true?” “Yes; but I was afraid you were angry.” Binks seized the boy by both his hands, and _then he shook him to and fro, as he said, “ That mark on your breast? That key? Tell me how came you by that?” “Oh, yes! They told meat the workhouse that I was found in a small fish-basket, tied close with some twine, one winter’s night, close to the gate of the workhouse; and that my breast had spots of blood on it, and marks of gunpowder having been rubbed into this place, where the shape of a key had been pricked in, and so tattooed. And that’s all I know about it, except that the old pauper who found me was named Joseph Bunce, and so they called me the same.” Binks's whole frame shook with a terrible and strange convulsion. Tears gushed from his eyes, and in a high, cracked voice, he said, ‘Boy! boy!—child, it was I—it was I who marked you with that key!” “ You ?” “Yes, I! It was I who tied you up in the old fish-basket. It was I who placed you close to the gate of the workhouse.” * You did all that?” “Yes, yes—oh, yes!” 189 ” “ But—why—why “‘ Because—because the time might come when I should know you again.” ‘“¢ Know me again ?” “Yes, yes! Because—because—boy, boy—I am—I am Binks seemed nearly choked. He tore at his throat with both his hands. It seemed to be im- possible to get the words out; but, at length, with a shriek, he added, ‘ Because I am your father!” “My father ?” “Yes; I am your father—your own father— you are my boy. The officers were after me, Your mother was lying dead. I scaled some half- dozen roof-tops with you in my arms; they had fired at me, and I was wounded. [I hid for eight hours in a half-finished drain, with you; and then I marked you with the tattooed key, that is now on your breast. I knew not what to do with you, and so I left you at the gate of the work- house as you have related. I am—I am your father!” The boy recoiled as far as he could, for he was on his knees, and a look of terror came over his young face. And Binks, too, was on his knees, and he was inclined forward, and his arms were outstretched, for he longed to clasp the boy to his breast. It was a strange spectacle that, to see the son recoiling from the father, and to see the father be- seeching the son to come to him. “My boy!—my boy!” moaned Binks; “ oh, do not—do not kill me!” ‘¢ Ah!” cried the boy. “What ?—oh, what?” ‘You would have killed me.” ‘ No!—oh, heaven, no!” ‘Yes, if you had not found out who I was” Binks let his arms drop by his sides. The grief upon his countenance was terrible to see. It was, however, but for a moment that it could be seen, for then the little rush-light had burnt itself out, and the last portion of its wick toppled over, and was extinguished in a small globule of at. The attic was profoundly dark. It was a moment, surely, of mortal agony to Binks, as he then knelt before his own child, and felt himself disowned on account of the atrocious act he no doubt would have committed, but that his eyes had fallen upon that tattooed key. But the boy’s heart was young and tender; and for many a day he had prayed for some one whom he could call father. In another moment he forgot all his terror at the fearful crime which Binks would have com- mitted. ; “ Father !—father!"” he cried, as he fell upon his breast. ‘‘My own father, I will love you now !—I will love you!” * Binks sobbed aloud, and folded his great rough arms about his son. That attic had neither the light of day, nor the artificial light that for short a time had dissipated its darkness ; but there were purer rays there than either the natural sunlight or the science of man could produce. The light of repentance and heart-softening was -. in the breast of Binks. The light of a chiid’s love was in the heart of the poor boy. , “ That is it!” 190 ‘ For more than a quarter of an hour a deep silence succeeded to all these strange and inco- herent words that had passed between the father and son, . Then Binks spoke. ‘My dear boy, what are you doing here? Axo you happy ?” “Ah, no!” “No?” No, father, I am so—so—very ‘So very what? Speak to me!” “So sad and lonely. No one loves me!” “ Ah!” ‘“‘That, you know, father, is so terrible. at the workhouse it was not so.” oe Oh i ‘‘No; thera were some of the poor old people who had seen better days, and they were alt so very kind to me!” “ But—but these people in this house? These Moons? What of them ?” The boy shuddered. “Ah! they ill-nse you?” “No, no, not that! But they are cold and harsh, and they starve me, and I sleep here with no covering ; and the winter is so dreadful a time.” **T will have their lives! into small shreds! I—TI “Father! father! I was taught at the work- house He “ What ?” “ Some commandments.” “* What are they ?” ‘Oh, father, do not say that! was, ‘Thou shalt do no murder!’” Binks was silent for a few moments; and then he said gently, ‘‘ Well, well, I—I—won't! But { can take you away from here, where you will have warmth and comfort,—and where [ can maka you, no doubt, useful to one who then will | ” Now, % will cut them up One of them patronise you, and make a man of you.” “ Oh, yes, yes, I shail be so glad! father ?” “A lady.” “That is better still. I suppose ?” “ Well—I—a Stop!” 2 ‘¢ What do you mean, father ?” Binks pressed his hand over his own eyes until the pressure was painful. All at once it bad occurred to him that if he brought his now innocent son into the service-of | Who is it, Some good, kind lady, the Dark Woman, he could only be useful to her in some of her criminal projects—in some such matters a3 she employed him (Binks) in; and the heart of the housebreaker and murderer was struck with dismay at the idea that his son might tread the same guilty path which had been his own through life, “My boy,” he said, in a faint, husky voice, ‘listen to me!” “Yes, father.” “Y cannot take you to the lady I spoke of.” “No?” ‘No, my dear boy, I cannot. Nor can I take you anywhere. You will have to stay here. You will have to do the best you can—to endure hardships until you become a man—when, with a man’s labour, you see, and a man’s rights, you gan bo more independent.” THE DAR WOMAN, ‘as those belonging to Binks, the burglar—that a rs penne: 7 But cai. 1 not bs with vou, father ?” * Alas, no!” “That is very sad.” “Tt is sad; but it cannot be! must be an honest man.” “Like you, father.” Binks gave a strange, gasping sort of sob. * You weep, father. I have perhaps said some~ thing to pain you?” ‘*No, no!” “T was afraid I had.” “No; it is all well! all well! ~ I am your father, and I ask you now, for the first time, to obey me, and to follow my directions.” ““T will, father!” “Then you will lie down again on even this poor cold bed of shavings, from which I have dis- tarbed you; and you will close your eyes, and try to go to sleep.” “T will!” ‘And whatever you may hear, which you may think strange, you will pay no attention to it. Yop will soon then go really to sleep, and some other time I may try to see you, and perhaps be of some service to you, but I can be of none now.’ ‘¢T will do all that you say, father; and I will be ever so much happier now.” “You will?” “Oh, yes! because knowing that ! have a father, I shall never feel lonely again.” ‘‘Ah!” sighed Binks. “But, father—dear father!” “ What is it?” “T want you to tell me my real name.” Binks reflected. He came to a decision in a few moments. “If,” he thought, “I tell him my real name, he will be distressed some day, when he may heer that I am hanged. No; I will give him a false one. My dear, my name is Smith.” “Smith, father ?” “ Yes; mind you don’t forget it.” “Oh, father! one can never forget the name of Smith.” “Very good, then; that’s the name. And now, all you have to do, my dear, is to lie down as I have bidden you.” “Yes, yes! Good bye, father!” . ~The boy flung his arms around the neck of Binks, and rested for a few moments on his breaste. “ Go!” said the fddhebreukers and it was very strange how soft and gentle the voice of that man of many crimes was at that moment. No one could possibly have identified the tones Se My poy, vou man who had been even the terror of the officials of Newgate, although loaded with chains. The boy, with a deep sigh, went and gently laid himself down again upon the shavings. | Binks had a dreamy notion at the moment of i saying some sort of prayer, only he could not ; recollect one. But he did say, “God bless him! eae) That would do. Then the burglar left the attic, and lit another of his thieves’ matches. There was yet the third attic to look at, and, as that third one was that from and in which ‘he, Binks, had intended to commence his operations upon the house of the gold lace merchant, it was of great importance to him to find that it was quite vacant. ' rerio i ee THE DARK WOMAN, _ would be there, because, if sach had been the case, the conversation that had taken place between Binks and his son must have disturbed even the deepest slumber. But it was by a strange sort of principle, not in any way to implicate his son in what he was about, that Binks had carefully abstained from even asking him if the other attic was occupied or not, although it would have been so easy so to do. No. There was still that virtue left even in the heart of that man of crime, that he was re- solved, so far as in him lay, to keep his own child ure, : Binks then took the same precaution in enter- ing the last attic of the three as he had done in making his way to the other two. It was empty. In fact, there was not the least appearance of it having been occupied for a long time, and it was quite destitute of furniture. It had not occurred to Binks for a single mo- ment to abanden the expedition on which he had been sent by the L‘ark Woman. ‘She, with all her mystical power, occupied such a place in his imagination, that although he must have known perfectly well that the expedition he was on was, as regarded poor Allan Fearon, one of the most iniquitous and wicked which the mind of man or woman could, by any possibility, con- ceive, yet he had no thought of abandoning it. And so Binks set to work. He knew that one side of this attic, in which he now was, adjoined Mr. Webber’s house. : He knew, too, that inasmuch as Mr. Webber's house was half as high again as that old residence in which he was, that the attic from which he was now about to commence his operations was about on a level with the second floor of the larger mansion. And so Binks set to work. He had with him a good assortment of wax candle-ends, and he now lif one of these, and then he hung carefully before the casement his coat, so that there should be no appearance of a light in the attic from the street. Binks, from his capacious pockets, then pro- duced some tools’ which, although small in ap- parent size, and, consequently, of limited power, were really of such exquisite workmanship that they were much more useful and available for the sort of work he had to do than larger and coarser tools. Binks cut, in the plaster on the wall of the attic next to Mr. Webber’s house, the shape of a small door with a square top. It was not above two feet in width and four in height; but he knew that such an orifice would be quite sufficient for him to pass through. ‘Lhen, with a skill and speed which, in a short time, made wonderful progress with the work, he proceeded to cut this opening in the wall. The attic wall was soon pierced; but the wall of Mr. Webber’s house was of substantial brick, and it presented more difficulties, They could, however, be scarcely called dif- culties to Binks. Soon one brick was removed; and when that was the case, others followed in easy and rapid succession. And all the work was done so quietly that not It was by no means probable that any one ——— nan tt arene 191 the least alarm could possibly have been given to any one, The wall was two bricks in thickness, but they were soon removed, and then Binks came to some wood-work, which he guessed was the waing- coting in one of the actual rooms of Mr. Webber’s house, é The accomplished housebreaker had one tool, by the aid of which a circular hole was cut in this wainscoting of about two feet in diameter. It looked small for such a man as Binks to pass through, but he knew by experience that it would be sufficient. He lifted carefully away from the wall the circular piece of wainscoting, and looked through the opening. All was dark on the other side, but he felt quite certain he had made his way into the house of the gold lace manufacturer. In another moment he had glided like an eel through the circular orifice, and stood in a spacious apartment on the second floor of Mr. Webber’s house. Then Binks assumed that strange attitude, with his hands behind his ears to listen, that we have noticed he practised in the attics at the next door All was still. | “ That will do,” said Binks to himself, Then he lit one of the thieves’ matches, and looked carefully around him. The room in which he was, was evidently a kind of warehouse or store-room. It had many shelves in it, and huge cases, in which no doubt were stored some of the costly stock of the gold lace manufacturer, There was one case, too, in particular, which was enclosed by glazed doors, and within which Binks naturally supposed there would be some of the most valuable stock. In fact, such was the case, for in that place there were glass jars, containing gold and silver spangles of considerable value. Binks was perfectly well aware that the object of this burglarious attack upon the house of Mr. ‘Webber was not one of plunder. In fact, he had such exaggerated notions concerning the wealth of his new mistress, the Dark Woman, that the desire of robbery for the sake of booty had almost faded away from his mind. It was therefore more with reflective curiosity than with cupidity, that Binks looked at these gold and silver ornaments in their glass cases. oo CHAPTER LI. ALLAN FEARON STANDS IN DANGER OF HIS LIFE. THE instructions of Binks had been that he was to bring away something at once portable and easily to be identified, and that he was to risk nothing for the object of procuring a large plunder, since a small one would answer all the purposes required. What then could be better thin one of these glass jars of golden spangles, which glittered so temptingly in their case ? Surely they were the very things required— going into a small space, easily hidden, and of un- doubted intrinsic value. : , “ That'll do,” said Binks, With a glazier's diamond he at once got rid of the difficulty of the glass case being locked, and one of the jars of gold spangles was instantly in his possession. For an instant, then, some of the old instincts of the burglar, to take all he could, now that he had the opportunity, came over Binks as he looked around him in the warehouse full of glittering property. But no; his instructions had been quite clear and definite. It was a plot, not a robbery, he had to carry out, and he felt that he must be content with the jar of gold spangles. And how secure Mr. Webber thought, no doubt, his house, with all its property, considering the precautions he had taken to make it so. What an excellent watchman he had sleeping on the basement; and how admirable, expensive, and.secure were all his locks, bars, and bolts! But it had not occurred to him that the attack upon his property might come from above, instead of from below. - And now Binks started and listened, for there was certainly a sound in the house. The alarm, however, which came over him was but momentary, and he recognised in an instant what the sound was. . It was a clock striking the hour of four. It was time to go. The night was waning fast. In two hours more some of the workmen belong- ing to the establishment might make an appear- ance; and, even then, it was more than probable that he would have to exercise his utmost caution in getting clear of the house next door—since, by that time, surely, Mrs. Moon had returned from her chase of the watchman, and would be up, and actively awake, anticipating the arrival of her husband. ‘ Yes,” said Binks again, “that'll do.” The jar was but a small one, although it pro- bably contained about a pound weight of the precious metal; and Binks bad no difficulty in carrying it safely with him through the circular aperture in the wall. Again, then, he listened in that odd way, which seemed to concentrate all sounds far and near to his particular ears. Yes, there could be no doubt about it. A door was shut heavily in the lower part of the house. ‘She has come back,” said Binks. Then, with a softened look, he stole to the door of that atvic within which slept the boy; and he stood trembling on the threshold of that door, and listened as though his liberty and life depended upon hearing but one sound of his existence. Once he laid his hand upon the lock of the door as though he would enter the room, but he hastily removed it again. “No, no!” he said. ‘' Enough, enough! suspicion—there need be no suspicion there!” Now we should have added that when Binks left Mr. Webber’s premises, he had carefally fitted into its place the circular piece of wood that had been cut out of the panel to allow him an entrance into the warehouse. To be sure, a very trivial observation of the wall would be sufficient to show what had taken place ; but still Binks had a confidence in the fact that many persons might make their way into that apartment without ever thinking of casting their eyes in that direction. No the el A rh it Ie PER tee CLE pc tail a Aa ea I na LE Se EOS Nae THE DARK WOMAN. Moreover, he had plenty of time before him; and with a perfect coufidence that he left no danger behind him, he sofcdy crept down the stair- case of the tailors’ trimming seller’s house. Binks took the same precautions in descending that had served him in good stead in ascending, and the staircase gave forth no sound beneath the worsted socks which covered his boots. He reached the landing on the first floor, and heard no other sound than that which had already disturbed him. There, however, Binks came to a standstill, for a faint gleam of light shot up from the passage, and upon looking over the balustrade of the staircase, sufficiently to enable him to get a view below, he saw Mrs. Moon sitting in the centre of the passage, with a flat candlestick, in which burnt a rushlight, in one hand, and a long- handled carpet-broom in the other. She spoke not—she moved not—but, with a look of stoical firmness, she was evidently there waiting the arrival of the delinquent Moon, who was, no doubt, still deep in the snow in the centre of Leicester Square. Binks paused for a few moments in indecision, — and then the mode by which ve left the house was at once dramatic and effective. He gave a loud cough. Mrs. Moon started to her f. et. Treading then as heavily as he could, Binks | descended the stairs, and as he did so he pointed | with the finger of his out-stretched hand full in Mrs. Moon's face, while, with every step that he ‘descended, he cried “ Hush!” Mrs. Moon was at once impressed with the con- sequence of keeping silence, and she gave a sym- pathetic start at every footfall and hush that came from Binks. The housebreaker reached the passage. He still pointed in the face of Mrs. Moon. * Hush!” he said. ‘“ Huash!”. “Hush!” echoed Mrs.’ Moon, in a gasping sort. of way. Binks moved sideways towards the outer door, and Mrs. Moon moved sideways towards the stair- case. The passage was narrow, and the chair on which se had sat was between them. tis Any looker on, could there have been one pre- sent, would have thought they were executing some eccentric and serious dance. Binks then gave a sudden jump. Mrs. Moon gave a scream, and clashed the carpet-broom and the candlestick together- Binks reached the street door, which his prac- tical hands opened in a moment. “Good night, mum,” he said, in one of the most ordinary tones. And all the mystery at- tending his presence, and the singular manner in which he had descended the stairs, vanished from the mind of Mrs. Moon in a montent. She was herself again, and thf candlestick flew like a cannon-shot after the retreating Binks; but he was gone, the door was closed, and the dull rattle of the tin missile against its wood-work mingled with the screams of Mrs. Moon. We must now follow Binks ypon a far more villanous and desperate enterprise than that which he had undertaken in making his way into the premises of Mr. Webber, the gold lace mer- chant. . He had to dispose of that small jar of gold spangles, and in such a manner, too, as should Aa Iam a asec NAT lA tee at ANN IRON Nay i Tt ea ens SS implicate the innocent Allan Fearon in the robbery. We have already related how he had discovered that Allan lodged in a house in Long Acre. And when he knew that, the mere fact of one with such limited means lodging in that locality, pointed it out as one of those houses every room of which probably was let off. This was just the kind of house in which the footfall of a stranger at any hour of the night would create neither alarm nor surprise. But if Binks had been aware of one circum- stance, he would have felt it almost a humiliating task, and one far beneath his abilities, to place the jar of gold spangles against Allan Fearon’s apartment. A strange feeling had come over Allan early in the evening that some undefined danger was hovering over Marian Gray; and twice he had No. 25.—Dark Woman, PE I ee I ne a ee THE DARK WOMAN, 193 ww called at the rooms she occupied in Martlett’s Court, to assure himself of her safety. And yet the feeling grew on him. He could not rest. One short sleep had brought with it dis- tressful images, which did not tempt him to seek repose again; and at the very time that Binks was making his way from the gold lace warehouse to Long Acre, Allan was in a doorway in Martlett’s Court, gazing up at the window of Marian Gray’s room, and watching a faint light that streamed from it. “No, 4,” said Binks. ‘That’s the number,” added he, as he reached Long Acre. The house was a large one; but, as Binks had expected, the fastening of the door was ridicu- lously inefficient, and by the aid of a skeleton key he was in the passage in a moment. Binks took no precautions now whatever for secrecy. In such a house, he knew perfectly well a ET 0 ES Tl re 194 that, as a general thing, everybody made as much noise as possible when they came home, let the hour be what if might;-so Binks, after banging shut the street door, walked up-stairs with all the independence and indifference of a lodger, who, by virtue of renting one room, cared not if he disturbed the repose of every occupant in the place. The housebreaker was a tolerably good judgs of London life, and he felt sure that it would be in the upper part of the house that Allan Fearon would reside. Passing, then, the first floor, he reached the landing of the second; and in pursuance of the plan of operations he had laid down, he dealt a heavy kick upon the panel of the first door that presented itself. Some screaming remonstrance in a female voice let him know that that was not the room he sought. Now there were four doors on this landing ; and it certainly seemed rather an awkward thing to kick at every one. in order to find out which was in the occupation of Allan Fearon. And Binks adepted a different plan; and placing his mouth at the keyhole of the door, at which he had already created an alarm, he said, “ Mr. Fearon is wanted immediately.” “You wretch!” exclaimed a voice within the room; ‘‘there’s no Mr. Fearon here, nor Mr. Any- body else. Can’t you go up to his own room, the first attic on the left ?”’ Binks was satisfied. And without thinking if necessary to reply, he ascended another flight of stairs; and then, without the least idea that he was so fortunate as to find Allan from home, Binks only wondered in his own mind whether he was asleep or awake. If the latter, he might have some trouble; but if the former, he relied entirely upon the silence and caution with which he could carry out his designs. A very slight manipulation of the key-hole of the door let Binks know that no key was in the lock; and the probability then that the room was empty, rose almost to a certainty in his mind. Still it was with extreme caution that he used one of the picklocks he had about him, and opened the door. But no sooner had he done so, and projected his head into the apartment, than he felt perfectly sure it was unoccupied. How long it might remain so, wa3 a matter of the most critical inquiry and doubt. There was just likewise the possibility that this might not be Allan Fearon’s apartment, but one in want of a tenant in the house. Binks closed the door, and in another moment had lit one of his little wax candle-ends. One glance around. him dissipated that last doubt, for above the chimney-piece hung a small portrait in crayons of Marian Gray; and on a table in the centre of the room lay an open book, with Allan Fearon’s name written on the title-page. The remains of a wood fire were smouldering in the little grate, and Binks made up his mind in a moment what to do with the jar of gold spangles, although the attic was but small, and there seemed no practicable hiding-place in it; for it will be remembered that that golden booty had to be hidden for a time from Allan, as well as from sther people, THE DARK WOMAN. The housebreaker had everything ‘about him necessary for such contingencies as the present. He tied a piece of twine round the neck of the jar, and left a loop dependent from it. He went to the little narrow attic chimney, and as high as his arm would reach, he fixed a nail, to which he hung the glittering bait. - “That will do,” said Binks tu. himself, in a low tone. “ It will not be found by any but the traps (officers of police); and* they will be “own uoon it in two minutes, when once they begin to look for the swag.” Binks had performed his errand, and the next best thing he felt, he had to do was to get out of that room, and clear of the house, as quickly as possible. . Should Aijlan Fearon return and find him there in the room, no doubt there would arise some con- test that would be anything but agreeable; for Ginks felt that his mission there was one that looked forward to a much higher class of revenge than could be achieved by inflicting any personal injury upon Allan Fearon. If that had been desired, or considered to be sufficient, if could have been done with far less trouble than he, Binks, had taken that night. He left the room at once. Then he again, by the aid of his false key, shot the lock into its socket, and turned to descend the atairs. Even as he did so, Binks heard the rapid tread of some young footstep ascending. it was Alian Fearon. Binks passed him on the flight of stairs that led from the passage to the first floor; and Allan, knowing so well as he did how densely the house was occupied, did not think it worth while to — make the endeavour even to identify the person who passed him in the dark. Another moment, and Binks was gone. Allan, with a deep sigh, reached his room. He was very cold, The time he had spent in gazing up at the windows of the attic in the occupation of Marian Gray had been one of inaetion; and, in that season of frost, half an hour so spent was almost sufficient to freeze the youngest blood. But it was not altogether the cold that was about him that most prominently distressed Allan—his heart was heavy. A deep and strange feeling, as if of some coming evil, was upon him. His spirits were depressed, as though the shadow of some misfortune had preceded its substance, and environed his heart in gloom. It was in vain that Allan Fearon tried to shake off the oppression of this feeling. There it was, and he could not successfully do battle against if. He entered his room, and Ht a candle; and then he paced the apartment to and fro, and tried to reason with himself .as regarded the—as he called it—morbid state of his spirits. ‘““What have I to dread?” he said. ‘“ What have I to fear? Is not Marian true tome? Has she not promised to be mine, and will she not be mine, now, in a space of time that may be easily counted by hours? Why is it, then, that this heart-depression is upon me?” All his reasoning was in vain There the heart-depression was, and he eonid not chase it away. ~ THE DARK WOMAN. Of course, ‘sation! knew that in Sir ETidckton Moys he bad an enemy; but it never occurred to him that even that enemy would attempt to do more than inflict upon him some personal injury, or make some effort possibly against his life; and with the consciousness of health and strength to take care of himself, and with undaunted courage, Allan did not view an enemy of that kind with any puerile alarms. . The kind of treachery to which he was about to be subjected he had no idea of, and it never occurred to him to suspect its existence. So poor Allan went to rest for the two or three hours that would intervene between that time of the night and the early hour when he would be expected at the warehouse of Mr. Webber. And Binks went home to the astrologer’s house, in Frith Street, Soho. The Dark Woman met him at the head of the staircase: She was attired in a large cloak of rich fur, which enveloped her from head to foot; and it is probable enough that she had kept watch the whole night. She started out of one of the side rooms on the first floor of the house so suddenly, that Binks gave a spring backwards, and nearly feil down the stairease in his alarm. a“ Speak !° ‘she cried. “Ts it done?” ti Tt i is. ” The Dark Woman burst into a strange laugh, which, in that silent house, had a strange and awful ringing sound; and then, without another word, she returned into the room again, and left Biuks staring after her with amazement. Binks touched his forehead with his finger as he said, “By Jove! if I don’t sometimes think that she is just a little Eh?” Binks turned round, as a slight sound on the stairease came to his ears. It was the page, Felix. “Oh, you are up, are you?” said Binks. ‘The page said not a word, but glided off like a spirit to the upper part of the house. **Oh, very well,’ said Binks. “I suppose, then, I may as wall go and get a bit of sleep, as everybody is si and nobody seems inclined to Say anything.” In ten minutes more, Binks, whose conscience, if he had any, was of most agreeable materials, and never troubled him, was in a sound sleep. - But the Dark Woman did not attempt to seek the repose which probably, in its calmness and serenity, she would never know again. In that large, mysterious apartment on the first floor of the house of the astrologer, she paced to and fro for hours, and she wrung her hands, and moaned, and uttered terriblo sighs as she did 80. For the last few days her blooming countenance -had lost much of its beauty. The mind within was preying upon the mortal casket which con- tained it, and she was beginning to feel what she would not own to herself—namely, that she was not on the road to happiness. At times there would come over her the dread- ful question of what was it all for that she was thus not only sapping the springs of her own existence, but ruthlessly sacrificing the happi-’ ness and the lives of others. That was a terrible question to present itself to Linda de Shaveranx. * weg Sm with amore vivacity than usual, a re nn nn oe 195 It was a question which should have been asked and answered long ago. Now it was too late. Qh, terrible words, ‘Too late!” She had waded through a sea of crimes to be just what she was, and where she was, and what progress had she made to the objects which she had set herself to accomplish ? What progress had she made to happiness? None! none! And now, amid the stillness of the night, in that dreary house, she spoke to herself, and her words were terrible even to hear by herself. “Too late!” she said. ‘Ob, a world too late now! I must still be what I am—-a fate and a desolation. I have advanced too far! To attempt to retreat were madness! I can never be the Linda de Chevenaux that once | was!” She wrung ber hands a moment, but she did not weep. ‘Tears had long since ceased to flow from those vengeful eyes. ‘Yes, yes!’ she added. “I must goon tramp- ling on human lives, human affections. What are they all to me? I must and will fulfil the destiny that has called me into action. I will find my son, I will prove his legitimacy, and he shall be acknowledged to be what he is in reality. If my own death—death by any means, let the torture of the process be what it might, would accomplish so much; ob, how gladly would I accept it at once, rather than pass through this life of agony! But that cannot be! I must suffer, but I must act and inflict as well as suffer !” She cast herself on to the floor; she knew that it was useless to seek repose in the soft and Juxurious bed she had in that house; now and then, she had found sleep on the hard boards of the floor of one of the rooms. She so found it now. In five minutes more, the Dark Woman had sunk into a deep repose. CHAPTER LIT. THE PRINCE REGENT HAS A DIFFKRENCE OF OPISION WITH THE PRINCE LEOPOLD AND THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE OF WALKS. THE Regent found considerable difficulty in chasing from his mind the uncomfortable im- pression which the last adventure with the Dark Woman had made upon his mind. if, however, anything more than another would be likely to engage his thoughts in another channel, it certainly would be the state of his own family affairs. : To his ideas, that state was anything but satis- factory. It was late in the evening on that same night which had witnessed the successful burglary at Mr. Webber’s, the gold lace merchants, that the Regent stood, with his back to the fire, in one of his private apartments at Carlton House, and, addressed two veOw who were in the room. ‘One of these persons was Sir Hinckton Moys, The other was the future Chancellor of Aperand, Mr, Scott, afterwards Lord Eldon. 196 “ Again, again,” said the Regent, as he flourished in his hand a letter,—“ again have I been warned about these—these—what shall I call them ?— most indiscreet-—most disgraceful night escapades ! Pray read this letter, Scott! Tell me honestly what you think of it, now.” The little, cunning-faced man who was thus appealed to took the letter, and read it half aloud. “The writer of this thinks it a duty to warn his Royal Highness the Prince Regent that a hackney-coach will be at the corner of the Opera Colonnade, to night, at eleven o'clock, in which will be a foreigner of titie; and that, at that hour, or as near to it as convenient, her Royal High- ness the daughter of the Regent will reach the spot, and hold an interview with the occupant of the coach.” ‘There!’ cried the Regent. say to that ?” The little, mean-looking man, who had read the letter, shook his head, but he said not a word. ‘What do you think, Moys ?” added the Regent, as he turned to Sir Hinckton. ‘*T suppose it’s a fact ?” said Moys. * Oh, no doubt of that!” ‘‘Then I would make a third at the interview.” ‘A third ?” “Yes, your Royal Highness, I would go my- self.” “What do you The lawyer shook his head. ‘Well, Scott,” cried the Regent, “ will nothing induce you to speak?” “Oh, yes,” said Moys; “I know what will!” Mr. Scott looked at him with surprise, “What?” said the Regent. ‘“‘ A heavy fee,” said Moys. The Regent laughed. “Since,” said Mr. Scott,—" since I have had the honour of being called in to advise his Royal Highness the Prince Regent, I have disregarded fees, and allowed my practice at the bar to be greatly invaded by my unprincipled competi- tors.” “Yes; but you expect the old King to die soon,” said Moys, coarsely; ‘‘and then you know that his Majesty George the Fourth, whom heaven preserve, will do his best to pave the way for your becoming Lord Chancellor.” Mr. Scott laughed. “Come, come!” said the Regent; “cease all this! One thing I must say, too, always struck me as particularly strange—and that is, that I never had two people at one time in whom I felt disposed to place any confidence, but they were sure to get. up a quarrel between themselves.” “T will never,” said the future Chancellor, ‘quarrel with your Royal Highness’s friends.” “‘Nor I, when I once know them,” said Sir Hinckton Moys, with a bow. “Well, well,” said the Regent, “let there, then, be an end of all that. What is to be done?—I want to know what’ is to be done; for it is evident to me that Charlotte is in love with this needy adventurer, Leopold.” ‘She cannot marry him,” said the lawyer. ‘‘ Perhaps that is to be lamented,” said Moys. “Ab, I have thought of a plaz.” THE DARK WOMAN. ‘What is it, Moys?” cried the Regent. “It is a hackney-coach, the letter says.” ‘Yes, yes !” ‘““Well, then, the coachman is of course ac- cessible to money. Now, I will go there before the hour that the Princess is to arrive, and I will bribe him to let me get on the box.” ‘* Well 2” “And when the Princess is in the coach with Leopold, I will drive them here to the garden of Carlton House. The private gate can be opened, and Willes can be on the look-out.” “Capital!” said the Regent. ‘And that will give me no tronble at ail.” j “Not the least.” “T shall not have to go out into the cold.” ‘* Not a step.” “But,” said Mr. Scott, ‘I doubt, you see, that the liberty of the subject is -———” “All fiddle-de dee!” cried Sir Hinckton Moys, ““where the tastes, the feelings, and the interests of his Royal Highness the Regent ‘are in any way concerned.” “That is a very proper sentiment, Moys,” said the Prince. The future Chancellor only bowed. “Then go and see to it,” added the Regent. ‘*T am resolved that this affair shall be put a step to. But it was not of this altogether that I wanted to speak to you, Scott, about.” “Tam all attention to your Royal Highness's commands.” “ Well, it is said that the Princess of Wales is at Ostend, and is about to come to England.” ‘‘T have heard so.” ‘And do you believe it ?” “Tt is probable. The alarming state of his Majesty's health may induce her Royal Highness Caroline of Wales to think that a coronation may not be distant.” ‘© Ah, that is it!” “Will your Royal Highness see her Royal Highness ?” “ Certainly not.” The Regent said these words in ss decided a tone, that any argument upon them, or doubt that he fully meant them, could not be thought of for a moment. Sir Hinckton Moys then rose, and making a low bow, he said, ‘‘I shall have the honour, then, of carrying out, with your Royal Highness’s per- mission, the little scheme I have suggested ?” “Oh, certainly; by all means.” Moys left the room, and was soon equipped in a rough overcoat and strong gaiters, to defend him, as well from the severity of the weather, as to the more effectually disguise him, in case any one connected either with the establishment of Carlton House or St. James’s Palace should see him. The Regent soon, then, dismissed his confidential legal adviser, the future Earl of Eldon, and with a cloul upon his brow sought the apartments in which Annie Gray ruled as a queen. The waywardness and wilfulness of this young girl, perhaps, tended more to attach the Regent to her than as if she had a mind composed of more stable materials. Annie was always making litile disturbances which necessitated little temporary reconciliations, and as there could be no denying that she was very beautiful, the fickle affections of the Regent did not as yet seem in any respect to be straying from her. “Oh,” said Atiiie, when she saw him, “here you are at last! Where is the sledge ?—where is it, Isay? Answer me at once!” “My dear Annie——” “Stop!” “Stop what?” “Don’t call me Annie! I will not be called Annie! You know you agreed what I was to be, and I will have my title!” “ Well! well !” “Tt is not well! I am a countess! No! Is it a marchioness or a countess ?” ‘s Whichever you please.” ‘A countess, then,” ** Very well.” “Ah! Now you are cross. I am the Countess de Blond, and you promised me a sledge, with eight ponies to draw it through the snow, and neither sledge nor ponies have been visible! What amItothink? I was to have had, too, a com- plete dress of Russian sables, and it was to be fastened by links, one of which was to be a ruby and the other an emerald. I gave you quite a long description of it only two days ago. Where is it, eh?” Annie accompanied this speech by various little pats on the face and on the top of the head of the Regent. “My dear Countess,” he said, laughingly, “ you shall have all you have mentioned; but, do you know, I have been so much annoyed lately.” “With me?” “Ob, dear, no!” “Then you have no business to be annoyed at all, George; and I won't have it!” “Well! well!” “ Oh, I forgot!” ‘“ What? Anything else?” “Yes, Did you send a thousand pounds to my sister, at Martlett’s Court?’ ** Now, Anni * ** Countess !” ‘‘ Well, then, Countess, I have not got a thou- sand pounds to send anywhere; and besides, although I have some dim idea that you did say something about wanting a thousand pounds sent to somebody, you never positively ordered it.” “But I do now!” “Very well.” “Send it, then.” te Bout——.”" Annie impatiently rang a bell. It was Willes who, with a low bow, appeared in answer to the summons, ‘Give him the money, George,” said Annie ; ‘‘ and tell him to take it at once, or I will never speak to you again from this moment.” The Regent laughed, and took a pocket-book from his pocket. * There!” he said. “One, two, and some small ones. Two hundred pounds, That is all I have.” “ Send that, then.” “Very well.” * Willes |” “Yes, Countess.” “Do you know Martlett’s Court 7” “No, Countess.” Stay! THE DARK WOMAN. 19? ‘You are an idiot!” The Regent laughed, “Tt leads out of Bow Street, where yon ought, you know, Wiiles, to be taken with chaing on you, and all that.” Willes made a wry face; and the Regent laughed more loudly. “Well, you will go there; and you will stop at No. 6; and go up to the top of the house, and ask for Marian Gray, and give her this money; and you won't say who it comes from, becanse— because Well, it don’t matter; but you will just leave it, and say not a word,” ** Yes, Countess.” ** Go, now.” Willes took the money, and left the room; but he guietly placed the notes in his pocket, and went to play a game at dominoes with one of the pages, without any more intention of troubling himeelf to proceed to Martlett’s Court, Bow Street, than to attempt a journey forthwith to the moon. And now we will follow the proceedings of Sir Hinckton Moys, who was about to carry out the advice he had given to the Regent in regard to the Princess Charlotte, and her lover, Leopold, who was to meet her so mysteriously at the corner of the Opera Colonade. The letter which the Regent had received was evidently in a female hand; and there can be little doubt but that there were various persons about the household of the Princess Charlotte of Wales, who were only too ready to give private information to the Regent concerning her. Sir Hinckton Moys made his way on foot the short distance from Carlton House, and he hoped to reach the corner of the Opera Colonade con- siderably before the time fixed for the appoint- ment. There was just a passing suspicion in his mind that the affair might be a hoax; and, in that case, he hoped that from some of the door- ways in the immediate neighbourhood to be enabled to make such observations as might save him from the disagreeableness of a laugh at his expense, Indeed, there was a faint idea agitated in the mind of Sir Hinckton Moys that his rival in the good graces of the Prince Regent, Colonel Hanger, might be preparing for him some little surprise upon this occasion. Sir Hinckton Moys had only ascertained the day previously that a certain Mrs. Fisher, who, was a relative—how near and in what capacity he could not tell—to Colonel Hanger, had keen appointed one of the tire-women, as they were called, to the Princess of Wales. Sir Hinckton Moys had not thought proper to mention this to the Regent. It was suflicient for him that, for the present, Colonel Hanger was in a species of disgrace, consequent upon his failure to rid the Regent of the Dark Woman; and although the Regent would have looked upon the fact of any relation of Hanger’s going into the service of the Princess as a sort of joining the enemy, so far as he was concerned, Sir Hinckton Moys thought he would keep the fact as a weapon against Hanger upon some future occasion. As Sir Hinckton Moys passed up Pall Mall all these thoughts and considerations crowded upon his mind; but they were soon set to flight by the necessity of immediate action and inime- diate caution, fiere was a hackney-coach at the corner of the Opera Colonade. But still this coach might or might not be the one in question, for that spot was the ‘common one in London at that period for assignatiers ; and nothing was more common than to see one, two, or three coaches there in waiting. The long covered way in front of the Opera House, and the narrow, gloomy passage behind it, which connects Pall Mall with Charles Street, made the place popular for the meetings of people who either would not, or could not, say their say beneath any particular roof. Sir Hinckton Moys was determined by- a bold stroke to ascertain who was the occupant of the coach which was driven close to the kerb-stone. He walked up to it without the least reserve, and tapped with his finger-nails against the glasa of the window. That glass was immediately let down; and Moys felt satisfied that it was Leo- pold, the then clandestine suitor of the Princess of Wales, who looked out upon him. “I believe, sir,” said Moys, in a feigned voice, ‘your name is Jackson ?” The window was dashed up again in a moment without a word of reply from Prince Leopold. Sir Hinckton Moys smiled, and walked right round the coach. His object was to hold some private conversation with the driver. This, however, would be very difficult to do, situated as the coach was, without attracting the observation of the Prince, who was within it. Unfortunately for the purposes of Sir Hinekton Moys, the front of the coach had just halted past one of the heavy columns which supported the front of the Opera House; and thus, while the body of the vehicle was in perfect shadow, the coachman and the horses were as well lit up as one of the indifferent oil-lamps of the period could achieve that object. But Sir Hinckton Moys was a man of observa- tion and resources. He was afraid each moment that the Princess might arrive, and that there would be no time to carry out the project he had conceived. There was but one mode of action which pro- mised a chance of success, and that he adopted. With extreme caution, he clambered up at the back of the coach, where, of course, he was free from all observation; and so, inch by inch, go to speak, in order to avoid any violent oscillation of the vehicle by his weight, he made his way on to the roof of it. The coachman had been waiting there perhaps half an hour; and that half-hour in the cold had by no means sharpened his faculties, so that Sir Hinckton Moys got quite up to him, and actually tapped him on the shoulder before he was aware of what had taken place. — The man gave asudden start, and nearly dropped the reins from his half-frozen hands. “Silence,” said Moys, ‘‘and your fortune is made!” f The coachman only answered by opening his | eyes much wider than usual, for he knew well already that he was on some mysterious errand ; and, therefore, anything a little more surprising still had not the same effect vpon him that it otherwise might. “Hold out your hand,” said Moys. “By hand ?” i e THE DARK WOMAN. pee y eg.? OE NN SA OR GGL LLIANLE A ON PARP A AN OL ANDERE ANS DEALING EYAL IRN AO APE ceil Speier “Oh, I see!” Sir Hinckton Moys had produced a guinea, and the coachman, nothing loth, held out his hand to receive it. ‘“One,” said Sir Hinckton Moys, as he placed the guinea in the expectant palm of the coachinan, “One, sir ?” “ Hold still. T'wo—three—four—five !” “Oh, my Jord,” said the coachman, “what am _ I to do?” “« Six—seven—eight—nine—ten !” “Tl do anything your worshipful majesty wants,” said the coachman. “Very well. I only want to give you a rest for about an hour. Leave your box, and make your way to the corner of Marlborough House ; wait there with patience, and the coach will be brought back to you.” “ Just so, your worship. I'll do it.” “Hold! Don’t get down that way. Crawl over the roof as I have done, and I will quietly take your place.” ‘“‘May I stay on behind, sir?” “ Certainly not.” “ Very good, sir.” . The coachman was as expert as Sir Hinckton Moys. He slowly crawled from the coach-box on to the roof of the vehicle; and although Prince Leopold, through the front windows of the coach, saw this was going on, he had not time to specu- late upon it before he saw, as he thought, the coach-~ man come back again and resume his seat. But he little thought it was Sir Hinckton Moys, a creature of the Regent’s, who now occupied that place upon the coach-box, and had him in his power. Sir Hinckton Moys was quite delighted at the success, so far, of his plans, and he waited with no small impatience for the arrival of the Princess Charlotte; for now he had no doubt whatever but the letter which the Regent had received was a perfect truth, and that this was a veritable assig- nation between the Prince Leopold and the Ke- gent’'s daughter. The cold was very intense, and Sir Hinckton Moys would gladly have backed the vehicle out of a cutting draught which came down the Haymarket, but that he feared to make any movement which might result in a discovery. Suddenly he heard the window on that side of the coach next to the Opera House let down sharply. He glanced down from the box on which he sat, and saw two females, muffled up in cloaks and hoods, at the door of the coach. That one of these was the Princess Charlotte, and the other prob:bly the tire-woman, who was the relative of Colonel Hanger, he had scareely a doubt; and. if any uncertainty upon the subject still lingered in his mind, it was quickly dispelled by the proceedings of Prince Leopold, who, stretch- | | door and jumped out on to the pavement. Thea one of the cloaked and hooded females— the shorter of the two—made a movement with her right hand as though she would stop him | from getting out, but he was already on the pavement, and the low bow he made at once | settled any question in Sir Hinckton Moys’s mind concerning the rank of the person whom he ad- dressed with such mute homage ing his arm out at the coach window, opened the — i THE DARK It was just that time of the evening when the streets are the clearest even of stragglers; for the theatres, operas, and houses of entertainment had not yet begun to send forth their audiences into the streets; but still, while this little scene was being enacted at the coach, several gentlemen, arm- in-arm, and evidently in a very lively condition, came strolling down the colonade. Their loud laughter and boisterous conversation sufficiently proclaimed the fact that they had dined, and had sallied forth, afier one of the carousals so common to the period, to seek for amusement in the streets. ; “‘ By Jove, my lord Marquis,” said one, * it was capitally done!” “Well,” drawled another, ‘‘I fancy it was. These common people are always complaining of | being cold; but I should think a house on fire ought to warm up a whole neighbourhood.” “Hilloa!” said the third. “ What's that? Found again! Tally ho! A coach! Two pretty women, I'll be bound; and I don’t see but one beau! What do you say, Sherry ?” “It'sa monopoly! Down with all monopolies !” ‘“‘ Bucks have at ye all,” said another. They all three made a rush towards the coach ; but Prince Leopold had handed in the Princess, although he had not time to get in himself; yet he stood with his back against the window, con- fronting the half inebriated gentlemen, who now had reached the spot. ‘* Hilloa, sir!” cried one. we are?” “No, sir,” was the reply; ‘but I have a hope that you are gentlemen; and if so, you will let me alone, as I am disposed todo you; but if not i Prince Leopold made a significant gesture, and lifted conveniently in sight the gilt hilt of a sword which he wore. ; “ Hurrah, my lord!” said one of the three “Tt’s better sport still! He shows fight! Now hark you, sir, we'll make terms with you! Let the fair lady give us a kiss all round, and then we're your humble servants, and you may go your way !” “Stand off!” said Leopold, as he half drew his sword. ‘‘The watch will surely protect me from men like you.” “Watch! watch!” cried Sir Hinckton Moys from the box, for ‘he was most particularly annoyed at the interruption, more especially as he well kiiew the three persons who occasioned it. ““ Why there’s that rascally coachman calling for the watch,” said one. ‘“ Pull him down. Spit him, Sherry—spit him! You scoundrel, how dare you ¢all the watch ?” One of the three brawlers clambered up on the fore-wheel of the coach, to pull down the supposed _coachman, and in a moment he was face to face ‘with Sir Hinckton Moys, who in a hissing whisper said to him, “ On private business of his Royal Highness the Regent, which you, my lord, it appears, impede.” “The deuce!” said young Lord Petersen, as he dropped from the wheel. “It's the same thing,” said Moys. “ Clear off, clear off! Come along, friends! I It’s all a By Jove, it's the “ Do you know who —that is, you know these people! mistake! Regent!” Clear off, clear off! } sume stupid German romances!” WOMAN, 199 This last word, whispered in the ear of his two companions, had all the effect desired, and they ran up the Opera Colonade in search of more con- genial adventures, leaving the Prince Leopold master of the field. The attendant that the Princess had brought with her had slunk back into the shadow of one of the columns at the commencement of thé affray,; but now that it was over, and just as Prince Leopold was stepping into the vehicle, she emergad, and coming up to the front of the coach, she looked up to Sir Hinckton Moys as she said, “Coachman, [ am to sit with you. Are you asleep to-night ?” “ Not a bit, my dear,” said Sir Hinckton Moys. ‘Come up !” ‘* How dare you ?” said the tire-woman, as, with the assistance of Sir Hinckton, she clambered up to the coach-box,—“‘ how dare you speak to me in such a way?” “I begs your pardon, marm,” said Moys, in a disguised, gruff tone; ‘‘ but I wasn’t half awake, and I almost forget now where to drive to.” “ Drive to, idiot? You know your're to drive nowhere at all; but you're to keep the coach quiet here, while Miss Green and Mr. Brown have a little chat.” ‘Oh, that’s it!” said Sir Hinckton Moys to himself. It took the Prince Leopold two hearty bangs of the door to get it close shut enongh to turn the handle, which was an awkward thing to do from the inside, Sir Hinckton Moys felt quite convinced that he had with him on the coach-box the very person of all others whom he would most have wished to see there—namely, the relative of Colonel Hanger who had gone into the service of the Princess Charlotte of Wales. That the Colonel had gone over to the enemy —that enemy being, according to all the friends of the Regent, either his daughter or his wife— was beginning to be pretty well known to all but the Regent himself; but this circumstance of the Princess Charlotte’s tire-woman being her con- fidant in regard to the assignation with the Prince Leopold, would be sufficient to set that matter in its true light at once. Sir Hinckton Moys was pleased accordingly. But he would have given a great deal if he could but have overheard the conversation that took place in the coach between the Prince Leopoid and the Princess of Wales. That conversation would not, however, have repaid him for the trouble of listening to it, even if he could have heard every word of it. The moment the door of the coach was fairly shut, the Princess spoke rather sharply and abruptly. ‘I think you might keep out of street quarrels, when you know that if I were once seen and known, I could never meet you again.” ‘My charming, Princess,” said Leopold; ‘let me assure you that I am the last person to get into quarrels or brawls of any kind, I[ trust I ain too prudent.” " Or too something else.” : “What do you mean, my adgrable Princess ?” “Oh, stuff; don’t go on in that way! You are always repeating something you have read out of _ of gold. 200 “Oh, no, no, no!” “But I say ‘oh, yes;’ and one thing I tell you again, if you have forgotten it, which is that I will not be contradicted!” “ Not for worlds.” ‘But you do sometimes in your nye way ; and I warn you that I won't put up with it!” *T am your humble slave.” “ You had better be!” “Tam, and ever shall be, give me leave to assure you, lovely Princess ” ‘é Silence!” The Prince was silent instantly; and the Princess then, in a sharp querulous tone, added, ‘‘They have been plaguing me to marry some- body, and I mean to say that I will have you.” “Oh!” * Silence!” A tap on the head with rather the hard top of a small flacon of scent, let Leopold know, and feel, too, that it was not his time to speak. “You must positively get yourself presented at Court, at once,” added the Princess. ‘There is to be a ball soon, provided the King is better.” ‘‘T have been speaking to the———” *€ Will you be quiet ?” ‘“* Hanoverian Minister.” ** Silence, I say! Do you think I came here to listen to you? No! I have my directions and orders to give you, and you must listen to them!” “T will—I do.” ‘You will get yourself presented, then, at the next levee, which the Regent, my father, will hold at St. James’s, and then you will get, of course, a . ticket for the Court ball should it take place. At that Court ball you will be introduced to Lady Charlemont, who, in turn, will introduce you to me, and then on the following morning I will tell the Regent that I have made up my mind to marry you.” “Oh, charming!” “Do you comprehend all that ?” “T do! Ido!” “‘T will have some one I choose for myself! I will not be dictated to! I will not marry any- body who is proposed to me! I will have my own way! I don’t care whether I like anybody or not! I won’t do what people want me!” “ How very right you are! How noble a sense of independence !” said Leopold. “‘ And if I thought for one moment,” added the Princess, her voice elevating to a half-scream,— ‘tif I thought for a single moment that you would ever presume to assert a will of your own, I would jump out of this coach, and never address another word to you while I live!” © would never be so presumptuous.” “Very welll Very well! There is a rouleau I think you said you wanted money ?” The Prince, without a word, pocketed the rouleau which was handed to him by the Princess Charlotte, and then he was just upon the point of saying something which he thought would be at ouce expressive of his devotion and submission, when the coach gave such a lurch forward, that the Princess was almost flung into his arms, “ What's that?” she cried. ‘' What's the meaning of that? ‘‘Mine Got!” said Leopold, as he at once re- lapsed from the tolerable English he ta into the patois of a German, THE DARK WOMAN. CHAPTER LIII. THE REGENT FINDS CARLTON HOUSE THE MOST DISAGREEABLE RESIDENCE IN ALL THE WORLD. Now Sir Hinckton Moys had just caught the few last words which had been uttered by the Princess in that high voice which sufficiently proclaimed the fact that that illustrious young lady had a temper; and he was afraid that the conference was about to cease, and therefore the necessity of immediate action was present to his mind, Sir Hinckton Moys fully expected that both Leopold and the Princess would make efforts to leave the coach so soon as they should find it in motion, and the only possible thing which he thought would prevent their doing so, would be to make that motion of the coach so rapid, that the danger of attempting to alight from it would be too great to undergo. Hence was it that Sir Hinckton Moys sum- moned all the means at his command to arouse the half-sleeping horses, and get them into a quick action. Sir Hinckton feared that the wretched whip the coachman had left him would be treated with the contempt it deserved by the miserable cattle that drew the hackney-coach, so, while he had been straining his ears to catch some words that might be uttered in the vehicle, he was at the same time preparing the means of progression. “What are you doing?” said the tire woman, with an asperity that would almost have become her mistress. “Oh, nothing, my dear!” “‘ How dare you call me your dear ?” ‘Oh, very well, you are not, then!” “T will make you suffer for this insolence!” _ ‘Very good.” “It is not very good. I will take your num- ber, and my cousin, Colonel Hanger, shall find you out, and punish you as you deserve!” “ Colonel Hanger did you say ?” “Tig. “ Oh, well, I am not afraid of him.” “ He will soon make you.” “ That will do, I think,” “ What will do?” — “Only this little arrangement. You see, my dear, that I have taken this gold scarf-pin out of my neck, and have, with some pains, succeeded in fastening it to the end of the whip-handle, so that it projects some couple of inches.” “ But what for, low wretch ?” “Why, you see, beautiful being, I have no faith in getting the horses even into a trot if I did not adopt some such mode of getting up an opinion in their minds.” ** An opinion ?” “Yes, that there was something more than usually spiteful and energetic behind them.” “* But 4. “There, you see !” ““Help! Murder!” Sir Hinckton Moys having completed his ar- rangements, never attempted to strike the horses with the whip, but he began saluting them about the flanks by sharp digs of the scarf-pin at the end of the whip-handle. arr fy ca SRR etn nian eS «heme A ee a be “ en ee s THH DARK WOMAN. The success was brilliant. The old coach-horses started wide awake in a moment, and then they made that sudden plunge forward which disturbed the equilibrium of the Princess. Charlotte, and caused her to fly, like some great bale of goods, right into the arms of the Prince Leopold. It was that sudden movement of the horses likewise which induced the cries of alarm which had come from the lips of the tire-woman on the coach-box. Leopold would fain have cried “ Help!” and “Murder!” both, if he had had the power so to do, for the Princess Charlotte had twisted one hand in his cravat, and had him almost at choking point. The coach dashed on. Sir Hinckton Moys freely administered his goad to the horses, and they, terrified at the new mode of inciting them to progress, broke into a strange, rambling sort. of step, which was almost a gallop. No. 26.—Darx Woman, gil Nie Ace LS FEELS CZ < -- PM ALD a J Tf oT (23 i ‘ S i S 7 “Stop! stop!” cried the tire-woman. ‘“ Stop! you are not to drive away. You low villain, you want to be the death of us all!” “Not at all,” said Sir Hinckton Moys, “for I should myself be involved in the general fate.” “Watch ! watch!” “* Be quiet.” “T won't. Watch! watch!” ““ Look out!” “For what? what now?” “If you say another word, I shall feel myself bound to run one of the wheels against the first post I can see.” “ No, no!” “But I say yes, yes; and the result will be a very curious and entertaining exemplification of mechanical philosophy—matter in motion—for away you will go off the coach-box.” “J won't speak.” “That is wise.” “But, oh! tell mé———" ear I een ret el fn nase tech hiseeeresing este caisiocies-aves~sanibdasini psa ehgenhceionecctmnts POTN a AN Re te a 202 * What ?” ‘‘ Where are you going ?” “To Carlton. House.” The tire-woman gave a scream, “There’s a nice post,” said Sir Hinekton Moys. “No, no! I am quiet—Iam quiet! I won't say another word!” “Hilloa! Driver! driver!’ cried Leopold now from within the coach—for by this time, as the Princess of Wales did not actually wish to strangle the man whom she had resolved to wed, she had let loose his cravat. ‘‘Hilloa! Driver! driver! Stop! What is all this?” The Prince Leopold succeeded in getting open one of the front windows of the coach, and tugged at the great coat which Sir Hinckton Moys wore. “‘ What is the matter?” said Moys. He gave the horses another ferocious progue with the scarf-pin as he spoke. “Stop! stop!” **T cannot.” “ Pull up,” “That is the same thing.” “What has happened ? want to get out. Stop! stop !”? “It is out of my power, sir; the horses are mad.” ‘* Mad 2” “Just so. going at ?” “Tt is dreadfal.” “You are right, sir. This is a sort of insanity that takes possession of English hackney-coach horses at times. Itis called the pointed madness.” “Throw them down.” “They won't fall. Horses never do fall when they are going at such a pace as this.” The coach was whirled along Pall Mall, while this colloquy was taking place, and in a few mo- ments more it turned into the park, to the great surprise both of the Princess and of the tire- woman. Sir Hinckton Moys had taken good care, how- Stop the horses—I The lady wants to get out. Don’t you feel what a pace we are ever, that all his minor arrangements should be | perfect, and the gates which conducted only royal carriages to the park, were opened for him. The low garden gate entrance to Carlton House was soon now reached. Willes was there, with a large old cloak of ‘the Regent's carefully wrapped about him, and the moment he saw the hackney-coach coming along at good speed, he ordered the gate to be opened. The successful Sir Hinckton Moys gave the horses a last dig with the scarf-pin, and they dashed through the gate on to the gravel path of the private entrance to the Regent’s abode. “Ah,” said the Princess of Wales, “I know where we are now!” “Where ?—oh, where?” asked Leopold. “At Carlton House!” Carlton House? The residence of your father, the Regent?” “Just so. It is all a trick.” “ A what?” Don’t keep speaking in that stupid way, pray.” There was a flash of lights, and Willes, who had thrown off the cloak, and Sir Hinckton Moys, who had dismounted from the coach~-lox, and taken off the great coat that disguised }nim, ad- vanced to the coach door. THE DARK WOMAN, ‘‘Who shall I have the honour to announce to the Regent?” he said, as he opened the coach door and made an ironical bow. “ The Princess Charlotte of Wales!” said that personage, as she alighted, witha look of anger that showed itself in every feature of her face. “Way for her Royal Highness the Princess Charlotte of Wales!” cried Sir Hinckton Moys. Leopold shrunk back in the coach. He had, perhaps, a faint hope that nobody would take any notice of him, and that he might be allowed to retreat along with the coach and the tire-woman. But he was mistaken. Sir Hinckton Moys still held the eoach door wide open, as he said, ‘I fancy there is another visitor to the Regent.” : z “‘No,” said Leopold. “* Yes,” said the Princess Charlotte. ‘I pro- pose to introduce to my father the Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg.” ‘* Good,” said Sir Hinckton Moys. Then in a loud voice he added, “I have the honour to an- nounce the Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg.” Leopold was very pale, but in obedience to an imperious command of the Princess he alighted from the coach. How this most extraordinary and enforced visit to the Regent would end he could not surmise; but that it might be very un- comfortable, he could very easily divine. The Princess Charlotte, however, appeared quite to have recovered her presence of mind. Like most of her family, she was not troubled with much sensibility or sensitiveness upon any subject, and now she was determined to—what shall we say ?—it is a common word to use in re- gard to a Princess, but we must use it. Her Royal Highness, then, was resolved to brazen it out. The situation was certainly a difficult one, and required the sort of mind that her Royal High- ness possessed, in common with most of her royal relatives, to 'earry off. As for the Prince Leopold, he seemed, as he entered that luxurious abode of the Regent, to be like one who left all life and hope behind him. The tire-woman, who was the cousin of Colonel Hanger, still sat on the coach-box, and thought it expedient now to indulge in tears. They were of the crocodile order of tears, though, and Willes only laughed as he heard the sort of howl with which they commenced. But no one paid any attention whatever now to this person, and she might have made her escape, but that her curiosity to know how the afiair would end, and an idea that the Princess would come back to the coach, soon possessed her. So the tire-woman-got off the coach-box, and as comfortably as she could, ensconced herself in- side the vehicle. uae There was a well-lighted and well-warmed hall or vestibule. There were two doors covered with crimson velvet, and studded with gold nails. Then there were two rooms opening the one into the other, and a door that opened from the second of them into a third, of smaller dimensions, and most luxuriously furnished. At the door of this third room stood the Regent, with a frown upon his brow, and his very lips pale with passion. sing . The Princess Charlotte fixed her eyes on her father, and never took them off his face for a moment, as she slowly advanced towards him. THE DARK WOMAN. 200 The Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg followed him a few steps in the rear. The Regent did not speak. The silence was most awkward and embarrassing, but it was broken by the Princess herself, who, turning to the Prince Leopold, took him by the hand and said, “Allow me to introduce to you the Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg.”’ Leopold took his cue from the Princess, and going forward a step, bowed down almost to his very boot-tops. é Now George, Prince of Wales, and then Regent of England, was, in all the outward observances of society, a gentleman, and probably he had already repented of exposing his daughter to all the ani- madversions upon her conduct, which, the expedi- tian of Sir Hinckton Moys, now that it was suc- cessful, was likely to bring upon her. The Regent then returned the bow of Prince Leopold, and while his face paled ali but one spot on each cheek, he said, ‘‘ This is so unexpected a pleasure, that I hardly know who most to thank for it.” Leopold muttered something that was perfectly unintelligible. The Princess spoke freely. ““T think,” she said, ‘“‘that I shall be able to explain all that may require explanation.” The Regent elevated one arm in an oratorical attitude, and was evidently about to say some- thing which he had thought of at the moment, and which was probably very cutting and sarcastic, when with a sort of rush that sufficiently betrayed the state of alarm and consternation into which the words he had to utter had thrown him, Willes darted forward, and nearly trod on the toes of the ~ Regent. . “Your Royal Highness— pardon me, your Royal Highness 4 ‘“‘ What on earth do you mean, fellow 2” “Her Royal Highness the Princess Caroline of Wales has arrived post from Dover, via Ostend, and is now at the gate.” “The Hem!” cried the Regent. “ My mother?” said the Princess Charlotte. “‘ Her mother!” gasped Leopold. The Regent turned slowly to Sir Hinckton Moys. He was ghastly pale, and his hands shook, as he said in a deep sepulchral kind of voice, that was heard distinctly in the midst of the general consternation of all about him, ‘Some brandy, Moyes.” The Regent then staggered rather than walked back into the room, to the threshold of which he had just come to receive his daughter and the Prince Leopold. Come!” said the Princess Charlotte, as she took Prince Leopold by the hand,—‘ come ! Follow me! It will be all well now. We will not be of my mother’s party, and, therefore, will be welcome to the Regent. Come!” Prince Leopold followed her into that third room, and the door was closed behind them with & sharp noise. CHAPTER LIV. THE DAY OF ALLAN FEARON’S HAPPINESS AND MISERY HAS ARRIVED. SEVERAL of those short,*sharp wintry days of that terrible season have passed away. They were days of unalloyed happiness to Allan Fearon, for they were those which, when once elapsed, would bring that hour when he would be united to Marian Gray, and a world of doubts, fears, and apprehensions would be at an end. There was poverty in prospect—there were difficulties, and, probably, a long and arduous struggle with the world, on the wide waters of which they were about to launch the shallon of their fortunes; but still the prospect was bright, hopeful, and cheering; and if the reader ‘will accompany us to the Church of St. Paul’s, Covent Garden, he will see, standing at the altar, on a most eventful Monday morning, a bridal party, in which he will feel deeply interested. The winter’s cold kept from the chill air of the church the usual straggling idlers from the market who were induced to make their way into the edifice when a wedding was in progress, so that Marian Gray and Allan Fearon were very much left to themselves on this important occasion of their lives. Marian had no bridesmaids. Alone, so to speak, this young and gentle girl stood at the altar by the side of him she loved. No fond mother, no loving sister had assisted Marian to make her simple preparations for that, her wedding day; and, perhaps, she had never before felt the loss of a mother’s love as she did on that day. How she yearned to lay her head on a mother’s bosom, and hear the half-whispered “God bless thee, my child,” for the last time; for henceforth she was to belong to him to whom she had given her heart’s best affections. But Marian’s was too well-regulated a mind to encourage reflections that must inevitably serve to depress her spirits, and she felt that already she owed a duty to him who was so soon to become her husband. His happiness depended upon her, and she must, therefore, be happy, or might he not think that she repented of the choice she had made ? True, there was one cause of sorrow in which Allan Fearon deeply sympathised with her; but Marian determined to remove all traces of tears before she met him who was indeed and in truth her heart’s idol. Again did Marian ask herself whether she was prepared to stand bravely by her Allan’s side, and fight with him the battle of life—whether she would, as cheerfully as might be, encounter the clouds that must at times obscure the fair horizon of their love—whether his approbation and his happiness would be her richest reward ? And unhesitatingly did her heart respond to these questions, “ Yes.” Dear Marian, surely heaven will help thee in these high and holy purposes? But now, as she stood before the altar, awaiting the arrival of the clergyman who was to maka her the happy wife of him she loved with such unutterable affection, a feeling, a foreboding of sorrow came over Marian, and she drew nearer ta 204 THE DARK Allan, as if the mere fact of knowing that he was by her side, would re-assure her. Vainly she strove to account for the feeling in the fact of the absence of Sister Annie, whom she now mourned as being worse than dead to her. She raised her gentle eyes, and encountered those of Allan fixed with so much tenderness upon her that she knew she was understood, and was, there- fore, comforted. And the officiating clergyman arrived, and Marian strove to banish every thought apart from the solemn ceremony in which she was about to take so prominent a part. Then the ceremony commenced, hands were joined, and vows were registered in heaven; and Marian felt that those vows must never be for- gotten, but ever be held as sacred as they now sounded. Marian Gray and Allan Fearon are now one, their lot in life the same, its joys and griefs to share. From that moment all objects seemed changed even in their outward aspect to Marian. A new existence had begun for her. The very air around her had a different feel, and she seemed as though she had started suddenly from one life to another that was full of new thoughts and im- pulses. Allan looked very, very happy. He bent his kind and gentle gaze upon Marian, and could truly have said, in the words of the poet, ‘* How can we ever be unhappy When heaven has given us faith and love ?” The clergyman closed his book. Marian rested fondly on the arm of her young husband, and then her eyes filled with tears. ‘Be happy, dear one |!” whispered Allan. Then they both looked up, for a strange noise was in the outer air; and a darkness, which had been, moment by moment, increasing in the church for the past half-hour, now became much more noticeable. ~The long ‘rost that had held everything in England im its icy clutch was giving way; but that giving way was preceded by a terrible down- fall of snow. It was the strange sound of the falling mass that made a murmuring echo in the church; and it was the lodgment of the frozen particles upon the windows that brought about the darkness that crept so slowly and surely over the interior of the sacred edifice. a “How dim and dark the air is, Allan,” said Marian. “ There is a storm without, dear one.” “It’s a-snowing,” said the beadle, “like one o'clock.” “ This way, if you please,” said the clerk of the church, as both Allan and Marian, in the dark- ness, were taking the wrong route out of the building. Then there was a loud, hoarse voice close to the entrance to the church. ““You keep the door, Mouldy,” it said. ‘This is a good chance, I take it, to get our man.” ‘“‘All’s right!” growled another voice. “ But, Mr. Lavender, you needn't have come. I could have gone and done this little job myself.” ‘Do your duty, Mouldy. I don’t want any remarks from you.” Mouldy growled out something then in a very WOMAN, dissatisfied tone; and the heavy tramp of some one in strong iron-clamped boots sounded on the pavement of the church. Marian shrunk back—she knew not why—-and clung in terror to the arm of Allan. “What is this?—what is this, Allan?” she said. “Nothing, dear one!—nothing! nothing to fear.” “No, no !—nothing !” Allan drew her arm closer within his own, and smiled with gentle confidence. ‘*Come, dearest, we will now go home!” “Yes, Allan; home !—home!” Oh! what a different sound that little word “home” had to Marian, in comparison with what it had ever had before. Now, it was a home to be shared with one whom she loved. For long it had ,been but a poor place of refuge from the elements; aud since the departure of her sister Annie it had not seemed like home.’ They moved gently towards the church door. The officer, Lavender, with his red waistcoat just peeping over his buttoned-up coat, and a small brass constable’s staff in his hand, advanced to meet them. ‘Allan Fearon!” he gaid. There was a something in the tone with which the officer spoke that struck a cold chill to the heart of poor Marian. Ske could not repress a cry of alarm. “Nay, dearest,” said Allan, “there can be no danger.” : “ Allan Fearon!” said the officer again. ** Well, sir 2?” ‘You are my prisoner.” “ Prisoner ?” ‘“Oh, heaven!—oh, heaven! what is this ?” said Marian. ‘‘ What terrible calamity is this ?” “Prisoner ?” cried Allan again. “Yes. Of course, you will not be so mad as to give me any trouble. My name is Lavender.” | We have “ But— but what? What? Sir, it is some | mistake! You cannot mean me!” “T mean Allan Fearon, clerk to Mr. Webber, gold lace manufacturer.” “‘T am that person.” “I know it; and I tell you you are my prisoner on the charge of burglary. Mr. Webber's premises have been robbed, and you are charged with the offence.” ‘* Robbed ? absurd !” I charged with robbery? Oh, “Very good, Now, young fellow, I will trouble | you to take my arm, and we can walk to Bow | — Street quietly together, you see.” Marian uttered a piercing cry, and clung | frantically to Allan. ** Oh, no, no! she screamed. Sir, sir! this is some terrible mistake! You see this is Mr. Fearon—Mr. Allan Fearon—my Allan —my husband; and he cannot be guilty! Sir, I am his wife—his own dear wife! He is innocent—indeed, and in truth he is! You will believe me, I am sure, and you will not have the heart to tear him from me!” The Bow Street officer shook his head. ‘It’s none of my doing, I can tell you. I have a warrant, that’s all I can say about it, and I must take my man.” Marian wrung her hands, and wept bitterly. * “Tt cannot be! | te et re ee te “Tfelt it! We were “T know it!” she said. too happy—by far too happy! It wastobe! It did not seem as if it could be! The blow is struck, the dream is over, and I am desolate !” ‘Dear Marian,” said Allan, “‘be composed. It is not the charge that makes the guilt. No one ean prove me guilty of that which never even entered into my imagination. This absurd charge will be soon disposed of, and all will be well again.” “ Ob, no, no!” “Nay, dearest, do not say no! heaven know my innocence !” “Alas, alas! my Allan, I have a thousand fears that are all the more terrible, because I do not comprehend them.” Allan drew her arm close in his; and, with a dignity that even had its effect upon the Bow Street officer, he said, “‘ Lead us on, Mr. Lavender. We will follow you.” é “There is no charge against the young lady,” said the officer. “ The young lady is my wife, sir,” said Allan. ‘“‘ Well, she can go home.” ‘‘ Here is my home,” said Marian,—‘ here, as close as possible to my husband’s heart!” Lavender felt quite puzzled at all this, for he had entered the church with a full conviction of the guilt of Allan Fearon. It seemed to him such an ordinary case. A clerk had robbed his master, that was all. But the manner and the words of Allan Fearon had made an impression upon him. Innocence, like truth, cannot be trodden out, although, for a time, it may be trodden down; and Lavender, in all his experience of the dark side of humanity, had never yet encountered one who was really criminal who looked and spoke like Allan Fearon. It was, perhaps, for this reason that he began to have perfect faith in Allan following him, and that he walked out of the church without doing more than cast, a casual glance bebind him as he said, “‘ Bow Street, if you please.” ‘‘ Have you nabbed him?” said Mouldy. ‘To be sure!” “‘ Lor’, Mr. Lavender, won't you put the darbies on him ?” ys fe ai “ Why, it’s capital, you know !” Mouldy made a significant gesture at the side of his neck, to indicate that it was a hanging matter of which Allan Fearon was accused. “ Silence!” said Lavender. ‘“' He will follow.” “ Well,” said Mouldy to himself, “there’s no end of wonders in this here world! And if he don’t cut and run like a stack of bricks so soon as we gets into the market, my name’s not Mouldy !” But to the intense astonishment of Mouldy, no such thing took place. Through the rapidly-descending snow—over the frozen ground on which the copious shower was beginning to lie thickly, went Allan Fearon, with his Marian on his arm, to confront a charge which he knew nothing of, but which, in its gigantic proportions a3 against him, was soon to strike him with terror and amazement. “Clear the way there!” cried Lavender, as they reached Bow Street, and became mixed up with the shivering throng of loungers about the police- office,—‘‘clear the way! Ah, Beard! how are you? Godfrey, keep the door clear!” I, you, and THE DARK WOMAN. nn rn net te ee a “A prisoner, Lavender, my boy?” said one of the officers, who was clapping his hands together to keep some life in them. “Yes, yes.” “What's the row 2” “Burglary.” “Oh! that’s it, is it? Sir Richard ig in a deuce of a temper to-day, I can tell you!” “Ts he?” ““Qh, isn’t he! Ha! ha! work of the cases!” All this cool professional talk was terrible to poor Allan to hear; but it was ten times more terrible to poor Marian, who seemed to read the condemnation of Allan in every countenance. Then Allan paused a moment at the door of the police-office, and spoke to her in a low tone of deep and powerful feeling—‘‘ My Marian, this is no place for you.” — ‘* Nor for you—nor for you, my Allan.” “But you see, dear, I am enforced to be here.” * And [!” “Nay; let me beg of you to go home and wait forme. This is all some mistake, which no doubt I can soon rectify. Go home, dear Marian, and expect me soon.” ‘Oh, no, no! with you—with you even There was so much manifest distress in her tears, that little as Allan liked the idea of her coming into the police-office, he had not the heart to urge the point further; and with a deep sigh, he only clasped her arm close within his own, and entered the dark, dingy police-oflice. Oil lamps were burning in all the passages, and all the little wretched rooms which branched from them, and in the court itself there was a tolerable light from a large iron lamp, which hung from the ceiling. That was the time when the now forgotten Sir Richard Birnie was a magistrate, and presided at Bow Street. He had been a Bow Street runner, and was promoted to the magisterial bench from an idea that such a man was the most fit for the situation, on account of his practice among malefactors of all kinds. Sir Richard was in one of his irascible moods that morning, by no means an uncommon state of mind with him; and the Janguage he was using was much more in accordance with his former position in life than his present one. There was a throng of about forty persons in the court, but Allan Fearon was too much occu- pied with the care of Marian to notice who they were. If he had so noticed them he would have seen several faces that were familiar to him, and he would much have wondered what the owners of those familiar faces could have to testify against him. He was only too soon enlightened on that head. - Sir Richard Birnie had just, in a summary manner, disposed of a case, by sending the prisoner to gaol for three months without any evidence at all, when Allan Fearon was brought before him. “ Hilloa!” he cried; ‘‘ what’s all this, eh? what is this ? what has this old gaol bird done, eh? [ know him well enough. JI have had you beforsa me often enough, young fellow, I fancy, eh?” “No,” said Allan Fearon. He is making short Do not ask me. ” I will stay a ie etree tt a a a ng pe Rl oe ee ee ee em 206 THE DARK WOMAN ‘“‘Do you dare to contradict me, you scoundrel ? Do you know who I am, ch?” ‘“* Yes,” said Fearon. ‘‘ You are a disgrace to the magisterial bench, I am sorry to say.” Sir Richard Birnie was struck dumb for a few moments with amazement, Was the world still in its accustomed position, and did no conyulsion of nature take place, when he, the great Sir Richard Birnie, magistrate of Bow Street, was told he was a disgrace? The turnkey looked pale and ghastly. The clerk got up and looked at the ceiling of the court, as if he fully expected it must now, as a matter of necessity, fall in and engulf in its ruins the audacious speaker. The silence was then broken by a roar from Sir Richard Birnie, whose inflated cheeks and purple-looking physiognomy gave sufficient in- dications of the storm of rage within. “Commit him! commit the villain!” he cried. ‘‘Make out his committal, the scoundrel! What is he charged with? Commit him at once! En- dorse the commital with the words ‘old.offender’ and ‘very bad case!’ You wretch! you scoun- drel! you—you—you Commit him at once!” Sir Richard leant back in his chair, and puffed like a grampus in shoal water. “ Before I am committed,” said Allan, “I de- mand to know of what I am accused, and to hear the evidence that can be brought against me.” “You demand? you demand, you villain? How dare you demand anything but the hangman and a well-greased noose, eh?” “Tf your worship pleases,” whispered the clerk. “What is it?” ““T humbly suggest to your worship that per- haps it would be as well to hear the evidence. Some of the judges are such prejudiced men, your worship, that they would think nothing of having this man, whom your worship so very pro- perly wishes to commit, brought up by habeas corpus before them, and then discharging him at once, if they found things were not regular.” “Ah!” “So I humbly suggest to your worship to hear | the case before committing him” ‘¢ Bring it on, then,” growled Sir Richard, as he sat fretting and fuming, partly with the pain of an attack of gout, and partly with rage at Allan on account of the answer he had made him. Then, to the intense surprise of Allan, Mr. Webber, his late employer, stepped forward, and looking rather nervous and agitated, beld a letter in his hand. “ What's that?” growled Sir Richard. ‘““Tf your worship pleases,” said Mr. Webber, “it is a letter I received this morning.” “ What's that to me?” “Your worship “Hold your tongue, sir!” The clerk now whispered to Sir Richard. “Tf you please, Sir Richard, that is the pro- secutor, and the letter is all azainst the prisoner.” | “Oh, why didn’t he say so? I thought it was | some ridiculous testimonial to character, or some stuff of that sort. Now, you sir; who are you, eh? Swear this man!” Mr. Webber was duly sworn, and deposed as f>llows :—“ This morning, on going to my place ‘of business, I received this letter, which, if your worship pleases, I will read to you.” “Very. well; go on.” Mr. Webber read as follows :— és SIR, p> “T beg to inform you that you are being robbed by your clerk, Allan Fearon, and that he has stolen from your warehouse a glass jar full of gold spangles, which you will find concealed in the chimney of his room at No. 4, Long Acre.” “Ts that all the letter?” said the clerk of the court. “Yes; that is all!” “What did you do then?” “T called in Mr. Lavender, the Bow Street runner.” “Very proper—very proper.” “‘ And he said he would go at once to the. place mentioned, and search.” ‘“'T'o be sure,” cried Sir Richard Birnie; “ and there he found the property, and you swear to it? A clear case! The prisoner shall be committed for trial, and will be hung in due course! It’s stealing in a dwelling! Felony !—capital felony, by law! Ha! ha! I think, my fine fellow, we have got you now. Ha! ha!” Allan looked confounded. Marian clung to his arm with cries and screams of consternation. ‘‘Mr, Webber,” said Allan, “ will you allow me to speak to you?” 66 Yes.” “No,” roared Sir Richard Birnie. “‘ But I will, sir,” cried Allan, in a voice that rang through the court. ‘‘ I claim my right to ask what.questions I please of those who come here to give evidence against me.” ‘You scoundrel !” “Your worship! your worship!” whispered the clerk, —“‘ if I might advise your worship, I wonld let him speak. Give him rope enough—rope enough! Ha! ha! your worship—rope enough, you know.” “Well! well!” ‘“‘ Prisoner, you may speak.” “T do not thank you,” said Allan, “for the permission ; but, Mr. Webber, I would ask you if, from what you know of me, you really believe that I have robbed you?” . The gold lace merchant shook his head, “I can only say that the spangles are mine.” ‘“‘ Where are they, sir?” ‘“‘ Here,” said Lavender, as he took from Mouldy the identical jar of gold spangles that Binks had stolen from the warehouse of Mr. Webber’s, and then hidden in the chimney of Allan Fearon’s | apartments in Long Acre. “And,” said Allan, “did you really, Mr. | Webber, find those ornaments in my apartment ?” ‘1 did,’ ‘t Good heavens !” ‘‘And I was there, likewise,” said AYER GOR “ and saw them found.” Allan clasped his hands over his face for a moment or two, as though by shutting out. ex- ternal objects he would be able to find some clue | to the terrible mystery that was enveloping him in its fearful folds. by “ Ah,” said Sir Richard Birnie, ‘ we shall have it all out now. He will confess in a moment.” “ Allan! Allan!” sobbed. Marian, ‘you are THE DARK WOMAN. 207 innocent—you are innocent! ‘Trust in heaven, which knows your innocence !” “Yes,” said Allan, as he looked proudly though sadly about him. ‘Yes, I am innocent, and I will and do trust in heaven.” “You can put on the depositions,” said the magistrate, “that the prisoner admitted his guilt.” “No; that would be a lie,” said Allan. For a moment Sir Richard Birnie looked as if it would give him infinite pleasure to hurl at Allan’s head the leaden inkstand which was be- fore him, “T deny,” added Allan, ‘in the most emphatic manner, all guilt. I have no knowledge what- ever how those gold spangles came to be in the place where I cannot say they were not found. They have been placed there by some enemy of ' mine, in order to ensure my destruction. Ah! yes; I have an enemy!” “Stuff!” said Sir Richard Birnie, “Is the _ committal made out, Mr. Green ?” ““Yes, your worship.” “Then take him away. Call the next case. The sessions are on, and you will dangle, young fellow, this day week, as sure as my name is Birnie. ° There was a rapidity of dramatic action about this whole affair, which was so perfectly bewil- [ dering to Allan Fearon and Marian, that they may be well pardoned for more than once doubt- ing its reality. So great a change had taken place from all the hopes and aspirations that had arisen in their minds, as they stood at the altar to plight their faith to each other, that it necessarily required time before they could realize and acknowledge the change as a fact. Poor Marian felt mentally stunned, as she might be physically by some wound, the full pain of which does not present itself until the nervous system has had time to recover from the first shock. It was with an instinctive sort of feeling that she clung to Allan; and as she did so she looked about her from face to face of the persons in that crowded court, for now a number of idlers had strayed in, and she would scarcely have been sur- prised had they all faded away, and she had found herself at home with her husband of an hour. But, alas! all this was too real. There was the bloated, incapable, and angry magistrate—there was the surprised and -half- regretful Mr. Webber—there were the Bow Street officers, indifferent as men must be who are ac- customed to such scenes every day of their lives, and to whom it was a matter of perfect indiffer- ence whether the accused person were guilty or | not. “Take him away—take him away! case!” roared Sir Richard Birnie. “One moment,” said Allan Fearon—and the tone of mingled sadness and dignity with which he spoke, commanded attention,—“ one moment, I pray you; for it shall not be said that with what looks but a feeble denial of my guilt I neyo | allowed myself to be hurried from this preliminary tribunal to one of a more fearful character. I am | innocent of this charge; and if this were my | latest breath, I would go with those words upon my lips into the presence of heaven. You, Mr. Webber—since the glittering property which has Next been found in my humble home, is yours,—you, Mr. Webber, are my prosecutor, and to you I appeal.” Mr. Webber made a gesture as though he would rather not hear what Allan had to say. “Nay, sir, 1 must speak. 1 have served you for some time, and faithfully. In the midst of property which lay portable and handy to my touch, I have never had a thougi.; of wronging you. I will not say that I resisted temptation, for temptation it was none to me; but here, sir, I declare, as I have to answer to my Maker, and you to yours, that I am innocent of this charge made against me. It may be that I may go to condemnation, and from that to death; but with this solemn declaration ringing in your ears, I ask you, sir, to pause.” “ Bow-wow-wow!” said Sir Richard Birnie ; ‘it’s no use his pausing. ‘The case is out of his hands; it’s in those of the law now, and a good job too. Take him away, officers, and call the next case; we’ve had quite enough of this.” “ Now, young fellow,” said one of the turnkeys, as he placed his hand upon Allan Fearon’s shoulder. 3 ov nd “ Where ?” said Allan. “To Newgate.” Marian uttered a cry of despair, and fell sense- less to the floor of the court. CHAPTER LV. SHOWS THAT NEWGATE HAS TERRORS FOR THE INNOCENT AS WELL AS FOR THE GUILTY, TuHat night the innocent Allan Fearon occupied a cell in that gloomy prison, which rightly enough should strike terror into guilty bosoms, but which, it is sad to reflect, has too often enshrined inno- cent hearts, which should never have crossed its gloomy threshold. And who will say that the consciousness of in- | nocence disarms oppression of all its pangs? Better, no doubt, is it to suffer than to inflict; but if there be anything which can add to the bitterness of undeserved pangs, surely it must be that we should legitimately and properly escape all such suffering, and not that it properly follows our evil deeds. There was a sensation at the heart of Allan Fearon as though it would burst its confines. Ha felt at times as though with his unaided hands he could tear down the cold strong walls that sur- rounded him. And what hope had he of a release from the entanglements that surrounded him? Who would step forward to aid him? Where had he means to fee expensive advocates? and if he had pos- sessed such means in abundance, could all their eloquence dissipate the diabolical plot which had been concocted for his destruction. Alas! no. Allan Fearon is in the tvils, and higher powers than those that can be invoked by human beings must save him. : And Marian was desolate, The bright vision of the future had passed away, like an exhalation of the morning, leaving nothing but the rigid present to gaze upon. Pane THE DARK WOMAN. But after the first burst of grief and consterna- | is some mistake—some fearful error. Perhaps tion was over—after she had told herself how lonely she was, and had cleared her heart and brain of those tears and sighs which were the natural result of such a blow of fate, Marian’s practical good sense and courageous spirit as- sumed the ascendancy. It was no time for weeping and for wailing— no time for a wringing of hands, and a shedding of tears. A question practical and urgent pre- sented itself—what could be done for Allan Fearon ? That was the question. That he was innocent was a thing of course, and that he was entangled in the meshes of some plot, a hint of which she had already received from Sixteen-stringed Jack, was evident enough. At the first sight this seemed a hopeful proposi- tion; but, upon further consideration, Marian felt that it was a disastrous feature in the case. Had this accusation been made against Allan Fearon because those who made it thought him guilty, an analysis of the circumstances might have shaken that belief, or some events might have proclaimed the guilty person. But being the victim of a plot, it was only too evident that the pursuit would not be for truth, but for vengeance. Still Marian was determined to adopt some course which might promise good results; and with her hands clasped, and stemming the tears which were ever ready to well up from her heart, and controlling those emotions which would have weakened her judgment, she set herself seriously to think what she could do. Her first thought strayed to Sixteen-stringed Jack, from whom she would have hoped to hear more at length the grounds of the warning he had given her, but where was she to find him? She had neither seen nor heard anything of him since he had evaded the pursuit of the officers by step- ping out at the attic window of her apartments. “T must—I will do something!” she said. “ Tnaction will kill me! I have a right to ask for information! I have a right to remonstrate! I have a right to defend Allan, for he is my husband!” It was then that Marian hastened from her humble home, and made her way to Mr. Web- ber’s. The gold lace merchant was made aware of her ; presence, and met her shrinkingly. There was a vague suspicion in his mind that all was not right. He could not forget that Sir Hinckton Moys had made some curious inquiries concerning Allan Fearon; and the expression of Sir Hinckton Moys’s eyes while making those inquiries, was one difficult to forget. But still there was the fact, he had been robbed. The property was his which had been found in Allan Fearon’s room; and although there was the dreamy idea in his mind that he was an accom- plice—although an unconscious one—in some ter- rible act of oppression, yet his trading instincts warned him on which side his interest lay. Mr. Webber then assumed an air and manner as if he were a greatly injured man; but it was difficult to support such a character before the pale face and earnest eyes of Marian. “ Sir,” she said, ‘I am come to tell you that it is impossible Allan Fearon can be guilty. There sete rr tne NN tt heart, sir, against my words. worse than an error.” “Come, come,” cried Mr. Webber, ‘that’s ali of no use to me. I can’t interfere. The law is the law, you see, and the affair is quite out of my hands.” “ But, sir p ‘Excuse me, young woman, I’m busy.” »““ Not so busy, sir, but that the good name—>per- haps the life—of one who has served you well may claim your attention. Harden not your Be not callous.” “There, there!” interrupted Mr. Webber; “just what I expected. I’m robbed first, and abused afterwards! , Hard-hearted and callous! a brute and a beast! and all that sort of thing! Of course, I fully looked for this! Here, Johnson, show this young person the door!” “Tt is enough, sir,” said Marian. “I appeal to you no more. But there is One above us!” ‘‘ Hurrah!” cried Mr. Webber. ‘“ That’s it! I suppose I’m to be consigned now to heaven knows where, because I don’t burst into tears of sympathy with somebody who’s robbed me? Here, open the door, some of you! And count over those bullion tassels at the corner of the counter ! There should be twelve.” , The look of scorn and indignation that flashed from Marian’s eyes, as she recognised in these words that the bullion tassels might have been in danger from their close proximity to where she stood, so abashed Mr. Webber that he made a precipitate retreat. Marian did not wait to be shown to the door, but slowly and sadly left the gold lace ware- house. There was no hope for her there. And what next was she to do? To whom could she appeal? Alone now in all the world, to what friend could she turn for counsel and sup- port? In the nipping and bitter cold of that winter’s day, Marian felt it hard indeed to preserve suffi- cient strength of mind for action, if any action remained by which she could benefit Allan _ Fearon. Thus it was rather mechanically than with any intent to do so, that her footsteps wandered east- ward—eastward, towards that gloomy fortress- like prison, in which Allan Fearon lay, the victim of another’s crime. And poor Marian reached the stony walls of Newgate, and as the drifting snow-shower fell thick and fast, she beat at the low wicket door which probably had witnessed more tears, and heard more sobs and sighs, than any other portal in mighty London. “Hilloa! What now?” was the surly response of the gruff turnkey. ; ‘‘T wish to see one who is here.” “Oh, you do, do you?” ‘Yes, if I may be permitted.” “To be sure. Nothing more easy. You've © only got to. knock, and it’s all right.” “Oh, thanks, thanks—many thanks !” “Don’t mention it. Who's the cove? Is it Bill Smithers, the magsman ?” ‘*No, no! Allan Fearon, who is so innocent— so entirely innocent.” ‘‘In course! We never has any guilty peopl« here: they’re always took up on suspicion, but RE DO A AE THE DARK WOMAN. i ie ‘u i, | ( 3 t somebody else always did it, tobacco about you?” “Tobacco? No. I'm sorry * Marian had an idea that, from the man’s manner, tobacco was a kind of propitiatory article at the door of Newgate, “You haven't? Well, that’s right. you sees, it isn't allowed. sperrits 2?” “Qh, no, no!” “Good again! ’Cos they aintallowed. You're a uncommon nice young woman, you are; and as you haven’t got any tobacco or sperrits, you may come again to-morrow. “ To-morrow 2” “Oh, it’s optional—quite optional.” The turnkey turned away from the wicket, and the roar of laughter that arose from the officer and his comrade in the hall, let poor Marian see . No. 27.—Dark Woman, Have you got any Because, Have you got any eee 209 ce Wi ll, — MiMi pei that she had been made the victim of a stock practical joke on the part of the officials of the prison. Marian shuddered as she descended the steps, and once more in faint wailing accents she asked herself what she could do. Nothing—nothing ! Faint and weary, she sat down on those old worn steps, and the snow fell about her. i * * How different were the passions and feelings which the arrest of Allan Fearon had evoked in that gloomy mansion in Frith Street, Soho, where resided the Dark Woman! It was she who had set in motion the terrible human machinery which was to crush those young and gentle hearts; and all for what? Ambition ! Revenge ! 210 Those were the twin, feelings which actuated | that mysterious personage in all her actions, and made her close her eyes to the sufferings of the innocent and the good. It was at that very moment when poor Marian sunk half-fainting on those dismal steps of New- ’ gate, and while the cold snow-flakes seemed emulous of wrapping her ina wintry shroud, that the Dark Woman stood in that vast apartment in Astorath’s mansion, and expected a visitor. Hermetically sealed as was that room against any wandering ray of daylight, or the least glimpse from the glimmering lamps that shone in the street without, it seemed vast in its propor- tions, because the eye could never define its limits. The darkness did not seem like a negation, but something in itself black, heavy, and opaque. It was a darkness to be felt—not an atmosphere de- prived of light merely; a darkness which seemed to roll about in huge, shapeless masses, as though it would overwhelm the senses of those who stood amidst its profundity. And there stood Linda de Chevenaux. There she stood, waiting a visitor; and ever as she strained her sense of hearing to listen to the sounds of his approach, she would mutter to her- self her dreamy thoughts. “Nearer and nearer still,” she said,—“I am approaching nearer still to the fruition of my hopes. I want but one touch at the clue that will lead me to the knowledge of all I wish to know; and ; this man, Sir Hinckton Moys—whom I have helped to revenge—will surely give it me. Ah, I hear the signal! My visitor approaches !” There was a faint tinkling sound of a bell— the secret of ringing which was only known to those in the habit of visiting the house of the as- trologer. Then came the heavy sound of the closing of a door, as it was opened and shut by the mecha- nical means long used by Astorath, and which had been easily discovered by the Dark Woman, and communicated by her to the page, Felix. It was Willes, the Regent’s valet, that she had sent for; for he was to be the means of communi- cation between her and Sir Hinckton Moys, Willes never approached that house in Frith Street without some superstitious emotions; and ever since the Dark Woman had had suflicient confidence in him to avow that she and Linda de Chevenaux were one and the same person, Willes still had. serious doubts whether she were not Astorath and several other persons as well. The credulous and superstitious principle in his mind invested her with many strange powers, and as he followed the star-light which as usual led him up the staircase, that mysterious residence had lost nothing to him of its supernatural terrors. “*He comes—he comes!” muttered the Dark Woman. ‘He comes; and I will send by him a message, that will content the man who is to serve me. Oh, how I rule these puppets to my purposes! With what shallow motives do I urge them on to serve me! What small ambitions ac- tuate them! He comes! he comes! I can hear his footsteps.” Willes approached that apartment where he was always so full of terror, from the idea that in the midst of its intense darkness, he might be, although unknown to himself, in very close com- THE DARE ete WOMAN. panionship with some of those terrible beings which he was firmly convinced Astorath had at his command. ‘*Appear! appear! appear Woman, in a deep, hollow voice. “No, no!” cried Willes. ‘“ Indeed, I do not wish—I have no desire that anything should appear. I haxe come in obedience to a message.” “Tt is well.” ‘‘ Ah! now I feel more at ease, since, Countess, I fancy J can recognise your voice.” You are right.” “Tf you would, however, be so good as let me seé you, madam, somewhere where there is light——-” “No, no!” “T bow, then, to your wishes.” “There is no time for light,” added the Dark Woman. ‘There are those sights to see which would frieze your mortal blood to ice.” ““Good heavens !” “ And frieze with terror your very brain, until it was nothing more than a globule of inert matter, intersected by thin red rivulets that had once been blood, but were the glossy products of congela- tion.” “Oh, spare me that!” said Willes, who had but a very indistinct idea of what was threatened, but who had no doubt, from the character of the lan- guage used, that it was something very terrible. - “ You are spared.” “J thank you. Ihave no desire to look upon such fearful sights.” “Tt is well.” ** Hem!” said Willes now, after a pause. were good enough to send for me.” “1 did send for you. I have a message to that man who came here on the errand you know of.” “To Sir Hinckton Moys eT “ven so.’ ‘“‘T will faithfully deliver it.” “Of that I am assured. You can tell him that the person on whom he would be avenged is now within the walls of Newgate, on a charge which affects his life.” “* He will be pleased to hear that, madam.” ** And you can tell him that the time has now come when I claim from him the fulfilment of his promise; for I still hold, and shall hoid, even until the last moment, the power to undo all that I have done, and to save the victim of the price he withheld.” “* T will tell him all that.” “Tt is well, And now have you aught to say to me?” “Nothing, madam, that need interest you much.” “ Be it of interest, much.or little, I will hear it.” “Then, madam, it is said that His Majesty the King is very much better, and that all the fears and—and—the if ‘“‘ Hopes——” “Well, madam, I fancy I may say hopes that he would not last the week out, have come to an end. Some crisis in his disorder has taken place, and the physicians say that as there is nothing specially the matter with his general health, ha may live for five or six years yet.” “Well, it may be so.” « But his Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, madam, has been in great perplexity.” {? said the Dark “You ee tne eee! TAR DARK WOMAN, ‘“‘ Ah, speak of that!” “T will tell you. It appears that some one had told his Royal Highness that the Princess Char- lotte was to meet some one by appointment at the Opera Colonade; and he sent Sir Hinckton Moys to see who it was.” “T can guess.” ‘Well, madam, I daresay your guess is the exact truth, for it turned out to be the Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg.” “T knew it.” “Sir Hineckton Moys, madam, succeeded in bringing both the Prince Leopold and the Princess Charlotte to the Regent’s apartments at Carlton House.” ‘Tt must have been skilfully done.” “Tt was; but Sir Hinckton Moys is just the kind of man for such an adventure.” ‘And what was the result ?” “Why, at first it seemed as if there would be rather a violent scene between the Regent and the Prince Leopold; but there suddenly arose a circumstance which altered the state of affairs.” ““ What was that ?” “The sudden, most unexpected, and most unwelcome arrival from the Centinent of the Prin- cess Caroline of Wales.” “ Ah, indeed! The so-called wife of the Regent, and the heiress presumptive, after George, Prince of Wales, to the British crown! Ha! ha!” “Just so, madam. And then it appeared that they all made terms together against what they considered to be the common enemy.” ‘Meaning the Regent’s wife?” “ Just so, madam. And I fancy that ultimately the Regent will give his consent to the marriage of his daughter with the Prince Leopold.” The Dark Woman was silent for a few mo- ments, and then she said abruptly, “‘ Where is the Princess Caroline of Wales now ?” “At Buckingham House, madam.” “Then she did not stay at Carlton House with the Regent ?” “Oh, no, no!” “Tt is well. Take my message to Sir Hinckton Moys, and tell him that the law is prompt and sharp, and that unless he would still see the person escape who is in its toils to please him, he must, too, be prompt and sharp in bringing to me the information I require at his hands.” “T will, madam, be assured.” ““You can go.” Willes was only too glad to get out of the room, and free from the house. ‘There had been a something about the tone and manner of the Dark Woman on this occasion which had alarmed him much ; and, moreover, she had not given him anything, as she had done on other occasions ; and notwithstanding that he had already profited by acting as her spy and informant of what had happened in the Palace, Willes’s cupidity was in- satiable. Probably enough the Dark Woman had divined this feature in the character of Willes, and felt that it was by that tenure that she held his ser- vices; for in the long, gloomy passage of the house, where the star-like light was guiding him to the door, was Felix, the page. In a strange, faint voice, which sounded as if it came from far off in the air, and the art of assuming which the Dark Woman had taught to cnet ae sean nt Nar ce ne eI I AE A A Sh 211 the young girl who had played the part of a page to her, Felix spoke: ‘‘ Mortal, pause! The spirits of the earth and air have a command !” Willes stopped abruptly. He felt a new terror take possession of him. “‘ What—what is it?” ‘‘A command from her who holds our wills in bondage, It lies at your feet.” Willes heard something fall close to him. It was a something that made perhaps the sort of noise that a small pebble might make if dropped upon the boards of the passage. The idea took possession of his mind in a moment that it was something of value, and all Willes’s fears were for the time subject to his in- tense desire to possess himself of the object, what- ever it was, that had fallen close to his feet. He stooped, and soon laid his hand upon it. “T have it,” he said. “Tt is well,” replied the voice. The door was opened at the same moment, and Willes passed out into the street. The door closed immediately behind him. Wiiles ran to the first lamp he could see, and held up the object he had picked from the floor of the passage. Ah, yes, it was a jewel. “A valuable amethyst!” he said to himself, as, with eager eyes, he watched the sparkle of the precious stone. “She. is liberal—most liberal!’ he muttered. “T care not if these rich and precious gifts come from the air, or the earth, so long as they come into my possession. I never thought, for such light and easy services, to procure such rich re- wards.” Willes hid the jewel carefully in his pocket, and made what haste he could through the snow to the Palace. Sir Hinckton Moys, owing to the clever manner in which he had managed the affair at the Opera Colonade, had quite established himself in new favour with the Regent. Colonel Hanger, too, was as completely out of that favour, since Sir Hinckton Moys had made the tire-woman, who was the Colonel’s relation, come into the hall at the garden entrance of Carlton House, and confess to the Regent that she was employed, at the instigation of Hanger, about the person of the Princess Charlotte, in opposition to the views and interests of him, the Regent. But Willes had stated nothing but the truth when he had said that the appearance of the “common enemy,” as she was called—aamely, the Princess Caroline of Wales—had had the effect of reconciling the Regent to his daughter. There would, no doubt, have been a scene at the Palace but for that opportune arrival. But no sooner did the Regent find that his wife was in England, than he became anxious to de- tach from her her daughter, the Princess Char- lotte. That he could only do by allowing that young lady to have her own way. Now, the Princess Charlotte perfectly well knew that her mother wanted her to marry into her own family, where there were several expectant young men who would have jumped for joy at the idea of effecting an union with a Princess of Eng- land. But since her Royal Highness had made up 212 her mind that she would have no one but Prince Leopold, she was estranged from her mother’s views and counsels. The Regent then saw at once that he had but to consent to that marriage, and ke would have his daughter of his party. Hence it was that the very circumstance which at first sight had threatened to produce a serious quarrel between the Regent and the Princess, was the one which patched up all their quarrels. All this, then, took place on that same night the events of which, as now we have given them in brief, after the arrival of the Princess Caroline of Wales at Carlton House, we need not trouble the reader with in detail. Suffice it to say that the Princess Caroline re- tired to Buckingham House, and that the Regent made peace with his daughter, and promised to hold a levee soon, in order that the Prince Leopold might be favourably received. Sir Hinckton Moys at once took credit both with the Regent and the Princess. To the former he expressed how clearly he had obeyed his order. To the latter he whispered that he had felt quite certain all along that by bringing the Prince Leopold to the Palace all would end well; and he more than insinuated that the whole affair, on his part, was an act of the purest kindness and bene- volence. The Princess may or may not have believed him, but she smiled in acquiescence, and from that moment she got rid of the troublesome advocacy of a man who was then pushing his fortune in any way he could, and who was looking out for some popular cause to espouse—the Regent's, the Princess Caroline’s, or the Princess Charlotte’s— it did not matter which, so that it gave him the opportunity of speech-making. That man was a young Scotch advocate of the name of Brougham. Willes, then, to return to the thread of our story, when he reached the Palace, after his interview | with the Dark Woman, sought out Sir Hinckton Moys, and found that he was paying his court to no less a personage than Annie Gray, or Corntess de Blonde, as she called herself. Since the sort of compact that these three per- sons, Willes, Sir Hinckton Moys, and Annie Gray, had made with each other, Moys was often in the private apartments of Annie. She found the alliance a capital one for her in- terests, and whims, and fancies. It worked in this way. Whatever the Regent promised her, and which he either repented of or forgot, she spoke of to Sir Hinckton Moys, and he procured it at once, on the credit of the Regent, whose debts, at that period already enormous, were increasing day by day. Annie, therefore, was pleased, because she was gratified in all her expensive fancies. The Regent was pleased, because he no longer had to encounter the constant reproaches which she had been in the habit of casting at him, for unfulfilled promises. And Sir Hinckton Moys was pleased, because he was all the more firmly established in his place at Sourt, by being the favourite of the favourite. But Willes did not think proper to let Annie Gray know anything of the connexion he had with the Dark Woman, so he waited until he could get » THE DARK WOMAN, Sir Hinckton Moys to himself, before he delivered his message to him. Sir Hinckton Moys listened with pleasure to the communication which assured him of revenge against Allan Fearon; and there was a scowl of triumph on his face, as he heard Willes say, ‘She puts you in mind that the law is prompt and sharp; which means, I fancy, that it is quite pos- sible this man who has offended you may be hanged next Monday.” ‘‘Next Monday?” said Sir Hinckton Moys,— “hanged next Monday? Why, that is well!” “But she says that you must keep your word with her.” “T will—I will! So far as Ican, Iwill! I will do all Ican, be assured.” Willes shook his head. “What is the matter?” asked Sir Hinckton Moys. ‘You shake your head as if there were something amiss.” “TI am afraid.” “ Of whom ?—of what?” ‘‘T am afraid that doing all youcan will fail to satisfy Astorath.” “Ah!” “No; that will not do. You will have, Sir Hinckton, to do not only all you can; but what- ever that is, you will have to see that it is all Astorath wants.” ‘That is perplexing.” ‘““It may be so; but you may be quite assured of one thing, and that is, that if Astorath has succeeded in placing Allan Fearon in Newgate, he will so manage as to get him out again, if you do not to the full perform your part of the con- tract.” Sir Hinckton Moys looked angry. And here it must be borne in mind that Moys was kept in the dark both by Willes and by Linda de Chevenaux in regard to who she really was. Sir Hinckton Moys, up to that time, and beyond it, thought he was in treaty with Astorath the astrologer. Had he been aware that it was the Dark Woman herself he was acting for, he might have thought over the matter more seriously, an4 perhaps considered that to betray her to the Regent would be a better, safer, and more profitable game than keeping faith with her. There was such a thing as paying too higha price even for the revenge he coveted to have against Allan Fearon. But he was not placed in that predicament; and after a pause, he said, ‘‘ Well, well, Willes, it is quite clear that you are in the full and complete confidence of the astrologer, and you may assure him that I will procure the information he wants, which I feel certain is in the possession of the Regent.” ‘*That is all well.” “ But it may be a day or two.” ‘Oh, there is nearly a week to spare before the young man now in Newgate can be actually con- demned.” ‘And do you mean to tell me, Willes, that this Astorath, or whatever he is, could, after the con- demnation of Allan Fearon, snatch him from the hangman ?” “*[ have no doubt at all about it.” “ Absurd !—impossible !” Willes shrugged his shoulders as. though h¢ would say, ‘ Well, it is no business of mine!” | THE DARK WOMAN. 213 But this expression of opinion on the part of | young gentleman, who was about to pass her “ the Regent’s valet in regard to the powers of Astorath was not without its effect even upon the practical mind of Sir Hinckton Moys; and he felt that it was easier to try to keep faith with the astrologer, than to run the risk of his having power sufficient to back him in his vengeance. ‘Look you here, Willes,” he said; “it don’t matter to me the value of a pin whether Astorath gets or does not get all the information he wants about this troublesome woman, Linda de Cheve- naux; soI will get it as a matter of faith, you can tell him.” “Very good. And when?” “Some time before the end of the week. I must catch the Regent, I fancy, in a particular humour before the affair can be satisfactorily arranged.” This was all that passed between Willes and Sir Hinckton Moys on the subject. The Friday of that week came, and nothing had been done; but between that Friday and the Monday that followed it, some most strange and important events were to take place, and some singular secrets were to come to light. CHAPTER LVI. ALLAN FEARON IS BROUGHT TO TRIAL FOR THE ROBBERY AT MR. WEBBER’S. Poor disconsolate Marian sat long upon the steps of Newgate; but, at length, she reasoned herself into a better frame of mind; and she felt that Allan Fearon would, indeed, be deserted if she were to become so far lost in grief as to be in- capable of action. So Marian took her lonely way home again—if those poor apartments she occupied in Martlett’s Court could now be dignified by such a title. And there she waited, day by day, in the hope that Sixteen-stringed Jack might possibly hear of what had happened, and come to her with some aid, But, alas! he came not. Jack was still at the cavern on Hampstead Heath, with his daughter Lucy, and with Shucks and Brads. But time and tide waits for no man; and, at last, the Friday came on which Allan Fearon would be brought up for trial, at the Old Bailey, for that offence of which he was so truly inno- cent, And neither he nor Marian had the means to fee counsel on his behalf. To be sure, one of the prison attorneys, who were in the habit of calling on the prisoners there waiting their trial, had called upon Allan, in his cell, and offered his services; but when he found how small a fee he could get, he shook his head, ‘and declined the case. The intense frost, which had so long held Lon- don in its iron clutch, was showing some signs of giving way on the morning of that trial; but poor Marian was very cold, as she stood by the door of the Ceurt awaiting its opening. She was in the Court along with the first of the throng of persons who made their way to the trial; and then so silent and so sad she looked, that a said, “‘I am afraid you are ill.” “Oh, no, no! But——” “Yes; what would you say ?” Marian was silent; but he could see that tears stood in her eyes. Oh!” he said,—“ you need not tell me. You are interested in the fate of some one who is to be tried to-day.” ‘‘T am, indeed.” “ A brother ?” “ No, no!” ‘‘ A lover, then ?” ‘No, he is my husband. Allan Fearon.” ‘““Ah! I heard of the case. Robbery ina dwell- ing-house, by a confidential clerk.” ‘‘No, no!—oh, heaven, no! He is innocent, sir !—lI tell you he is innocent!” “Then that will surely appear. counsel ?” ‘“* None!—none!” “‘None! ‘That is rather indiscreet.” “Heaven alone + Marian’s tears choked her utterance. ‘Yes, yes,” said the young gentleman; “ that is all-very well, and no one will dispute that with you; but heaven in this world helps, you kaow, those who help themselves. He should have the assistance of counsel, certainly.” «Sir, we are too—too poor.” - “ Ok, is that all ?” “Tt is enough, sir.” “Well, what do you say, now, to employing me ?” “You, sir ?” “Yes; I am at the bar, but as I have no case here to-day I am without my gown and wig; but I can soon procure them. Will you have me for your advocate—or rather, your husband’s 2?” “ God bless you, sir, and thank you.” ‘That will do. Here, Mr. Snow, Mr. Snow !—a word with you.” “ Yes, Mr. Copley.” “Come, now, instruct me for this young lady’s husband. His name is Allan Fearon, and his trial comes on to-day. I will be answerable for all costs in the case.” “ Oh, Mr. Copley,” said Mr. Snow, who was an attorney, ‘if you please to interest yourself in the case, I will act with pleasure, and get a copy of the depositions.” ‘““Do so, and let me have them soon. I will go and attire while you do so.” Mr. Copley, with a smile and a nod that brought the first hope to the heart of poor Marian it had known for the whole of that dreary week, left the Court, and the solicitor then asked her some rapid questions about the case. Marian had little, indeed, to tell him, except that she felt assured that Allan was innocent, and then she added, ‘‘I have been warned that some foul plot was in progress against him, and that something would be attempted for his destruc tion.” “Who warned you ?” Jack.” ; * Jack who?” * Singleton!” “ Of course he is here ?” ‘* Alas, no!” “ But why not ?” Who is his 214 ‘‘ Because—because, you see, sir, Jack Single- tor is Sixteen-stringed Jack, the—the highway- man!” The attorney screwed his lips up into the form of an elaborate whistle. “Then,” he said, ‘I am to conclude that your husband is a friend and acquaintance of the noto- rious highwayman, on whose head there is so high a reward ?” “No! no!” “ And yet he told you?” “He did! he did! I cannot explain more, indeed I cannot! But Allan is innocent—inno- cent as one of heaven’s angels. There is a bold, bad man who would do him any harm.” “Who is that ?” . : “Sir Hinckton Moys.” ‘‘ Belonging to the household of the Rekent re “Yes, yes; the same!” - The attorney shook his head. “Tm afraid,” he said, “that it will rather do the prisoner harm than good with the Court to make any such accusations against such a man, unless there should be ample proof to support them. These kind of vague charges always do mischief.” Marian looked with eyes of great distress at the matter-of-fact attorney. ‘Well, well,” he said, ‘“we will do the best we can. Come with me, and I will get you a seat at the back of the jury-box.” “ Shall I see him from there ?” “Oh, yes: As good a place as you could have in the Court.” The attorney procured the seat for Marian; and then as Mr. Copley, the young barister, had come into Court in his wig and gown, the attorney went up to him and whispered, ‘‘ My dear sir, these people you are going to defend are hand and glove, it appears, with Sixteen-stringed Jack, the highwayman.” “¢ Indeed !” “Yes; and they accuse Sit Hinckton Moys, who is high i in the household of the Regent, of falsely accusing Allan Fearon, and of getting up some plot for his destruction.” * Any proof?” “Not a fragment.” “Well, we will say nothing about that. All I can do, is to watch the case ; but if the looks of the husband are but one-half as innocent and inge- nuous as those of the wife, I really shall think him the victim, and not the criminal.” The attorney shook his head. “ Si-lence!” cried the crier of the Court, in that peculiar tone which such officials always assume, “Si-lence! Hush!” The Judge took his seat. The Lord Mayor, in his robes of state, came on to the bench. There was a subdued bustle in the Court, and the jury answered to gin) names, and were sworn. Then the Judge, who was a little fat, red-faced, irascible looking man glanced towards ‘the dock. A low door swung on its hinges, and in another moment Allan Fearon was brought into the Court, and placed at the bar. Marian rose, uttered a cry, and held out both her arms. It was the first time she had seen Allan since THE DARK WOMAN. i LE his imprisonment, except at a distance, with twe iron gratings between her and him. “Eh?” cried the Judge, as he dropped the double eye-glass with which he was looking at some book before him, ‘Eh? What's that? A dog, eh?” “Si-lence!” cried the usher. But Allan bad seen his Marian, and the bright and beaming look that he cast upon her, let her see that he had hope, and that he welcomed her presence. “Sit down,” said an officer to Marian. ‘You had better sit down; for if the Judge sees you, you will sure to be ordered out of Court.” “Yes, yes, I will!” * Don’t speak.” , “T will not! I will not!” ** Si-lence !” ‘“'m sure,” said the Judge, “there is a dog or cat in the Court.” There was now a death-like stillness in that crowded arena, and poor Marian felt that she could hear her own heart beat. And how pale and worn did Allan Fearon look. That brief portion of a week in Newgate, seemed as if had aged him years. There was a sad, thoughtful look about him now, such as he had never worn before; and it was only through her tears that Marian could look upon his face. The trial began. A large, florid man rose, and settling the barris- ter’s gown over his shoulders, he gave a prefatory “ Hem !” and commenced opening the case for the prosecution. “My lord, and gentlemen of the jury,— ‘*The prisoner at the bar, Allan Fearon, clerk to Mr. John Webber, gold lace manufacturer, and residing within the jurisdiction of this Court, stands committed by the magistrates at Bow Street, to take his trial for feloniously appro- priating, or stealing from his master’s dwelling- house, certain gold spangles, of the value of thirty-seven pounds, or thereabouts. “ Gentlemen of the jury, I need not inform you, for his lordship will no doubt do that, of the law of this case. It is a capital felony, as you are well aware, according to the humane and en- lightened laws of this country, to steal goods of over the value of forty shillings from a dwelling- house, and consequently the prisoner stands in hazard of his life. “Tt will be my duty now, without circum- locution, or endeavouring to add to the enormity ef the prisoner’s offence, by any rhetorical arts or flourishes, to inform you that the crime for which the prisoner stands now committed before you for trial, is one of the most heartless, ungrateful, atrocious, and outrageous offences, of which aay human being could be guilty. “Like the good Samaritan, and like every other memorable example, in ancient or modern history of kindness, charity, or goodness, Mr. Webber, gold lace merchant to his Royal Highness the Prince Regent, employed the wretched prisoner at the bar as his clerk, at a period when he was out of a situation, and must inevitably have starved and stiffened into a loathsome corpse on the public highway.” - Here the counsel settled his gown again upon his shoulders, and looked around him in triumph, a a oe The attorneys below the bar nodded and winked at each other, as much a8 to say “That’s the man for us.” “Oh, my lord, and gentlemen of the jury,” continued the advocate, “is it not dreadful when we look around us, and see the misery, and the despair, and the destitution of this great city? To think that when you find 2 person, and you take him in—hungry, and you feed him—in a |. state of nudity, and you clothe him—that his first act is ruthlessly, savagely, and demoniacally to steal your spangles ! “ Gentlemen of the jury, I shall proceed to lay before you certain facts which I shall be able to prove in evidence; and far be it from me to endea- vour to create any prejudice against the remorseless raffian at the bar. ““No, gentlemen of the jury, comments are needless. We cannot blacken the blackest. If we cannot add to the beauty of the lily by paiat- ing it, gentlemen of the jury, it is of no use going up the chimney to daub it with a little extra soot. ‘““It appears, then, gentlemen of the jury, and my lord, that on Iast Monday morning the pri- soner at the bar, with an audacity truly his own, came to his employment the same as usual—not a moment too late was he; and it was with an arti- fice truly diabolical, he wished to throw his ex- cellent, exemplary, and pious employer off his guard, and to make him believe, my lord, and gentlemen of the jury, that he had a true and faithful servant, whom he could trust with his spangles, instead of a venomous adder with num- berless fangs, warming itself in his bosom. ‘‘My lord, and gentlemen of the jury, the day passed on, and nothing remarkable occurred. It did not suit the prisoner at the bar boldly, and with the courage of guilt, to seize upon his employer's stock in trade and march off with it, braining everybody who opposed his progress. No, gen- tlemen of the jury, a reptile like him was to crawl along, in the dead hour of the night, and appro- priate this glass jar of spangles. Hold up the jar, Jerry.” . Jerry was a barrister’s clerk, and he held up the jaz as high as he could reach. ‘‘ My lord, and gentlemen of the jury, so secretly and adroitly was this crime committed, that when the respectable and praiseworthy Mr. Webber came to his business in the morning, he had not the slightest idea of his logs, until an unpaid letter came to him by the twopenny post, informing him that upon taking stock he would find this valuable property missing, and that upon proceeding to the lodgings of the prisoner at the bar, in Long Acre, he would find it concealed in the chimney. “He did find it there—he and Mr. Lavender, the most exemplary Bow Street runner. “That was on Monday morning; and oh! gen« tlemen of the jury, there is a fearful feature in this case, which most reluctantly I call your at- tention to. It was on the Sunday evening that this dreadful robbery was committed ;—on a Sunday.evening, when all the time of the crocodile before you ought to have been taken up in pray- ing for his employer; on that Sunday evening he committed this offence, which I will not amplify upon, but merely hope that you will view with the horror of men and Christians. “And now, gentlemen of the jury, what did THE DARK WOMAN, 215 this wretched criminal do? Did he feel any : pangs, any remorse? did those spangles lie heavy at his heart? Did they stick to his soul, an& by their reflected light let him see how hideous was his crime? “No, gentlemen of the jury. On the very Monday morning succeeding his offence, he went to get married, at St. Paul’s, Covent Garden. “ Actually, at St. Paul’s, Covent Garden, and no doubt having three or four wives already; and having committed numberless robberies, he went on heaping crime upon crime, at St. Paul’s, Covent Garden. “My lord, and gentlemen of the jury, after a fearful resistance, the prisoner was captured and taken before one of the most humane, enlightened, and feeling magistrates on the bench—Sir Richard Birnie—who very properly committed him for trial. ‘ “Gentlemen of the jury, I have fulfilled a painful duty; but it was a duty, and it is done. I have only now to produce before you the evi- dence in substantiation of what I have asserted.” The advocate sat down with a face even redder than before, and looked about him with the air of a man who had done a good deed, and expected. the applause of mankind. “Call John Webber,” cried the usher of the court. There was a slight movement among the auditory, and Allan’s employer stepped into the witness-box. The counsel rose again. ‘“Your name is Webber, and you keep a gold | lace establishment ?” “Tt is so.” “The prisoner at the bar was in your employ- ment as clerk, and you placed in him every pos- sible confidence ?” “T did so.” “Did you receive a letter on Monday morning last, apprising you that you were robbed, and advising you where to find the stolen property ?” 46 if did.” P The letter was produced ; and, after being read in stentorian tones by the counsel, was handed up to the Judge, who, with a double eye-glass at his eyes, looked intently at it, as though it had been some natural curiosity. On each side of it, and along the edges; and then holding it up to the light, and then at a distance from the eye-glass, and then close to it, until, at length, with a look of preternatural cunning, he said, “Is it in evidence that this letter was not prepaid?” “Certainly not, my lord. We will call the postman, if your lordship thinks proper.” ‘Well, I don’t know yet; but I'll make a note of it. Go on, Brother Blundergust.” Brother Blundergust adjusted his gown again, and continued his examination of Mr. Webber. “Now, sir, upon receipt of this letter, what did you do?” - “TJ communicated with Mr. Lavender, the Bow Street officer.” “You communicated with Mr. Lavender, the Bow Street officer. And what was done then?” “We went to the lodgings of the prisoner ; and Mr. Lavender found the spangles up the chimney.” “Up the chimney! Gentlemen of the jury a erent Retr Nn ih 6 SPN Nt met npn tt TA a ne ee 7 216 THE DARK WOMAN. up the chimney! And what did you do then, sir 2 “‘Why, I should have said that I had given the prisoner leave of absence for that day until two o'clock; and we found, on inquiry at the house, that he had gone to get married on that very morning; so Mr. Lavender and I went to St. Paul’s, Covent Garden.” ‘‘You hear, gentlemen of the jury? St. Paul's, Covent Garden!” “Stop!” said the Judge,—“ I'll make a note of that.” Mr. Blundergust looked round. him with a smile; and then he added, ‘‘Now, Mr. Webber, what next? You found this gentleman com- mitting bigamy, I suppose ?” “T don’t know; but I found he had just been married to a young person of the name of Marian Gray.” “Stop!” said the Judge. up? Of the name of who?” ‘*Marian Gray.” “But you said Mary Ann Gay.” “No, my lord.” ‘Don’t say no to me, sir! Yeu did say Mary Ann Gay. I’ve got it so on my notes, Don't prevaricate, sir, and insult the Court. Prisoner “Can't you speak went to St. Paul’s, and committed bigamy with | Mary Ann Gay. I’ve got it so on my notes.” The little Judge looked at Mr. Webber through his double eye-glass in an exceedingly irascible manner; and then, slowly shaking his head, he said, ‘‘ Take care, sir!—take care!” “That'll do!” said Mr. Blundergust, sitting down. ‘Call Mr. Lavender.” “One moment, if you please,” said Mr. Copley, ‘who had: so graciously volunteered to defend Allan,—‘‘ one moment, if you please! Stay, Mr. Webber.” “Yes, sir,” said Mr. Webber, who by this time had .got into a state of complete bewilderment, and devoutly wished he had put up with the loss of the spangles and said nothing about them. ‘Where is your place of business, Mr. Webber ?” “In Tichbourne Street.” “Very good. . You say, when you came in the morning that you received a twopenny post letter ?” “Stop!” cried the Judge. “Is that the same letter, or another letter? or were they both not paid, or both paid? And if not, why not, and where is the other ?” ‘It’s the same letter, my lord,” said Mr. Web- ber. “I only received one.” “‘ And who said you did? Take care, sir; you're upon your oath, and it’s my duty to tell you you are giving youe evidence in a manner which places you in a very perilous position—a very perilous position indeed.” ‘And where did you come from when you say tbat you arrived at your place of business?” asked Mr. Copley. “From Tulse Hill.” “* But what were you doing at Tulse Hill ?” ‘Why, sir, I and my family reside there; and when I leave my business at night I go home there, and come back to it in the morning.” “Then you dwell at Tulse Hill? And that ig your dwelling?” “ Certainly, sir.” “And were the spangles stolen from ‘your dwell- ing-house at Tulse Hili?” “Bless me, no, sir; but from my shop in Tich- bourne Street.” . ‘Then, my lord,” said Mr. Copley, turning to the Judge, “the indictment is bad upon the face of it; for it states that the prisoner, Allan Fearon, stole from the dwelling-house of John Webber certain spangles.” ‘You're too late—too late!” cried Mr. Blunder- gust,—‘' a great deal too late!” bc Nay.” Ps I appeal to his lordship. It’s too late now to pick a hole in the indictment.” “But I pick a hole in the case. The witness here deliberately swears that the robbery was not committed in his dwelling-house, and the indict- ment deliberately states that it was; and you, Mr. Blundergust, particularly drew attention to that circumstance in your address to the jury.” ““No, I didn’t.” “Those who know us, Mr. Blundergust, will be able to decide between our respective words. Moreover, every one must have heard you; and I appeal to his lordship, whether there be anything to go to the jury under this indictment ?”* “My lord, and gentlemen of the jury,” cried Mr. Blundergust, in a loud tone, “allow me to state——” “Tf you please,” said the foreman of the jary, “‘ we should like to hear what his lordship has to say on the point.” The Judge glared at everybody through his double eye-glass. “The witness, Lavender Gay,” he said, “ who has just been examined, and who has prevaricated so grossly, after recently committing bigamy at St. Paul’s, and then trying to hang himself in a chim- ney, is evidently not to be believed on his oath. Therefore, where be lives, or where he don’t live, or where he dwells, or where he don’t dwell, or if he really lives or dwells anywhere or nowhere, becomes a matter of minor importance. His con- duct, too, with regard to a twopenny post letter is anything but satisfactory, and I should like the gentlemen of the jury to take that letter into their box, and exarrne it closely.” “Just so, my lord,” said Mr. Blundergust; “I never heard a more luminous decision in my life.” “‘ But in the interests of my client I have a duty to perform,” said Mr. Copley. ‘And in the higher interests of justice, this Court has a higher interest than he or [ can have in the due adminis- tration of justice. There is no appeal, gentlemen of the jury, in criminal cases in this country, and consequently it behoves those who sit in high places to be specially careful in their decisions.” “Brother Copley,” said the Judge, “I hope I’m as careful as any one can possibly be; but when I see a man brought up for bigamy—that is to say, larceny—but [m sure I had it on my notes bigamy, at first—I sit here for the protection of the public, and therefore, I say, there is nothing in the objection.” “Nothing, absolutely nothing,” ejaculated Mr. Blundergust; “and I now call Joseph Lavender, the officer, as the second important witness in this case.” With an every-day nonchalant sort of look, Lavender took his place in the witness-box— short, terse, and to the purpose, was his evidence. He had been called in by Mr. Webber, and shown the anonymous letter; and they bad then gone Meee ee ee ee na pe na 5 ae a a TE EE eae ee THE DARK WOMAN. together to Allan Fearon's lodgings, in Long Acre, and found, as directed, the jar of gold spangles hanging in the chimney. Mr. Copley asked no questions whatever of Lavender; but, to the surprise of Allan, a watch- man, of the name of Rick, was now called for the prosecution ; and as Mr, Blundergust had made no mention of that person in his opening address, everybody was curious to know what he came to prove. “Now, Mr. Watchman,” said Counsellor Blun- dergust, ‘‘recollect you're on your oath, and that we keep books in this court.’ “Good luck to ’em, and to your honour,” said the watchman, who was an Irishman ; “‘and it’s small matter that same is to me, as reading was unknown in Balliecumbundle, where I came from.” “The books are not for you to read, Mr. Watchman, but for us to record your deposition.” _ No. 28.—Dark Woman. res Take it aisy then, sir.” © ‘‘ Were you, or were you rot, on duty in Long Acre, on the night in question ?” *T never ask questions, sir. If a gintleman’s drunk, and is going past my beat, I gives him a hand on; and if he says.‘ Barney Rick,’ says he, ‘That’s me,’ says I. ‘Are youa judge of whisky 2’ says he.” “What's that ?” cried the little irascible Judge at this moment. ‘‘ What’s that the witness says about me? Iam sure I heard him say Judge.” ‘My lord,” said Mr. Blundergust, “he didn’t mean your lordship.” “Not mean me; then how dare he to go on in that manner? Hark you, sir! you've an excellent chance of being committed.” “ Long life to your honour.” vt “Be quiet, sir, and keep to your deposition.” ‘Now, Mr. Rick,” added Mr. Blundergust, 218 “you will tell us what you saw at the door of No. 4, Long Acre, at half-past two in the morning of Monday last.” “What I seed at the door, sir?” ‘Yes; at the door.” ‘‘Bedad then, sir, is it the scraper, you mean ?” ““Mr. Wattles, what is this man to prove?” Mr. Wattles was the attorney for the prosecu- tion; and he whispered in an indignant manner for a few seconds to Counsellor Blundergust, who exclaimed, ‘‘ Oh, that’s it! Tobe sure! Perfectly correct! An important statement! Now, Mr. Rick if “The same to you, sir.” “Did you, or did you not, see the prisoner at the bar enter the house, No. 4, Long Acre, on last Monday morning, at about half-past two?” “The prisoner at the bar, sir? Bedad, thin, I don’t know that I did see him!” “Will you look at the prisoner at the bar?” ‘‘T sees him, sir! ‘The top of the morning to you, Mr. Fearon !” ‘*Now answer a plain question. Did you see Alian Fearon at the time and place I have men- tioned ?” ‘The time and place, sir? With a bar, too?” At this moment Allan raised his voice, and amid the breathless stillness of the Court he spoke. ‘“‘Y may well perceive that this kind-hearted man thinks he may do me an injury by stating that I exchanged a word with him at the time mentioned by the coumsel for the prosecution. I was from home that night; and I did return some- where between two and three o'clock, but I am nevertheless innocent of this charge brought against me {” “Oh!” cried Mr. Blundergust, ‘we don’t ex- pect you to plead guilty. My lord, and genile- men of the jury, that is the case! Far be it from me to insult your judgments by stat- ing: er) “And far be it from me,” replied Mr. Copley, “to interfere with the amusement which the Court must always receive from my learned brother's eloquence; but as this is not the proper time for his making a speech, I object to it.” “Oh, very well!” said Mr. Blundergust; “ but if you speak, I shall claim a reply.” “To which you are most welcome,” added Mr. Copley. And then, amid the profound stillness of the Court, he addressed the judge and jury. ‘My lord, and gentlemen, you have heard the evidence brought forward against the prisoner at the bar. That evidence is exceedingly simple; and looks serious on account of that simplicity. ‘*Mr. Webber loses some property, and he receives an anonymous letter, stating that it was to be found hidden in the chimney of an apart- ment occupied by the prisoner at the bar. “My lord, and gentlemen of the jury, have you asked yourselves who wrote that letter? Of course it was some one who knew that the pro- perty was there deposited, because the fact speaks for itself. ‘‘ Was it then the prisoner at the bar himself who communicated this important fact to Mr. Webber, the prosecutor? Gentlemen of the jury, your common sense will answer ‘no’ to that inquiry. Who, then, I would ask? and I would pause fora reply. But I can supply you with a theory, which I feel assured you will adopt. THE DARK WOMAN. ‘““My lord, and gentlemen of the jury, it was the person who wrote the anonymous letter to Mr. Webber, who placed the jar of gold spangles | in the chimney; and that, too, was the person” who committed the robbery, be he whom he may. ‘Gentlemen, I tell you that this plot has over- reached itself, It has been too cunning, too precise; it has arranged matters too well; and in the hurry to convict the prisoner, it hag adopted the means of letting the prosecutor know where his property was, which makes it an outrage to common sense that the prisoner at the bar could have committed the offence. ‘“‘Ts this case and theory I have propounded, quite a novelty? Have we never heard of stolen property being placed in the possession of innocent persons, in order to ensure their destruction ? What so diabolical, and, at the same time, what so easy? It is a mode of bearing false witness, which can only be assimilated to murder by as- sassination. ‘My lord, and gentlemen of the jury, this is our defence, this is our answer to the charge. I have been but recently instructed in this case, but without instruction at all, I could have toid you that some one anxious for the destruction of that young man adopted this fearful mode of bringing it about. “Tt is only at this moment, that, from the attorney for the defence, I have received a memo- randum in the handwriting of the prisoner, ex- plaining fully why he was from home at so un- usual an hour on the night in question. ‘“‘Tt was the night before that day on which he was to be united to one in whom all his affections were centred, He felt lonely, nervous, and anxious —imagining, perchance, a thousand fears where none were visible; and it was to gaze up at the windows of that loved one, that he left his home amid the storm and sterility of this Siberian winter. “Practical matter-of-fact men among you may call this foolish and nonsensical; but, oh! gentle- men of the jury, and you too, my lord Judge, there surely has been a time when, under the soft influence of the tenderest feelings, you too would have sallied out amid Arctic snows, and the howlings of the rudest tempest, to catch but one gleam of the light beaming from the loved one’s lattice,” “Tsaw him! I saw him!” exclaimed Marian; “it was but for a moment, but I saw him!” ‘t Silence !” cried the usher. 4 “What's that? What's that?” cried the Judge. ‘Clear the Court !” ‘Nay, my lord,” said Mr. Copley; “I find I have a witness. It is my time and right to call her, and I do so now.” nd CHAPTER LVII. THE PLOT THICKENS, AND ALLAN FEARON Is CONDEMNED. ‘‘ Marian Feraron,” cried the crier, as Mr. Copley had whispered the name to him, and he again passed it on to the proper officer. Another moment, and Marian was in the witness- box. She was pale, but firm and composed. Na weakness, no tears now interfered with the testi- mony which she was abeut to give. eee THE DARK WOMAN. 219 Amid such a stillness as could hardly have been believed possible with such a concourse of people, she was sworn. he “Make your own statement,” said Mr. Copley. “Tt is not neccessary that I should lead you by a single question.” “Tt was half-past two on last Sunday night, when therush of snow-drift without induced me to goto the window. I moved the blind but slightly, yet it suficed to let me see that Allan Fearon was in a spot where I had seen him often gazing up- ward.” ‘‘ That, then,” said Mr. Copley, “ was the errand of the young lover amid the snows of that tem- pestuous night; and little dreamt he that in that terrible interval his hnmble home was visited by some fiend in human form, intent on his destruc- tion.” Marian was turning from the witness-box, and had cast a long and lingering gaze upon Allan’s face, when Mr. Blundergust arose, and with a loud ‘‘ Hem!” challenged her attention. “Now young woman, if you please.” * Sir 2” “T request your attention, and beg to recall to your memory that perjury is an indictable offence ; and therefore it behoves you to be particularly careful what you're about.” Marian did not see the necessity of making any reply to this speech, and Counsellor Blundergust continued. “You state that the snow was so thick that it attracted your attention; and then that you looked from an attic window, without opening it, and saw right down into the street, at half past two o'clock in the morning, somebody whom you could recog- nise ?” “T gay so.” ‘¢ And were mistaken, of course. simply impossible.” “JT saw him, sir! The slightest glance—the very feeling of his presence in the air would let me know him!” ~ “Oh, pooh—pooh—pooh—pooh—pooh !” “As, sir,” added Marian, “I shall ever know you. For it would be impossible for me ever to forget the unscrupulous advocate, who has this day travelled so far out of the line of his duty to tra- duce an innocent man, that he becomes a disgrace to an honourable profession ; and———” Mr. Blundergust burst into a roar of passion, and Marian’s concluding words were drowned in his urgent appeal to the Judge to commit the witness at once. Mr. Copley: smiled; and the little irascible Judge shook his head, and made the most sensible remark he had made for many a day. ‘‘T have remarked, Brother Blundergust,” he said, “that when we commit ourselves, we are always most anxious to commit somebody else.” There was a strong expression of applause in Court, and Mr. Copley looked round in triumph. Marian retired to her place behind the jury- box, and Mr. Blundergust gnawed the end of a pen in vexation. “My lord, and gentlemen of the jury,” continued Mr. Copley, ‘I leave this case with confidence in your hands, looking for an acquittal. The evi- dence against the prisoner at the bar is circum- stantial; but not so in the ordinary sense of the term, because that extraordinary letter, which The thing is is the principal circumstance of all, speaks vol- umes in favour of his innocence. ‘“‘ My learned friend has signified his intention of addressing you upon the evidence for the defence; but I think he will address you in vain, if he seek to demolish one word which has been addressed to you by the witness Marian Fearon.” Mr. Copley sat down, and at that moment, Wattles, the attorney for the prosecution, whis- pered something to Mr. Blundergust, who, start- ing to his feet, cried out, ‘‘To be sure—yes, to be sure! Of course, that’s perfectly right. My lord, and gentlemen of the jury—this witness, Marian Fearon, is the man’s wife, and can give no testimony at all.” ‘* But,” interposed Mr. Copley, “yuu said he had committed bigamy, and had two or three wives already.” Mr. Blundergust looked all the scorn he felt at the idea that anything he had said on a previous occasion should have the remotest effect upon any- thing he chose to say now. “My lord,” he added, as he readjusted, with what he no doubt thought an air of great dignity, his gown,—“‘ my lord, I feel assured that your lord- ship will permit me to say that the defence, in this case, is the most irregufar, and the most uncon- stitutional and contrary to law, that was ever pro- duced in a court of justice.” “Of course,” said the Judge sharply, “the woman cannot be heard either for or against the prisoner at the bar, if she is his wife.” ** But,” said Mr. Copley, “my learned brother denies that.” ‘‘ No, he don't,” cried Mr. Blundergust. * Not now.” ‘Nor ever.” “ Excuse me, you did.” ‘‘ Brother Blundergust,” said the Judge, “ are you about to reply on the case?” “‘No, my lord, it is too clear—a great deal too clear. Heaven forbid that I should seek to colour any case to the detriment of a prisoner. The facts speak trumpet-tongued for themselves; andin any community where the law is not a farce, and jus- tice a dream, there must be a conviction.” Mr. Blundergust sat down, and the Judge, after adjusting his spectacles, glared around the Court, as if to fix everybody with the terror of his looks before he began to sum up the case. The jury looked fidgetty and anxious. Allan Fearon was pale, but he stood erect in the dock, and his eye did not flinch in the slight- est degree. Poor heart-stricken Marian had done all she could do to benefit him, and had no doubt, by the evidence she had given, produced some effect in the minds of the jury in his favour. But, as Mr. Blundergust had said, facts were stubborn things; and the few that had been deposed to in the course of the trial, certainly told fearfully against the supposition of the inno- cence of Allan. Marian could not look up while the Judge was speaking. So much might and must depend upon his words, that she felt she could not command her feelings, if her face was not hidden. And so, with her hands clasped over her pale face, Marian listened, but moved not. The counsel, Mr. Copley, had commenced the ce a Se ee SE ee a Fh 220 case with an interest in Allan Fearon for Marian’s sake. That interest had suffered no diminution by the appearance of Allan himself—an appear- ance which seemed to be the opposite to guilt. But as the case had progressed, the feeling to wish to save Allan had grown each moment stronger and stronger. If Mr. Copley, who was quite a young man at the bar, had an aversion in the world, it was to the great, red, heartless bully, Mr. Blundergust: and the mere fact that he was for the prosecution, would have induced the young counsel to exert all his power to save the prisoner. Mr. Blundergust, too, had conducted the case in his worst and most atrocious style. Probably Mr. Webber, the nominal prosecutor, was astonished at the animus of the counsel as shown against Allan. But that surprise would have materially dimi- nished, although it would have been awakened in another direction, had he known that the day before the trial a fee of one hundred guineas had been sent anonymously to Mr. Blundergust, with a note in the following words :— ‘The conviction of Allan Fearon is much de- sired.” This was quite enough to make the hired advo- cate do all in his power to crush poor Allan; and hence was it that there appeared about all the conduct of Mr. Blundergust an almost personal animosity against Allan. But the Judge is speaking. He turns over his notes—he coughs, and then, in a low, rumbling voice, he proceeds to sum up the case. > The life of a fellow-creature depends upon that summing 1p. “Gentlemen of the jury, the prisoner at the bar stands charged with robbery in a dwelling-house to the value of above forty shillings. It appears that a Mr. Valentine kept a shop at Tulse Hill, and used to reside in Tichbourne Street.” ‘My lord,” interposed Mr. Copley, “ the pro- secutor’s name is Webber; but this mistake is of no importance, compared to the more vital one.” “The what, sir?” “The more vital one that your lordship is making in regard to an important fact.” “Mistake, sit?” “Yes, my lord. Mr. Webber does not keep a shop at Tulse Hill and reside at Tichbourne Street.” ‘¢ And who. said he did, sir?” ‘“* Your lerdship.” The Judge fixed his double eye-glass upon the bridge of his nose, and glanced at the young counsel. “ Brother Copley,” he said, in a deep sepulchral voice; ‘you are but young at the bar, and I would seriously advise you, sir, to pause—to pause, sir, before you make such statements to one of the judges of the land, sir.” “ But, my lord-—” “‘T will not hear you, sir.” ““My lord !” “One word more, and I will go to an extreme seldom gone to—and that is, to commit a counsel for contempt_of Court.” “‘T must say one word, then, my lord; and that THE DARK WOMAN. is, that let your lordship state what you may that is erroneous, I will only take a note of it, and lay the case before the Secretary of State, A blue colour came over the face of the little irascible Judge, and every one in Court thought that some explosion of wrath would ensue, And so it would have done, but for a very for- tunate diversion at that moment. The Judge was in the habit, when summing up a case, to suck sweet oranges at intervals, and he had despatched his clerk to procure some, and the clerk had just at that moment returned, and from below the desk in front of the Judge he slowly insinuated two oranges on to the desk. “Oh!” said the Judge. Another moment, and he was sucking one of the oranges. The action gave him time to reflect; and when he laid it down again before him, he said no more to Mr. Copley, and went on with his sum-' ming-up of the case. ** Gentlemen of thejury——COh! ah! where was I? Yes, I see! It appears, then, that Mr. Fearon keeps a gold lace warehouse at No. 4, Long Acre, where he dwells; and that on the occasion in question, he wrote or received, it doesn’t appear very clearly which, two twopenny post letters, the postage on which may, or may not, have been paid; and that then, some one coming down a chimney at Tulse Hill, found a , glass full of gold spangles, in the possession of one Mary Ann Gray, who was married, or about to ba married, at St. Paul’s, Covent Garden, to a watchman of the name of Rick. ‘‘ You will perceive, gentiemen, that this case is rather complicated. “If the witness Lavender had really been in the habit of going out at half-past two o'clock in the morning, and looking in at the attic win- dows of Mr. Webber, who has some strange and perverse idea that he ought to write twopenny post letters to everybody, we might come to the conclusion that—that—eh? that I'm sure that I have lost a leaf from my notes.” The Judge turned over his notes in 4 vain search, and at length exclaimed, ‘ Well, it doesn’t matter. But as I was saying, since, by a rare accident, the witness Webber was up that night till half-past two, and got down a chimney at Tulse Hill, he found the property No—yes —let me see—oh! to be sure! Yes, that’s it. You fally comprehend, gentlemen of the jury, and therefore I leave the case in your: hands for your most careful consideration, con- vinced that if you think the prisoner guilty, that you will return a verdict in accordance with that conviction; while,on the other hand,if you feel convinced that he is innocent, it will be your | bounden duty to acquit him.” | The Judge ceased. The jury looked as bewildered as possible. Even Allan Fearon could not possibly make out, amid the chaos of mis-statements of the learned Judge, what he really had meant to say. The jury now turned and consulted together | in _a low voice. . | Marian looked up. She had heard the sound | of the Judge’s voice, and when it had ceased, she felt as if some crisis had come. She looked up then, and as she Gid so her eye met those of Allan. THE DARK Oh, what a world of love there was in that mutual glance! Marian could not now remain where she was— she felt that she was too farfromhim. Either the verdict would restore him to her—and then how could she be too near to him?—or it would tear him from her for ever; and then, again, how could she bear to be so far from him, that it was only by the interchange of looks that they could converse ? Marian wanted to get nearer to the dock. The people in a kindly way made way for her, and she glided through the throng until she was as close as she could get to Allan Fearon. And he watched her with his eyes as she came, When she was as near to him as the wood- work and the barriers of the prisoner's dock would permit her to be, she stretched out her arms to- | | { wards him. And Allan stretched out both his. Alas! there was yet an interval of about a foot which separated them! Their hands would not touch, on account of that space; and poor Marian locked tearfully, although she did not actually now weep, into the eyes of Allan. His eyes, too, were bent upon her; and in that moment, the Judge, the jury, and the spectators of that crowded Court, were all by him forgotten. The turnkey who was in the dock behind Allan, and who had charge of the prisoners as they were brought up for trial, pretended to look another way. Of course, had he seen what was taking place, he must have interfered. Nothing could be more irregular. But the man had a heart. ‘‘ Allan,” said Marian. “ Dear, dear Allaa!” “My Marian!” “‘'You will be courageous 2?” “YT am!—I am!” “For my sake.” ‘Ah, yes! should come!” Marian, by a great effort, suppressed the sob that strove to rise to her lips. “Yes, Allan. Because—because She smiled gently. ** Because what, dear ?” “We shall go together. 1 shall follow you, Allan, and then no one can separate us.” “No, no! Qh, do not speak so, Marian! You areso young! Life for you will yet, I hope, pre- sent many, many joys! You must forget me, my Marian,—you must try to forget me.” “Allan, Allan, can I hear aright? Is it you | who would tell me to forget you?” ‘Yes, dear, dear Marian! We shall meet again, | be assured; but you must yet cling to life.” “No, no! I am your—your wife! Yours only, | Allan! Your life is my life! Oh, would that I | could stand beside you now, and let your fate be | mine, whatever it might be!” : “No, no, no!” | “ And yet there is another thing I would fain do, in preference.” “What, dearest ?” “ Die for you!” There was a subdued kind of bustle in the Court at this moment. The jury had turned round again, and settled themselves in their box. And you, too, Marian, if the worst ” ee NE ee ee —. ' foe who has worked me ail this evil. WOMAN. 221 The Judge glared at them over an orange, which he was sucking. The Clerk of the Arraigus rose. ‘Gentlemen of the jury, have you decided upon your verdict in this case?” ‘* We have,” replied the foreman. ‘‘ What say you, gentlemen of the jury? Is the prisoner at the bar guilty, or not guilty ?” ° Guilty !” Everybody drew a long breath. “ But,” said the foreman, ‘we recommend him to the mercy of the Court.” & look of scorn was upoa the face of Allan. It seemed, for a few seconds, as if poor Marian was too stunned by the verdict to fully comprehend it. Deep in her heart she had surely, up to that moment, entertained an idea that it would not be possible to condemn her Allan. But when she recovered from that first shock, she uttered one shrill cry, and fell sensoless to the floor of the Court. That was a mercy ! Heaven was even then tempering the winds of adversity to that poor shorn lamb, Marian did not hear the sentence as it was pro- nounced against poor Allan Fearon, Those terrible words did not fall upon her heart like the dull clangour of a funereal bell. She was spared that. Some kindly people took her from the Court. Allan watched her until the last glimpse of her had disappeared. And then a cold, gloomy, stony look came over him, and there was a strange light in his eyes. “ Prisoner,” said the Judge, “ have you any- thing to say why sentence should not be pro- nounced against you ?—because if you have, now is your time to do so.” “J have!” cried Aliaa, with abrupt and start- ling clearness. The Judge inclined his head. There was an intense stillness in the Court. “T have to say,’ added Allan, ‘‘ that I am most unjustly condemned. I haveto say that the testimony against me is false! I have 10 say that I am innocent !” The Judge shook his head. Mr. Blundergust smiled. “ It may be,’ added Allan, “ that my hours are numbered in this world. It may be that I stand somewhat nearer fo the confines of eternity than any other person here present; bat I will not be condemned unheard. I have thought, as may well bé supposed, much over thismatter. Mnow- ing and feeling my own innocence, 1 have asked myself how it is that I seem guilty. “J can reply now to that question, “‘ JT have an enemy!”’ The Judge looked up. Mr Biundergust smiled agaia, for he felt quite certain that it was the exemy of whom Allan spoke, who had sent him the hundred guinea fee. “Yes,” added Allan, “I have a foe; it is that What I have to ask is that sentence may be respited for a time, in order that I may take steps to unmask that foe, and to prove to the Court how foul and terrible a plot this has been which has brought me so near to destruction.” Ailan ceased speaking. Mr. Copley rose. ee a ee, — 222 “J do think, my lord,” he said, “ that after such a statement from the prisoner, your lord- ship may accede to so very reasonable a request.” - “ Brother Copley,” said the Judge, “ no man sught to know better than you that I have no power to do anything of the kind.” “ But your lordship may abstain from passing sentence at present, and that at least would give a week’s delay.” “‘ Not consistently with my duty. My office here is purely ministerial. -I must do my duty. You know as well as Ido, and you have taken oceasion to tell me already in the course of the trial that you do know it, that the Secretary of State is the proper person to apply to for any ' postponement of the sentence of the law.” Mr. Copley merely bowed and sat down. The Judge stooped and fumbled in a small drawer under his desk. It was for the black cap he was feeling. . The law at that period was in its old unformed state, when the statute book was crowded with offences which were visited by the punishment of death, but which now, in more enlightened times, are considered as far from calling for such a penalty. And to give justice and credit where they are due, we must say that, with all his faults, George the Fourth was the monarch who, by his personal feeling upon the subject, aided very materially in humanising our statute book. But he had not began to reign at this period, and the old regime was in full glory. The Judge put on the black cap. The crier of the Court called for silence, and there was not a breath to be heard. “Prisoner at the bar, you have been found guilty of a crime for which the laws of your country have decreed the penalty of death, and it is my painful cuty to pronounce that sentence upon you. It is, that you be taken from here, to the place of public execution, and there hanged by the neck until you be dead, and the Lord have mercy upon your soul.” * Amen!” cried the crier of the Court. “Come,” said the turnkey, as he placed his hand on Allan’s shoulder. Without another word, Allan Fearon turned and left the dock. ’ “You will have company,” said one of the officers of Newgate to Allan. '“Compary! what do you mean ?” “On Monday, I mean.” “On Monday ?” “Yes: there’s two men to be hung for horse stealing, and one for highway robbery.” “Oh, I comprehend.” Allan did comprehend, and a terrible compre- hension it was, too. In ten minutes more he was in one of those dismal vault-like places, which weut by the name of the condemned cells. CHAPTER LVIII. SIR HINCKTON MOYS DOES HIS BEST TO KEEP FAITH WITH THE DARK WOMAN, THE revengeful and villanous Sir Hinckton Moys was quite willing to perform his partof the con- THE DARK WOMAN tract with, as he believed, Astorath, the astro- loger. Perhaps he was all the more willing, since Willes had told him that Astorath had reserved to himself a power of letting the prisoner still go free, provided he, Sir Hinckton Moys, should be unable or unwilling to keep faith. ’ Therefore, then, was it that so soon as that Friday afternoon came, and Sir Hinckton was duly apprised of the fact that Allan Fearon was really and truly condemned, that he set about doing what he could to satisfy the claims that the astrologer had upon him. What he had related to the sham Astorath in regard to the room in the Palace that was shut up was perfectly correct; but he thought that it would be very much easier to get the Regent into some communicative vein upon the subject, than to go routing about old St. James’s, in perhaps, the fallacious hope of getting evidence respecting -Linda de Chevenaux, which was not there. Accordingly, Sir Hinckton Moys, who now stood in high favour with the Regent, arranged that he should sup with him on that very Friday night, under the pretence that he had a new sauce to ex- hibit to him, which had just been imported, and which was only known to him, Sir Hinckton Moys. This was a subject sure to be interesting to the Prince; and, moreover, a gossip of the kind he was likely to have with Sir Hinckton, and a supper at which he might thoroughly enjoy himself with- out remark or control, were two things not to be despised for their own sakes. At ten o’clock that Friday night, then, we will just take a glance at the different personages who make up the characters in this strange drama of real life. In the cavern at Hampstead was Sixteen- stringed Jack, and Lucy, and Brads, and Shucks. At that very hour, ten o’clock, Brads and Shucks were playing at cards. Lucy was asleep. Jack Singleton had gone to the cottage, which was kept by the poor old woman named Adams, to look to the welfare of his horse. Marian was at home. Home! Alas! what a home it was now! There was no fire in the cold, cold grate. There was no light in the room. On the floor lay a something which the faint rays of a young moon shone upon, and proclaimed to be a female form. That was Marian. She had sobbed herself to sleep. In a cell of Newgate, with his head resting on his hands, and striving to think and to hope against all seeming human probability, was Allan Fearon. Stretched on a couch in the old laboratory of Astorath, the astrologer, was one who suffered, perhaps, more pangs than Allan and Marian put together. That was Linda de Chevenaux, the Dark Woman. For some time past,she had only obtained sleep through the agency of opiates; but it was astrange thing, and showed how the mind will triumph over all physical conditions, that since the arrest of Allan Fearon the opiates had failed, a i THE DARK WOMAN. 223 It was Friday night, and the Dark Woman had not had six hours’ sleep that week. , She was now wide awake, and staring at the embers of a charcoal fire that was in a moveable | brazier placed in the chimney. But there is yet another of our principals to whom we may look. There is a room in Carlton House, the walls of which are covered with quilted silk, and the floor of which is two inches thick of soft carpeting. There is a bed in that room, in which one may be lost in a mountain of down. A bright coal fire is in the grate, and sends its flickering scintillations over everything that is rich and rare in that apartment. Hidden deep in that couch of luxury there is one asleep. It is Annie Gray, alias Countess de Blond. A spoiled child of luxury is Annie, and she hag almost lost all feeling for anything or anybody. Her whole thoughts are intent upon what new enjoyments she can think of. And now we will turn to that apartment in St. James’s Palace in which the Regent is to sup with Sir Hinckton Moys. It is a small but elegant room, and as warm as though no such thing as winter had any power in the world. Ten o'clock has just been tinkled forth by the Louis Quatorze time-piece on the mantel-piece, when the Prince enters the room. Sir Hinckton Moys is there, and makes a low bow. The Regent was at all times fond of being treated with reverence and respect. “Well, Moys,” he said, “i hope your new sauce is really something. No garlic in it, eh?” ““ Not a shadow of a shade, your Royal High- ness.” ‘““Very well. That is a mysterious quality, at all events. What is there for supper?” ‘Pheasants, your Royal Highness.” “Pheasants! It’s not exactly the time, is it ?’ ““Oh, I have had these imported from Mar- seilles, where they come from the East. They are somewhat smaller than our English pheasants. A golden sort they are, and perfectly delicious. My cook has a mode of making two incisions in the bird, and getting out the whole of the bones; then they are cooked first of all inside an English turkey, then taken out and browned, and then served up very hot with the new sauce.” “Really ?” ' “Yes, your Royal Highness, and I do hope that you will be pleased.” “IT am pleased already by the description. There is an artistic finish about the whole affair, Moys, which promises well.” “Tam most grateful to your Royal Highness for saying so, and have great hopes that you will find the result fully satisfactory.” ‘No coubt, I should say,—no doubt.” Sir Hinckton Moys touched a hand-bell, and -the table was served in a few seconds. “‘ De—licious!” said the Prince. “Your Highness likes them ?” “Exquisite !” “T am much pleased.” “Why, Moys, the man who thought of cooking these pheasants in this way ought to be canonised.” “Ha! hal” that have been shut up for so long, and which were ‘* And the sauce is the most piquant, recherche thing of the sort 1 ever came near.” “J am delighted, Prince.” “ You ought to be.” Nothing in the world put the Regent in such good humour as a good supper, and this was so good au one that he felt his heart expand. There was some room for expansion there, you will say ; ‘and after the supper, he looked blandly at Sir Hinckton Moys, as he said, ‘‘Moys, I have been unjust to you.” “To me, your Royal Highness ?” “Yes, by Jove, I have!” “ As how ?” “Why, I did think a little while ago that you | were not so’—so—what shall I say ?—so devoted ' to my interests and wishes as you should be.” “Ah, your Royal Highness was indeed, then, unjust to me.” % deavour to do their duty—enemies.”’ “ Well—a—you have.” “hat Colonel Hanger.” ‘Don’t mention him. He is low.” “Decidedly. But I cannot conceal from my- self that he tried to supplant me ia the service of your Royal Highness.” , “ Well, he has failed.” ‘“‘T rejoice to hear it, because—because ‘¢ Because what ?” “T have something very singular to tell to your Royal Highness about the Dark Wonian!” “The what ?” 9 | j | « I own it.” ‘But I have what all people have who en- “The Dark Woman!” | “‘ When—oh, when,” cried the Regent, ‘shall I ever hear the last of her?” “Soon, I hope and trust, your Royal Highness, if you will place the matter in my hands.” “ Hanger has failed.” *¢ Of course.” “¢ Why of course 2” ‘“‘ He is clumsy in all he attempts.” ‘But what have you to tell me?’ “Tt is very strange!” ‘¢¢ What is it ?” “‘ Yesterday evening, as I was passing through a long passage which leads from those six old rooms once in the private occupation of Charles the First, I felt confident that I saw, some yards in advance of me, a glimmering light; and as I knew that none of the servants of the Palace had any occasion to be there, and, indeed, were by far too full of supernatural fears connected with that portion of the place to venture near the spot, I hurried onwards, to ascertain who and what it could be.” The Regent drew nearer the fire. “Go on, Moys,—go on. What was it?” “I'm really afraid your Royal Highness will hardly believe me; but, you know, I’m not an imaginative man, and what I think I see, I really see, I followed the light, which quite palpably gleamed from one side of the passage to the other, ; until I reached that door above which, your Royal Highness knows, are to be seen, in such bold relief, | the arms of Queen Henrietta.” “T know the door. They say it has been closed for sixty years.” “Will your Royal Highness please to believe me, when [ say it was open last night?” " D4 ie te THE DARK WOMAN. Open ?”” “Wide open; and through that doorway, I felt confident, that person, whoever it was, who bore the light, had passed. Had i not felt a great amount of curiosity, I might have felt some trepi- dation, for I was only armed with my dress-sword. I, however, drew it, and passed through that open doorway, finding myself, for the first time in my life, in those six rooms which have so supernatural a reputation in the Palace.” ‘(You surprise me. Go on—go on!” “ The light, and its bearer, had passed on to the second room. I followed, and it had passed to the third. To the third went I, and it passed to the fourth; and then, I must confess, I began to wonder if I should get back again with the same facility as I had advanced.” “But you went on?” “No. There I came to a standstill. The door that opened from the fourth to the fifth room was fast; but, in the intense stillness of that part of the Palace, I could hear a. voice from that fift room, declaiming to itself.” “A voice?” “Yes. A woman’s voice.” “Twas she!” gasped the Regent. it say?” “The words seemed to ring in my ears. ‘ Never till then,’ if said\—*‘ never till then, and then for ever! I do not wish to look upon his face again! But I will haunt him until I have news of my child; and if that news come not quickly, the catastrophe will happen, and Europe will ring with the account of the dead, which shall find its place npon a blood-stained page of English history!” “ By Jove!” cried the Regent, ‘‘ she means to murder me at last. I know who and what she was. But tell me all—-what became of it ?” ‘‘ Nothing further, your Royal Highness. The voice ceased, and the door remained fast. So I had nothing to co but to retrace my steps through the four apartments; and as I did so, the strangest thing that ever I met with in my life, happened.” “She came after you ?” “ No—but every door was closed after me, and by no apparent human agency, that I could see; until at last I reached that outer one with the arms above it, and that was closed behind me with a violence that seemed to shake the build- in (ke i I shall never know any peace,” said the Regent. ‘' She will never let me rest. She will persecute me until she or I are out of the world. I know her well. Your account, Sir Hinckton, but tallies too closely with what I am already well aware of. You've heard me speak of her. She has been here before; but how she gets in—or how, being ‘in, she gets ont—I cannot divine. It is Linda de Chevenaux whom you have seen.” “Nay, your Royal Highness, I did not see her.” “It's the same thing: it could be none but her. She haunts me,Moys. And I tell you, con- fidentially and secretly, that I never should have thought of being upon any terms with Hanger, but that he promised to rid moe of this woman.” “ And he went the wrong way about it.” “'Precisely—for he failed.” “ What did Sir Hinckton Moys assumed a contemplative air, and then he said—‘ Will your Royal Highness permit me to speak freely ?” ‘“ Oh, certainly; say what you like.” “Then I may state that I have had the honour of hearing your Royal Highness mention this cir- cnmatance; and it appears that this woman has had a son; and that the cause of all this perse- cution is, that she thinks that your Royal High- ness keeps from her a knowledge of his fate.” “ But I don’t,” said the Regent, with a vexed air, ‘I don’t know anything about his fate. And what’s his fate to me? It’s my own fate only that interests me. She’s quite welcome, if she would but be off, and not trouble me any more, to all the information I can give her. It was ever so long ago, too.” ‘“T cannot help thinking, then, that the best plan to relieve your Royal Highness of all further trouble would be to give what information you can; and if I now were to be in possession of such information, I would make it my special business, for your Royal Highness’s peace of mind, to find out this woman, and assure her that that was all you did know, and therefore all that she could know by troubling you.” ‘“‘ My dear Moys, if yow’ll do that, you'll confer a great obligation on me. I told that Hanger all about it, and I’m sorry I did, now; but, you see, he spoke so confidently about getting rid of her, and was so full of his stupid scheme, with his pistols and firing at the chandelier.” ** Persuasion, your Royal Highness, and a little yielding, will do more than force in such a case.” “ Of course—of course! And I’m sure I don’t want more trouble than enough, now. For here’s the Princess of Wales at Buckingham House, and the King getting better; and that man Fox, I understand, is going to oppose the vote in the House, for the hundred and sixty thousand psunds to clear off some of my plagues and encum- brances. So, I'll tell you all about it—at least, all I know, Moys.” ; “T think your Royal Highness has arrived at a wise decision.” “Well, there was a child—a boy—but Linda was really so troublesome that I was compelled to get_rid of them both; and Varley, you know.— Varley was in the same,situation with me that Willes is now, so I left it all to him, and he managed it. There was some bother and corre- spondence; but where he put it I don’t know.” ‘“‘Had Varley any access to those rooms ?” “Oh, no; of course not. But I dare say in some of the portfolios, or drawers, or somewhere, there’s something about it.” “Would it trouble your Royal Highness too much to look ?” ‘‘ Well, of course it’s a trouble—of course it’s a bother—and of course it’s an annoyance; but I will look. Come with me, Moys, and I will get some keys I’ve not handled for ever so long. I may find something about it.” The Regent rose, and seemed to be considering for a few moments. Then he made a slight gesture towards a wax- candle that was in a porcelain holder on a side table, and Sir Hinckton Moys understood that be was to light it, and accompany the Regent on tle voyage of discovery he contemplated. They left the room, and passing through several others, the Regent made his way into a small apartment, the walls of which were nearly covered with books in antique bindings, A V NY ii ) A Wi \ \\ \Z f/ ‘A , NUNZANS< Uy WS >" ot SS <> 1 pla In the centre of this apartment was a table containing drawers all round it; and while Sir Hinckton Moys held the light, the Regent dragged these drawers open one after another with viclence, and rummaged their contents. At length he found a bunch of keys upon a brass ring, and with an expression of weary satisfaction, he said, ‘‘ Ah, well, here they are! There, you'll find a key-hole in the panel by the side of that old edition of ‘Rappin’s England.’ Try and find the right key toit. Dear me, there’s nothing but trouble in the world! What can that woman want with her son? Can’t people be quiet, and let other people be quiet, and enjoy themselves ?” Sir Hinckton Moys took care that the slight smile which curled his lip should not be seen by the Regent ; and after trying several of the keys, he found one that fitted the lock; and the door, which carried with it a great mass of books, in- No. 29.—Dark Woman. asmuch as shelves were fastened to its back, came creakingly open. This door disclosed a dusty-looking passage be- yond it, and even Sir Hinckton Moys hesitated a moment before he proceeded into it. “Can your Royal Highness,” he said, where this leads to?” ‘Oh, yes; to a small suite of rooms that Varley used to look after. It’s a very odd thing what became of him, by the by. He disappeared one day—but he didn’t take anything that I’m aware of; so I locked up these rooms and flung the keys into one of the drawers. And what with staying at Windsor so long, and then getting the ceilings raised in Carlton House, so as to make the place habitable, I paid no attention to these apartments ; but you may depend, if Varley knew anything about the affair, or had any letters or papers, we shall find them here.” “say eri ar tt) ey Sty we i ER ER A NIN Sennen SSR RRnpnnemmeeneemenememrenmeetiaieenenenmenemmmmenenesitanetnemememememenenmmmmnen. semmmemtesnermemmm mentee saeneeeree eae 226 THE DARK WOMAN. LPC --I'"._:'-.."'“'— -+— OO OOee—“o0O30DEROO With this explanation, Sir Hinckton Moys had no objection to proceed, and at abont six paces forward he found another door which yielded to his touch, and that led into a handsome though not very spacious apartment. The door at which she entered was in the very centre of one of the walls of this apartment, and at each end, right. and left, there was a door with gilt mouldings, both of which were partially upen. ‘That's a breakfast-room,” said the Regent, pointing to the left; ‘‘and that’s a bed-room,” pointing to the right. ‘‘ Now, if Varley had any- thing, it’s in that bureau.” : ** Does your Royal Highness think that one of these keys will fit it?” “* Oh, I don’t know; but get it open, anyhow. I’m getting cold. What a deuced invention winter is! Can’t it be always summer, and then not too hot ?” A glance at the burean sufficed to let Sir Hinckton Moys see that it was an antique French piece of furniture, while the keys he had upon the brass ring were unmistakably English; but what with damps, and frosts, and summer heats, and positive age, there were crevices enough in the bureau, sothat it might be easily acted upon by any instrument that could be found to wrench it open. _ Sir Hinckton Moys had nothing with him more available than the long-bladed, triangular Court sword he usually wore, with its elaborate spark- ling steel hilt, and that for the nonce he made into a crowbar, for the purpose of wrenching open the bureau. The long, lithe blade of the sword would have bent or broken, but that he got it inserted far into the bureau, and then, with a sharp jerk, he forced the lock. The inside of this piece of furniture looked like a receptacle for cast-off cravats and gloves, for there were many of such articles lying in a con- fused heap within if. But tied round with some black silk was a small packet of papers, and the sharp eyes of Sir Hinckton Moya at once caught the superscription ef Linda de Chevenaux upon them. “T almost think, your Royal Highness,” said Moys, ‘that these are the very papers we want.” “Take them, then,” said the Regent, ‘‘ and make the best of them.” “Of that, your Royal Highness may depend ; and I hope that from this moment your persecu- tions on this account will cease.” “That will do—that will do! I'm shuddering and shivering. Let us be gone, Sir Hinckton.” ‘‘ Will you excuse a pardonable curiosity, and let me see the other two rooms while I’m here?” “Very well—very well! Dll wait for you in the little library. No I can’t—I’ve no light; and if I take that from you, how are you to see the rooms ?” “‘T forego the examination.” ‘No, no; if you want to see them, see them. There! that’s a breakfast-room, you see; and there’s a portrait of the Elector of Hanover; and ' this, you see, is a bed-room; and all the ghosts of the old kings who ever inhabited St. James’s may come and sleep in the bed if they like.” ‘“‘ What's that?” said Sir Hinckton Moys. *‘ What's what?” : r “There, your Royal Highness, at the foot of the bed, projecting out from the silk valance ?” “What? Why, what can it be?” Sir Hinckton Moys held the light low; and both he and the Regent stooped to look at some strange object which certainly projected from un- derneath the once costly bed that was in those neglected apartments. An expression of terror slowly spread itself over both their countenances. So entirely unexpected, and so truly horrible, was the aspect of this ob- ject, that probably the Regent at that moment forgot all his selfishness and desire to leave those cold and cheerless apartments ; and Sir Hinckton Moys became oblivious of the little plot by which he had extorted for his own purposes, from his royal master, the papers and documents connected with the fate of Linda de Chevenaux and her son. The object projecting from under the bed, and ruffling up the silken valance into folds, in which the dust lay thickly, was a human hand! It was but the dreary skeleton of a hand, with the bony fingers clutched; the softer parts having subsided beneath into a patchy dampness, which the hand, by no great stretch of imagination, might be supposed to be grasping. And how awfully suggestive was the sight of that protruding hand, of the dreadful object which could be seen beneath that costly bedstead, if any human eyes had the daring or the curiosty to look for it! Neither the Regent nor Sir Hinckton Moys could for some moments ‘take their eyes off the ghastly spectacle. They shrunk back together, step by step, until they reached the door of theapartment; and then some slant ray from ‘the candle which Sir Hinckton Moys carried, fell upon a jewel which was in a ring, still clasped in one of the bony fin- gers. They both saw the sparkle of the light upon the crystal, and then the Regent spoke. “By heaven! it’s Varley!—my old valet! I know him by the ring he always wore upon the middle finger !” “ But how came he there?-and dead?” asked Sir Hinckton Moys. ** That I cannot tell you. have my suspicions !” * Would your Royal Highness object to impart them ?” * Not at all. The fact is, Moys, the last time I came into these apartments, I was not alone, But I suspected Varley was watching me. The truth is, the rascal had a niece,, Well, it’s an old story; but if I must give an opinion about it, I should fancy he crept under that bed to watch me !” “‘ And does your Royal Highness think he there died a natural death?” said Sir Hinckton Moys, shading the wax-light with his hand, and looking curiously into the face of the Regent. —__ “J suppose so,” was the calm and careless reply. i The slight suspicion that had crossed the mind of Sir Hinekton Moys, vanished; for not the most consummate actor the world ever saw, could have assumed the indifference of voice, air, and manner, which characterised the Regent, as he uttered these few words, had he been the assassin of the valet, Varley. . And, indeed, his Royal Highness was perfectly free from any incrimination on the subject; and Bnt I now begin to / a nt ie Pt tts a ess ptt ciietcesiit A een ee re rsa ee erm ee ea et te on nes THE DARK WOMAN. the affair had either some mystery, of which he knew nothing, or it was just as he had stated. Sir Hinckton Moys was glad to shut the door of communication with that apartment. “ These three rooms, your Royal Highness,” he said, “‘contain a. terrible spectacle. “Let th ose look on who wili; I can only hope that my eyes will not behold it again.’ “Nor mine,” said the Regent. “Come away. The very air ‘seems—what shall T call it ?—fetid and death-like. I never felt a more urgent desire in all my life for a glass of brandy.” They were soon clear of those mysterious apart- ment, and the heavy door, with its panoply of books, was swung shut, and locked by Sir Hinck- ton Moys, who then, without any notice being taken of the action by the careless Regent, put the bunch of keys in his pocket. It was pleasant likewise to Sir’ Hinckton Moys to find that the Regent did not alluda again to the papers which had been taken from the bureau, and which no doubt so nearly concerned Linda de Chevenaux Sir Hinckton Moys recommended mulled claret when they reached the supper room again, and for another hour, until the fumes of the hot wine sent the Regent into a deep sleep, the Court para- site kept his company. Then Sir Hinckton rose, and summoned Willes. ‘Get him to rest, Willes,” he said. ‘‘Is he very bad ” “*No—oh, no. Only a little drowsy.” “ T will take him to the Countess.” “Countess? Oh, I remember—De Blonde, as she eglls herself. That affair seems to last, Willes.” “For the present.” “ Well, if you see your friend Astorath, you can say that I've made some progress; and in fact I rather fancy—althongh I’ve not looked at them —that I have papers and documents here contain- ing all the information he desires.” “*Concerning the Dark Woman ?” “ Exactly ; “and so I shall pay the price.” “ Of vengeance ?” Just so, Willes. I make no secret of it. Let those who injure me bear a charmed life if they can: if they be mortal, the day will come when I shall strike home! To be reviled, insulted, struck by such a scum as that !” “ He will hang,” said Willes. “Most assuredly.” .“ But, Sir Hinckton, suppose you trust me with the papers, and I will take them to Astorath ?” “No, Willes; I cannot deny myself the plea- sure. It is too late to-night; but to-morrow, some time after sunset, I will go to that mysterious house in Frith Street, and pay my debt with what Astorath will consider, I think, current coin.” “Not a doubt,” said Willes. “*T suspect some stronger motive than curiosity on the part of the astrologer.” “It is possible,” said Willes, with a shrug of the shoulders. “I merely directed you to him, because I thought him a handy person for your purposes.” “You have my thanks. Good night!” The Regent moved uneasily. “Ah, he awakens!” said Sir Hinckton Moys. “No!” whispered Willes. ‘ Hush!” “Another drop of brandy, lovely Countess,” murmured the Regent in his sleep. 227 CHAPTER LIX. SIR HINCKTON MOYS FINDS HIMSELY IN POSSESSION OF IMPORTANT INFORMATION. Tne night was yet young in the estimation of such a man as Sir Hinckton Moys, although twelve o'clock was on the point of striking. _ He sat in his own room in the Palace, and by the light of a candelabrum, carrying half a dozen candles, he proceeded to examine the papers extracted from the old bureau. They consisted of original letters from Linda de Chevenaux to the Prince, and likewise some letters of, the Prince to her, addressed to her father’s re- sidence at Dover Court. But the most interesting document of all, was a straggling kind of narrative, written no doubt by the valet Varley, although it was not signet by his name. That narrative ran as follows :— “*T have served this man faithfally now for four years. J am sick, and ill, and not long for this world. He is killing me, by seeking the destruc- tion of one whom I would preserve from all harm. If she were my own child, I might view this as a retribution, for I have been his agent in the betrayal and destruction of Linda de Chevenaux; and lest I should not live to state these facts—for the fear of death is strong upon me—let me state that that unhappy person is wrongfully confined under the pretence of lunacy, and that her child was torn from her by Laura Adams, the wicked daughter of the nurse who resides at North End, Hampstead. She has repeatedly appealed to the Regent for money, under the threat of deserting the child. I write this by stealth, for I feel assured he is undermining the innocence of my niece. They come this way—they come this way! These papers to the bureau! I may yet find some time to finish them! hide!” This statement, which, there could be no doubt whatever, was written by the sap Varley, abruptly ceased. Sir Hinckton Moys looked up, and a strange smile crossed his face. “So,” he said, ‘I suppose now I have the key to two mysteries in one. I fancy I know pretty well all about Linda de Chevenaux, as well as about Varley, the dead valet. Well, well; so the world wags from year to year. Astorath may have this statement, and much good may it’ do him. What care I, and what cares the Regent? Nothing, absolutely nothing. It’s a strange afiair, though.” Sir Hinckton carefully folded up the letters. He did not see the necessity of taking them to Astorath, since the only information he was desired to procure, concerned what had become of the infant son of Linda de Chevenaux. “That will do,” he said—* that will do! To- morrow—let it be to morrow !” A clock upon the chimney-piece struck one. Sir Hinckton Moys had just risen to his feet, and cast his eyes upon the dial, when he lifted his hand, and inclined his head in an attitude of listening. Ne ee ee I will hide—I will hide—I will | | __ 0 pr neapennecapentnenrroncrrneeieepstesbrmmremeet ret eee en CLS RS ES a Er ET ae A aN en nt eR a $$ NE YC & adit hetiae THE DARK WOMAN. A strange, wild, half-smothered cry came upon his ears. The Palace had been so profoundly still, or he might not have heard it; and even now, for a moment, he thought that only his imagination had conjured it up. But, if real, what could it be? Did it call for any action on his part? Or, could he go to rest with that cry ringing in his ears, and persuade himself that all was well ? There was something in the deep silence that succeeded almost as startling as the cry itself. Sir Hinckton Moys opened his door, and put his head out into the dark passage beyond, and listened. The cry came again. ‘By heavens, it is something!” he said; “and a something, perhaps, that I ought not to neglect!” He went hastily back to the table, and lifted from it the sword which he had taken from his side; then he flung it down again, after half drawing it, as he said, ““No, no! Thisis a useless, stupid weapon, more for show than offence. I have far better arms at hand—far better, far better!” He lifted a marble slab which closed the top of a console-table, and in a small cabinet beneath lay a pair of finely-constructed pistols. To possess himself of them was the work of a momeat; and then, lifting out one of the wax candles from the candelabrum, he sallied forth into the passage or corridor immediately outside his door. Now, this corridor was of considerable length, although narrow. No less than three staircases descended from it, and numerous doors opened to the right and to the left. Sir Hinckton Moys might have advanced, per- haps, some six steps along this corridor before a door, some paces off, was suddenly dashed open, and he saw the Regent, attired in a purple satin dressing-gown, retreating backwards, with a drawn sword in his hand. “Help, help!” cried the Prince. “Guard, guard! It’s murder—it’s nothing but murder!” A figure, in some dusky sort of apparel, now darted out of the same doorway, as if in pursuit of the Regent; and that same moment of time, likewise, Sir Hinckton Moys was surprised to hear a furious knocking on the inside of another door, which was within a few paces of where he stood. From the inner side of that door, too, came the same sort of cry that had first startled him. Now, all these events happened with such re- markable rapidity, that Sir Hinckton Moys, with the wax candle in his hand, stood like a man bewildered with astonishment; and that astonish- ment was by no means decreased, when he saw the dusky figure, which seemed to bein pursuit of the Regent, suddenly turn, and re-enter the room from whence it had come, banging the door shut after it with a loud sound. “Help, help!” cried the Regent. “She'll kill her—I know she'll kill her! Guard there! guard there! Where are the Yeomen ?” The Regent kept retreating, step by step, back- ward, fencing, with the drawn sword in his hand, at the air, until he came to the end of one of the staircases, and then down he went. The violent rapping on the inside of the door, close to Sir Hinckton Moys, continued; and then the courtier, who was tolerably prompt of action when once he was aroused, dashed at this door with his whole weight and strength. It gave way with a crash, and the wax candle fell from his hand, and was trampled under foot. At the same moment, there rushed from the | room a female figure in white drapery, and with a cloak of ermine half hanging from her shoulders. “Murder! help! she will kill me!” cried this person, as she flew, rather than flung herself, for protection, into the arms of Sir Hinckton Moys. The Countess knew the voice at once. It was that of Annie, Countess de Blonde. Nor was Sir Hinckton Moys kept long in sus- pense in regard to who it. was who pursued the fair Countess with violent intent. Dashing through the broken doorway, came the same female, in the dark-coloured clothing, who had pursued the Prince, and then disappeared again so rapidly. This person was armed with a formidable Turkish scimitar, which Sir Hinckton Moys knew had been in the Regent’s rooms—those rooms which were in the occupation of Annie, “ Vile creature!” she exclaimed; but your life shall satisfy me!” These words were spoken in foreign accents; and as well by the voice as by a faint light that came into the corridor by the broken doorway, Sir Hinckton Moys knew that this person was her Royal Highness the Princess Caroline, and wife of the Regent. How she had made her way into the Palace, and so to those very private apartments in the occupation of Annie, was a mystery; but there could be no doubt of the fact. There she was ;—and if she could have done so, there is very little doubt indeed but that she would have taken the life of that fair and frivo- lous creature, who about that period beguiled the leisure hours of the Prince of Wales. Sir Hinckton Moys saw that the circumstances were rather peculiar. He made up his mind in a moment. Flinging his arms around Annie, he at once, and with ease, lifted her light weight, and turning abruptly, without a word of remonstrance or reply to the infuriated Princess, he carried the Countess de Blonde from the scene of conflict. The light in the corridor was very dim. The’ fall of the wax candle which Moys had cartied, had deprived the place of its principal illumination; so it only had the faint, reflected light that came from Annie’s apartment. Sir Hinckton darted off as quickly as he could. Annie made no resistance. Aoybody might take charge of her, always provided she was saved from the violence of the Regent’s wife. , The room-door of Sir Hinckton’s apartment was luckily open, He had but to make a rush through the opening, and then turning abruptly, he banged the door shut, just as the Princess of Wales dealt a slashing blow with the Turkish sabre. The blow came upon the door. Annie screamed. } “ You are quite safe, now, Countess,” said Moys. “Help! help! she will kill me rv ‘* Not now!” Another slash at the door with the scimitar showed that the passion of the Regent’s wife was | by no means passing away. “nothing | CN tt lt ne ee nites THE DARK WOMAN. “Oh, save me!—save me!” shrieked Annie, who could not believe but that the door must give way. “Be under no apprehension, my dear Countess de Blonde,” said Sir Hinckton Moys. “You are perfectly safe !”’ “* Are you sure?” * Quite.” ‘“‘ And she cannot break in ?” “Certainly not.” “ What a tigress !” Sir Hinckton smiled. “ She is a fearful fiend.” Sir Hinckton laughed. “Open this door!” cried the Princess of Wales, from without,—“ open the door !” “Tell her you won't,” said Annie. “No, Countess, no; silence is best.” “Open, I command you, whoever you are!” “* Ah,” said Moys, “I am glad to hear that.” «What ?” “That she does not know me. She would not say ‘whoever you are!’ if she knew my name.” The Princess of Wales beat furiously at the panels of the door fer some few minutes more, and then she seemed to feel convinced that she could make no impression in that quarter. The blows on the door ceased. Another moment, and Annie and Sir Hinckton Moys heard a curious howling and shrieking noise along the whole length of the corridor. “What is that? Oh, good heavens, what is that?” said Annie. “‘ Nothing particular,” said Sir Hinckton Moys. “Tt is only her Royal Highness in a mingled fit of passion and hysterics; that is all.” Annie shuddered. “Come, Countess,” said Sir Hinckton, “you are cold, I am sure. You know well that I am your most devoted servant. In the adjoining room you will find an excellent fire. Pray allow me to make you up a temporary couch by the front of it. You can be there in comfort, in peace, and security, while I go and seek for the Regent.” “TI feel much obliged to you,” said Annie. “You have of late become very obliging to me.” “It is both a duty and a pleasure. The day may come when the duty may cease; but as the pleasure will remain, I shall still be as obliging to you as ever.” ““ Very well,” said Annie. ‘I did for a time, Sir Hinckton Moys, I admit, feel very angry with you; but I have forgiven you.” Sir Hinckton bowed. ‘“* And now, as I feel convinced that you are my true friend, I will always trust you.” ‘‘T am much honoured.” Sir Hinckton carefully wrapped the ermine cloak around Annie, and then, with the same out- ward appearance of respect that he would have bestowed upon some sovereign princess, he led her into the next apartment. It was his own bed-chamber. And Annie, thoughtless as she was, felt the delicacy with which this rowe and man of the world was treating her by mentioning that he would make up a couch for her before the fire. And he did make it up, and Annie lay there as warm and comfortable as possible. “Sir Hinckton Moys,” she said, as he was about to leave the room. 229 *€ Countess.” “‘T want to ask a favour of you.” “You are wrong, Countess.” “ Wrong ?” “Yes, It is quite out of the question.” “You amaze me.” “Let me explain. If you will say you have a command to give me, you will be right, because your slightest wishes are commands to me.” “ You are the most gallant man about the whole. Court,” added Annie; ‘and all I was going to say was that I wanted you to reflect what favour _ I could do you; for you know that whatever I choose to ask of the Regent will be granted to me.” Sir Hinckton Moys paused a moment. Then he spoke slowly. ‘“‘ About three years ago,” he said, ‘‘ the Pagets got from the King, while he was not quite right in his mind, a grant of a fine property which be- longed to the Crown, on pretence that it was a kitchen-garden, and adjoined their little estate.” “ Well?” “T want a kitchen-garden.” “An estate ?” ** Just so.” ‘A slice of the Crown lands ?” F ‘Your ladyship has said it.” “Where is it to be?” _ “In Hampshire. Not far from the New Forest there is a Crown property.” * You shall have it, Sir Hinckton Moys, if the Regent has power to give it to you.” ‘Yes. He has power, with the consent of the Crown, and that can be got.” ‘Look upon it as settled.” ‘“T am, as ever, your ladyship’s most obedient, humble servant.” Bang! came a knock at the outer door of the rooms in the occupation of Sir Hinckton Moys. Annie started, and cried out in alarm. ‘You are perfectly safe, Countess,” he said. “T pray you to be under no alarm whatever.” Bang! came the knock again. **T will go and see who it is.” Sir Hiackton Moys went to the door, and placed his mouth close to the keyhole. ‘‘ Who is there ?” OT hed? “Ah, it is the Regent!” “Open! open!” Sir Hinckton Moys opened the door, and the Prince of Wales staggered into the room, and sunk, in a state of perfect exhaustion, into an easy chair. : “Oh! oh! oh! chi” “Your Royal Highres;!” “Oh! oh!” “You are in pain.” “ Worse !” “ Worse than pain ?” “Yes. Agony!” ‘Good heavens !”” “You don't know what has happened ; you have no idea of what has happened! The—the—that dreadful woman, the Princess of Wales! Some of the servants are in her pay; some one has be- trayed me! She has made her way into the Palace. She was intent on the murder of poor Annie: she got into her room; she waited till I came, and then she rushed from behind a screen, a ee inSain ——— 230 and declared that she had only waited my pre- sence to take the life of the girl, Oh! oh! oh!” “Indeed, your Royal Highness !” ‘‘'Yes, indeed; and, in fact, I snatched up a sword, and fought my way out of the room to get assistance, and fell all the way down one of the staircases. I am here, but I wonder that I am here; and as for poor Annie, she is no more—no more!” “ Murdered 2” “Yes, Murdered, of course. A very pretty girl _ she was too, and I am afraid I shall miss her very much. But whatis to bedone? What on earth is to be done, Moys? The eclat—the scandal— the town's talk! What can be done?” Does your Royal Highness think the Princess of Wales has left the Palace?” “6 Ob, yes, yes!” “May I ask if your Royal Highness is quite certain ?” “Oh, yes! After raging and tearing through the rooms, and cursing and raving in a frightful manner she went away ina sedan chair which was waiting for her, and is no doubt at Buckingham House,” ‘‘And has your Royal Highness been to the rooms of the Countess de Blonde?” “No, no, no!” * But——” “How could 1? Howecould I? Poor girl, if I were to.see her there killed, I should feel—feel quite uncomfortable.” “(Ts that all?” cried Annie from the inner room. “Ts that ald?” The Regent sprung right off the chair some fest into the air, and alighted on the floor. ‘Good heaven! By Jove! That's her voice!” ‘And herself,”’ said Annie, as, with the ermine cloak about her, she emerged from the inner room, ‘Tam not hurt. I am, as you see, alive; and I am well; and I have to thank Sir Hinckton Moys.” “ You—you don’t say so!” “Yes, George. He rescued me, and brought me here, or I should no doubt have been killed, You can go and look at certain dents which no doubt you. will find in the door of this room, and you may imagine that they were all intended for me.” “My dear Annie!” ‘Ob, yes!” “ But, my charmer!” ‘Pho! pho \” ‘Why do you say, ‘Oh, yes ! “‘ Because now I hate you.” “ Hate me?” “To be sureI do! You left me tobe murdered by that dreadful woman.. You know you did: you were afraid, and you ran away. You know you did.” “My dear Countess de Blonde.” “* Don’t dear me!” “But I want to explain. That dreadful woman whom you so accnrately describe, ismy wife; and you know it is an admitted fact, that a man’s wife is the only woman of whom he may rationally, and without any imputation upon his conrage, be afraid. If it had been any one else, I should have staid, and fought, like—like——” “A Paladin!” said Sir Hinckton Moys. “Yes, like a Paladin. You must have heard me say just now, that you are the prettiest girl in Pho! pho?” THE DARK WOMAN. the world, and that life without you would be a burden.” “ No, I did not hear quite that.” “T appeal to Moys.” “ And I.” Sir Hinckton Moys first made a low bow to the Regent, and he made a low bow tu Annie; and then, without a word, he took up one of the lights from the canbelabrum, and going to the door of his room, he opened it, and made another low bow. Annie laughed. ‘‘ He means us to go,” said the Regent. Sir Hinckton Moys bowed again. ‘Come, then, Countess!” added the Regent. “I begin to think that we are very much indebted to our friend Moys.” . “I am sure of it,” said Anaie. i ‘Then we must see what we can do to thank im.” *-T will tell you all about that, George.” You will ?” ** Assuredly I will.” “Then that will save me the trouble of think- ing, which is a thing I dislike, by all means.” The Regent very gracefully—he was the most polished gentleman in Europe, was he not ?— offered his arm to Annie, who accepted it with a little pettish curtsey. Sir Hinckton Moys held the door. open, and they walked out together into the corridor. Moys went backwards with the wax candle in his hand, till he came to the door which he had broken down to rescue’ Annie, and then he paused. ‘‘ Heyday, what's this ?” ‘The Countess, your Royal Highness, was at the other side of that door. A furious personage was seeking her life, and so your humble servant broke it down and rescued her.” “ He did!” said Annie. ‘Well, really, Sir Hinckton Moys,” said the Regent, ‘ you are the champion of persecuted ladies, But come on, Annie. We will make fast the other door that communicates with the room, and so good night, Moys.” ** Good night!” said Annie, abe tg Sir Hinckton bowed low, and the Regent and the Countess de Blonde passed through the broken down doorway, and disappeared. ae “Well,” said Moys, as once more he now sought his own room, ‘I don’t think this night’s work will be quite thrown away. I am in high favour with the Regent, and shall get what I want in the most effectual manner; for Annie Gray can and will, if necessary, ask ten times to my once, and yet give no offence.” He made his way to his own room, and then his eyes fell upon the papers on the table which so nearly concerned the Dark Woman. “Ah, yes,” he said; ‘and this affair, too, seems all to go well. I shall have my revenge at the same time that I shall get my estate; and if the old King would but go off, I don’t see who is to stand between me and the monarch. I begin, too, to foresee another Court complication, out of which I may make something.” Sir Hinckton smiled as he uttered these words, and then, after a pause, he added, “There must of a surety be some serious embroilment between the Regent and his wife. What it will all come to I cannot guess. A trial, I should not wonder. | Well, well, we shall see—we shall sea.” ~ . ry RR RR RC Nn A THH DARK WOMAN, The clock struck three. ‘‘ Ah, so late?—so late? Well, I will now go to rest, for I fancy that the peace of the Palace will not be again disturbed to night. I will ring for Willes. No, I will put out the lights myself— all but one—all but one, and that may burn out.—I wonder,” added Sir Hinckton Moys, to himself, after he bad gone to bed,—‘I wonder now how that fellow feels in Newgate? Ha! ha! He will remember the day he dared to lift his hand against me! Newgate! Ha! ha! And then the scaffold! Ha!” Sir Hinckton Moys fell fast asleep. And at that hour, too, Allan Fearon was asleep in his cell at Newgate. Exhausted nature would have its dues, and he slept’a deep, calm sleep, which, while it lasted, lifted him out of the dreary prison, and brought him, in dreams, once more to the side of his own dear Marian. That night, the frost suddenly gave way in London, and under the arches of the bridges the ice began to crack with loud and fearful sounds. a CHAPTER LX. MARIAN MAKES A RESOLVE WHICH WRINGS HER HEART TO CARRY OUT. Coup and grey, the early morning light shone into the poor home of Marian. For the whole of that first sad night of sorrow and despair, Marian had remained on the floor of her room; and it was only when the morning began to dawn, that a short sleep closed her eyes, and enveloped her heart in forgetfulness. The cold was most intense when she awakened ; but her sleep had been deep and refreshing, and although she trembled in every limb, she arose, and did not feel so much depressed as she had doné. She began to recover, as well-adjusted minds will do, from the first shock of the dread calamity, and then she said to herself, “If lam to do any good to Allan, I must not neglect my own heait and strength.” This was an observation based on the soundest common sense; but it was one which Marian was not in the state cof mind to have made the day before. Now, however, she felt that it was for her to act —for she, who was at. liberty, to act for him who was in a prison; and she set about with a won- derful degree of coolness, considering the painful circumstances, to make herself a fire, and to pre- pare herself some food. There was a secret in all this. Marian had an idea. It was a very terrible one. It was one that sent a cold chill to her heart when she thought of it, and which strange to say, at the same time, brought a flush of colour to her cheeks that almost looked like shame, It was that idea which produced these effects. _It was the notion that she should have the necessity, by the force of circumstances, to do that which otherwise would never have entered into her mind, or if it had, would have been rejected with horror. : ~ Her idea was to call upon her sister Annie, and SR cer ne a I nc eg SEE A TE A 9 ra i ER Sa I aE Si I ne ee a Rn Oe we Ri nae OE We on ep 231 appeal to her to get Allan’s pardom from the Regent. This was a sad alternative for poor Marian. Her pure soul revolted from the life that Annie was leading; and it was dreadful to her mind to feel that there was any favour she would ask which Annie could grant, in consequence of that life that she was leading. And this idea lay at the bottom of the com- posure which had come over the mind of Marian. She felt a kind of certainty that if she could but bring her mind to go to Annie, and to ask her to save Allan, that he would be saved. She had brought her mind to the necessity. She only lingered over tie execution of the project. She only shuddered on the brink of that action, which filled her with horror. And what else was to be done? Was Allan to be abandoned to death, because she, Marian, shrank from even a brief communion with vice ? Oh, no! no! Pure as ever would she be after a visit to the weak-headed vain girl, who had made herself the toy and plaything of the sybarite, who would surely abandon her to misery and to shame, s0 soon as some new face should attract his pernicious regards. Marian partook of alight breakfast. She shud- dered as she did so, and she kept repeating the words, ‘For you, Allan, for you!—anything for you! WhydolIshrink? What would not youdo for me?” And then she rose, and from her scanty ward- robe, she drew forth an old but worn grey cloak, and wrapped it about her; and then she paused a moment, and stood by her little desk, and wrote on a slip of paper the one name of ‘ Marian,” and that slip of paper she concealed in her bosom. She meant to send it to Annie, who would know both the name and the handwriting, in case she should find any difficulty in seeing her. And so at about ten o’clock in the morning— that Saturday morning which followed the con- demnation of Allan, and which, with the Sunday that was so near at hand, only intervened between him and the threat of the terrible death that awaited him—poor half heart-broken Marian left Martlett’s Court for St. James's Palace, or Carlton House, she did not know which. She intended to make inquiry at tha gate of old St. James’s to discover precisely where Annie was., But she thought she had heard Allan Fearon say that it was at St. James’s Palace he had seen her. Through the snow—that snow which was now tops, for a partial thaw had commenced—went Marian, and she was soon at the gate of old St. James’s, - With trembling steps, Marian made her way beneath the old gateway ; and then, as she reached the shelter of the colonade to the right of the Colour Court, she paused to wonder who she should ask for information of where Annie was. Several men, who by their appearance seemed to belong to the Palace, in different capacities, passed her, but Marian dreaded to speak to them. She shrunk from the sort of construction which might be put upon her inquiries. At length, as she looked along the narrow changing colour in the streets, and on the house- | 232 THE DARK WOMAN, passage which leads into the other and more open court, in which a large house is now standing, which was built for the Duke of York, but which he never occupied, Marian saw a woman come to one of those low, old-fashioned doors which so abound about old St. James’s Palace, and stand on the threshold, looking out, as though for some one. There was a kind, motherly look about this woman that much attracted and assured Marian. She at once made her way towards her. The woman regarded Marian with an inquiring look, and at first seemed inclined to shake her head, as though it were possible some appeal was aboat to be made to her that she had not the power to respond to, but a second glance at Marian seemed to correct this opinion. ‘Are you looking for some one, miss?” asked the woman. “Tf you please,” said Marian, “1 want some information which you perhaps will be kindly able to give me.” “Tf ITcan. Oh, yes! Pray step in.” Marian was right glad of the hospitality afforded even by a temporary shelter from the inclemency of the weather, and she followed the woman into a little wainscoted room, which was comfortable, though homely. ““My husband,” said the woman, “is a Yeoman of the Guard, andI expect him in soon.” ‘“*Yes—oh, yes, I—that is——” Marian had to make a great effort to control her tears, but she succeeded. “‘T hope,” she said, ‘‘that you will forgive me for asking you such a question, but do you know where a young person is to be found who—who— who——” ‘‘ Who what, my dear?” ‘‘ Who, I think, is with the Regent? Hername is Gray ?” The good woman shook her head. * You do not know ?” ‘“‘T only know that there is a young person who called the Countess de Blonde.” “De Blonde?” “Yes. She is quite a girl, with long, fair hair, and looks so childish in the face that it is enongh to break the heart of any one who has had dear children of their own, to see her.” Marian could not stand this. She was com- pletely overcome, and sobbed aloud. ‘“Good gracious!” said the Yeoman’s wife, “what have I said? I would not hurt your feel- ings for the world.” ‘No! no! no! I know you would not!” ‘“*Indeed, no! Pray compose yourself, my dear gul. Why, you are but a young thing yourself, and yet surely you have suffered some great grief.” “‘T have! Ihave! I do suffer!” ‘Can I—can anybody be of any use to you? Can I do anything for you, do you think?” Marian looked in the kindly face of the good woman, through her tears, as she said, ‘ That girl with the childish face, who calls herself De Blonde, is my sister.” “Your sister ?”” ‘‘ Yes. I have come to seek her, and it is to ask you where I may do so thatI amhere. I am sure you will kindly tell me, and you will accept the thanks of my poor, poor half-broken heart.” i ta | The good woman shook her head sadly. ‘‘ My dear, my dear, it is too late.” “Too late? Ob, no, no!—not too late! not say that! There is even another day!” ** Bless me, what do you mean?” “ They cannot kill him yet!” The Yeoman’s wife looked at Marian now as if she had a slight idea that the young girl was deranged ; and then Marian became conscious that she had spoken but vaguely, and she hastened to add, “I am speaking strangely to you, but I have a terrible load at my heart. Oh, tell me where and how I can see this young girl; for I must see her,—indeed, I must see her !” “T will do all I can.” “Oh, thank you—thank you!” “But it is as I say, too late. You will never now turn her from the life she has chosen to lead. “Alas, no! I have no hope to do go.” “Then what——” The good woman paused. She felt that she was cross-questioning her visitor instead of an- swering her, and she hastened to add, “ You will have to go round to the Ambassador’s Court, as it is called, and knock at a door, on which you will see ‘No. 7’ painted, and then you will surely see some one who willlet you know whether you can see the Countess de Blonde or not.” ‘Thanks, oh, thanks! I will go.” ‘“‘ But it will be of no use now.” ** No usa ?” ‘Oh, no; not for a good hour yet. it is only eleven o’clock.” ‘Eleven 2?” “Yes. And it will be past twelve at the earliest before you would even get an answer at the door I have spoken of. You don’t know, my dear, the sort of hours that are kept in this place by such— such——— Well, I won’t say a word to vex you; for let her be what she may, I have not lived all these years in the world not to see that you are a good girl.” “I thank. you with all my heart. and walk in the park.” ‘Oh, no, no! You will stay here, and keep yourself warm and comfortable; and, bless me! there is John, my husband. You see he was a sergeant in the army, and then they made him, when he got too old for foreign service, one of the Yeomen of the Guard. Well, John, a cold day again. Comein. This is only a young lady who is resting herself for an hour.” Citas “ Your servant, miss,” said the Yeoman. “ Don't let me disturb you; I’ve just come off duty.” Marian would have risen to make way by the fire-side for the old soldier, but he would not per- mit her, and sat down at some distance off, in his quaint uniform of the Elizabethan era, while the wife put the long partizan he carried while on duty into the corner. ‘Bless you, miss,” he said, “it's cold enough, to be sure, but nothing to what we had in Canada. I was out there, you see, miss, while the troubles were going on.” ‘But it is very cold!” said Marian. “ Well, yes, it is that.” “But what was going on in the Palace last night, John?” said his wife. “There was your comrade Daintry laughing about something.” “Well he might—well he might!” said the Do Bless you, I will go Yeoman. ‘There's strange doings here. Did you H THE DARK WOMAN, 2933 ——— ae! at j | f \ Sean ¥ = = =: = pat Se Teemacenet = N ae y sS (LETTE (eae TE ri MOUTON TOUUVUULUDUUUUEOUEAUUULE LATTA =) 1} | " | el Ni i | i | rit know, wife, that the Princess Caroline of Bruns- | wick had come home?” “‘T heard it.” “ Well, that was all about it. She got into the Palace somehow, and they do say that she fees handsomely some of the people about the Regent ; but whether that be the case or not, she got in. And the Regent was to sup with Sir Hinckton Moys ; and they do say that Willes had to get him into his own rocms the best way he could; and you know, wife, whese rooms they are just now, as well as the Regent's.” “ Hush !” said the Yeoman’s wife, “ Eh 2” “Hnsh, John! What need you come here talking nonsense about things and people we know nothing about, and oughtn’t to want to know ?” “ Well, but - “Will you be quiet, John?” No. 30.—Dark Wontan. The Yeoman’s wife now perpetrated a series of | winks in the direction of Marian, which, without enlightening John any further, let him see that there was some mystery. Marian declined to ask any question, although, situated as she now was, everything that concerned Annie seemed to have grown into new importance ; and she would fain, if she could have heard without asking, have become acquainted with the precise position of affairs at the Palace. She, however, had nothing to conceal, and she thought it would be far better to tell the Yeoman’s wife at once the real reason of her errand to St. James's, than leave her to form a thousand aimless conjectures upon the subject. Before Marian could speak, however, the Yeoman got so fidgetty with the conviction that some- thing was going on in which he ought not to inter- fere, that he pretended to be suddenly struck with the idea that he was wanted in the guard-room. SS 234 THE DARK WOMAN, ‘** Dear me!” he said; “I had quite forgot! I have to see somebody, and do something; but I'll be back in half an hour!” The Yeoman bustled out, and Marian, when she was alone with his wife, spoke at once. “Tt is but a slight return for your kindness if I tell you that my errand here is to seek for mercy for one who is unjustly condemned, languishing now in Newgate, and waiting for the death which he has done nothing to deserve. There is one who must be saved, despite all hazards, all terrors, and all heart-shrinkings. I have no in- terest with those in authority, but this Countess de Blonde you mention, is my sister!” “ Ah, I understand,” cried the Yeoman's wife. Poor Marian clasped her hands together, and looked so truly desolate and wretched now, that the compassionate feelings of the kind-hearted woman were quite moved. . ‘6 My dear child,” she said,‘ for, after all, you are but a child,—I would do anything in the world to help you. God bless and prosper you!” ‘‘ Oh, this is a consolation!” sobbed Marian ; “the world is not all heartless. There are so many people who are good, and kind, and gentle, that I will not yet abandon hope!” “t Certainly not, my dear. Come, now, tell me all about it; and who knows what we may do? Good heart! why the simplest folks in all the world can sometimes do things that all your great people cannot.” ** Yes, yes, I will tell you all!” ‘*t And come nearer the fire.” Marian glanced up at the quaint-looking face of an old clock that was in the room, and she saw that it yet wanted more than the half-hour to twelve. “ T was married,” she said, ‘* on Monday last.” “ Married !” ** Yes, oh, yes, to one who loved me—who loves me still, most sincerely; but even at the altar he was torn from me, and accused of a crime of which he is so innocent—oh, so innocent!” “© What was it ?” “ A robbery at his master’s!” “ Dear heart |” “ But he did not doit. He had no thought of doing it. The most distant idea of such a thing never, oh, never, crossed his pure mind. But he has an enemy, a fearful enemys—one who will scruple at nothing to ensure his destruction !” “* You don’t say so!” “ Yes; Sir Hinckton Moys is his name!” Sir Hinckton Moys?” You knowhim? Ah! you know that name?” “ My dear child, it is a name which is only too well known in and about St. James’s Palace!” “ And you do not—you cannot think that he is other than a bad, bad man?” ‘‘ My child, he is the worst of men!” “Oh, yes, yes! You will believe me, then, when I tell you that I feel assured it is to him we owe all this misfortune.” Marian then rapidly and briefly related to the Yeoman’s wife all that had taken place between Allan Fearon and Sir Hinckton Moys, in relation to Annie, and what good ground she had to fear the implacable hatred of Moys. The good woman listened to her with most ab- Sorbing interest, and then she said, ‘ Good heaven, this is a terrible affair! And so you think, my dear, that your poor sister—I call her poor, for indeed she is to be pitied as well as blamed —will help you ?” ‘‘ T have but that one hope!” The Yeoman’s wife seemed to be considering for some time, and then she said, ‘* My dear, there is one difficulty, and it is just this. Those who are in the pay of the Regent, and very likely of Sir Hinckton Moys too, about this unhappy girl, your sister, will do all they can to prevent your seeing her!” *6 Oh, what shall I do then ?” ; “‘ T do not mean to say that perhaps she would not see you ifshe could; but they will never let her know you are there; and they will bring to you some pretended message from her, which will go nigh to break your heart, and prevent you from staying another moment in the Palace!” ‘‘[ dreaded that—I did dread that!” Marian; ‘and I know not what to do.” “My dear girl, I must help you; I must do something to help you. And now I think of it, one of the maids who are employed at that part of the Palace will gladly do what she can for me, since I got her the place; and a godd one it is.” “Oh, how kind you are!” te ‘‘Not a bit—not a bit. Dear heart! don't you think of that; but you come along with me, and we will see what can be done. Oh, these men-— these men! What wretches they all are!” ‘Nay, not all.” - . * Well, well, there’s my John, I admit.” * And my Allan.” “Well, there may be your A'lan; but after that, my dear, they are wretchos.” Marian would have smiled at any other time at this rather sweeping denunciation of the male said ‘sex, but her heart wag too heavy now, The Yeoman’s wife hasti!y put on her bonnet and shawl, end then, with Marian, she satlied out to go to the Ambassador’s Court, to see what she could do to get Marian an interview with her sister, And if only one short week since anybody had told Marian that she would be most anxious to procure an interview with Annie, and that she would be grateful to any one who would take her by the hand and help her to do so—that she would actually seek her lost sister in the apart- ments of the libertine Regent in St. James’s Palace, why Marian would have set that person down as the most absurd dreamer that ever lived, And yet there she was. There she actually was, and only full of appre- hension that she might not succeed in procuring that interview which, under other circumstances, she would have revolted from with terror. The door which had been indicated by the Yeoman’s wife as that at which Marian was to apply for leave to see Annie, was soon reached. The Yeoman’s wife rang at a small bell, the ‘handle of which was nearly concealed in the mouldings of the doorway. The door was opened abruptly. A porter was within. “ What is it, eh?” ¥ ‘“T want Mary Hayes,” said the Yeoman’s wife. ‘You can’t see her, then.” “ But you know me, Iam sure.” : “Oh, yes, I know you; but who is that with you?” “ A young friend of mine who wants a place.” “Can't help it; you can’t comein. My orders are such that I must not let anybody in here by this door but the Regent, Sir Hinckton Moys, and Willes.” “But 44 “Oh, it’s no use talking! Don’t keep me here till my nose is froze off with the wind.” *‘ Sir,” said Marian, who was driven to despe- ration by this refusal, “would you oblige me in one thing? It will not give you much trouble.” *t What is it?” “Will you see that Annie,—I mean the Coun- tess de Blonde, has this little bit of paper?” It seemed that the indignation of the confiden- tial porter, at being asked to do such a thing, was so great that he had no words in which to express it. They could fancy, by the movement of his lips, that he was uttering inwardly, so to speak, some terrible denunciations, and then he banged the door shut with a force that must have been heard all over the court. Marian burst into tears. The Yeoman’s wife looked very much discon- certed. “Oh, what shall I do?—what shall I do?” said Marian. ‘Come, come,” cried the Yeoman’s wife; “ we will not despair yet. Come to my place, and we will now speak to John, and see what he can do.” Marian began to feel terribly hopeless. If there would have been, under ordinary cir- cumstances, a great difficulty to get her to go to Annie, the difficulty of seeing her was one that would never have occurred to Marian. She little knew that, having once accepted such a condition as she now held, Annie was for the time as much a slave as any sultana of an Eastern zenana. The Yeoman had come back again to the rooms he and his wife had in the Palace by the time Marian and her new friend had reached them. * John,” said the good woman, “you are not very bright at the best of times, but I have known you say a clever thing now and then, and think of what is best to do, and I want you to set all your wits to work now.” ‘‘ What about, wife ?” “To get this young creature an interview with the Countess de Blonde.” John smiled. “ What do you mean now?” cried his wife. * 10 do tt.” “You will doit? You? But how?” ‘+ Rasy.” ‘¢ Speak up, John.” “Well, wife, it will be easy enough. I am going on duty on what they call the King’s Cabi- net stairs. Ican take the young lady with me, and then she will have nothing to do but to go along the old Vandyke gallery, and se will come to one of the doors that lead to the very room where the Countess de Blonde lives.” “Oh, how can I thank you?—how can I thank you?” exclaimed Annie, as she clasped the great, rough hand of the Yeoman in her own. “Oh, bless you, miss, don’t say another word about it. You know, wife, lam not such a fool _a3 I look.” “T never said you were a fool at all, John; only I did not think you could manage this.” THE BARK WOMAN. 235 There was, perhaps, just a little air of piqua even about this good, kind-hearted woman when she found that John could arrange an affair that she had failed in; but that did not last a minute. She was human, but her kindly qualities over- came, and soon rose superior to, all small, petty feelings. “Go, my dear, and may God help and protect you!” she said. “ Now ?” said Marian,—‘‘ now? Are you going now, sir?” “Yes. It's my time.” The Yeoman took his partizan from the corner, and put on his flat cap. ‘Tam ready,” he said. Marian turned towards the kind woman, and as she kissed her cheek, she said, tearfully, ‘‘ Whether I succeed or fail, I shall never forget how kind you were to me.” Then she followed the Yeoman out into one of the courts of the Palace. “You see,” said John, ‘‘I have to relieva one of my comrades, who cannot come away till I go to him; and 1 have a key to one of the doors in the Colour Court that will take me to- the place quiet enough. The old doors of St. James’s are all kept by the Yeomen of the Guard, and the officer on duty has the keys.” ‘*‘ Yes,” said Marian, She hardly knew what she heard or to what she replied. Her thoughts were now busy with what she should say to Annie if she should see her. That now she should do so Marian had a con- fident hope, for the Yeoman had said, not that he would try to get her an interview, but that he would get it her. There was no doubt about his words whatever. ‘ There were but few people about the old courts of the Palace of St. James’s. The weather was not tempting out of doors, and the huge heaped- up fires of that establishment were decidedly com- fortable within. The Yeoman merely nodded to two or three of the servants as he passed them, and then he paused at one of those low, common-looking doors with which the Palace abounds, and he opened it by the aid of a key which he had been carrying in his hand. “Come in,” he said. Marian in another moment had passed through the doorway, and the door was closed. “Ts that you, comrade?” said a voice from the top of a small flight of steps, * All right!’ said John. There was a heavy footstep, and then one of the Yeomen of the Guard came down the steps. “Hilloa!” he said. “Is this one of your daughters ?” “Say yes,” whispered Marian. “Yes,” said John. *‘ Hope you are well, miss ?” “Thank you, yes,” replied Marian. “ Where’s the key, comrade?” “There it is.” “Oh, all right! Good bye!” “Now,” said John, ‘I am on duty here for two hours,—that is to say, not exactly here, but up above. You see there is a short sort of passage above these steps, and from that there is a flight of stairs that always have had a guard as long aa St. James's has been a palace.” 236 “Yes, yes!” ‘“‘ And there I have to be. You must make your time with your sister as short as you can, you know, because, though it cannot matter much one way or the other, there might be a fuss about it if it was known that I let you pass.” “Oh, Iam so mueh beholden to you—believe me, Iam! Ishall always think of you with thanks!” “ Follow me, if you please. This is the way.” The Yeoman led Marian up the first short flight of steps to the sort of passage he had mentioned, and in which there burnt a bright fire. Then there was a door of solid mahogany, with gilt mouldings, which opened up the stairs, which were supposed to be one of the necessary guard- posts of the Palace. These stairs were richly carpeted. “There you are,” said the Yeoman. ‘‘ You have only to go up those stairs, and along the Vandyke Gallery till you come to the first door you can see on your left hand.” “ And that will take me to Annie?” “To the Countess de Blonde—yes, yes!” ‘Shall I meet any one?” “Oh, no, no!” “Then these stairs are not used ?” “Not at this time of day, you may depend upon it. The Regent, perhaps, about once in a week, or so, may come out late at night this way, or come in; but not in the day-time.” “Thank you—thank you!” Marian could not possibly help feeling some trepidation as she ascended that staircase which led into the interior of St. James's Palace, and nothing but the great object she had at heart could possibly have nerved her to the enterprise. The carpet on the stairs was thick and soft, and most effectually deadened all sounds of footsteps, so that the heaviest tread would not have been heard. No wonder, then, that Marian’s light footsteps were perfectly noiseless. At the head of those stairs, which Marian mechanically counted, and found to be thirty in number, there was one of those doors, so common in the old Palace as dust and draught excluders, covered with crimson cloth. This door had no fastening. There was a gilt handle on both sides, and Marian had but to push it open. It led at once into a long gloomy-looking gallery, on the walls of which hung old, faded, dismal-looking full-length portraits. This was the Vandybke gallery. It was evident that this part of the Palace was very much neglected; for although a width of rich Persian carpet lay the whole length upon the room, the windows were perfectly darkened with dust and rain. Not the remotest sound indicative of any one being in that part of the Palace, came upon the ears of Marian. Marian went on, and as she did so, a feeling of such intense anxiety came over her, that more than once she was compelled to pause, and press her hands upon her breast in the vain endeavour to still the fearful beating of her heart. It was at one of these pauses, when she was close to the deep recess of one of the old windows of the gallery, that she was startled by the sudden opening ofa door. — THE DARK WOMAN. It was some door towards quite the further end of the gallery; and simultaneously with its open- ing, she heard a voice say loudly, “ Well, well, Countess, it shall be as you wish; although b never thought that Moys would have succeeded in, creeping into your favour so completely.” There was some reply made. It was but a few words, in a female voice; but every tone struck like a blow upon the heart of Marian. It was the voice of Annie! The first impulse of Marian was to fly forward with a cry, and call upon her sister by name; but she controlled that feeling, and shrunk back into the recess of the old window. From there she could see a man pass in a slant direction, across the further end of the gallery, and open a door, through which he passed. The door swung shut behind him. Marian might guess, but she did not know, that that man, who had on a flowery Turkish dressing-robe of the most costly materials, was the Regent. But she had heard Annie’s voice; and surely that door at which she had heard it must be the proper one at which to apply to see her. Marian hastened forward; but she had not gone about half a dozen footsteps further, when on her left hand she saw a door, such as had been mentioned by the Yeoman to her. Marian paused. Then the true state of the case occurred to her. Annie occupied, probably, a suite of rooms, of which the first door was the one that opened from the end of them in that direction. ‘* Now, may heaven aid me!” said Marian. She tapped at the door. There was no reply. Marian tapped more loudly. The door then was suddenly opened, and a young girl appeared. ** Have you brought them ?” she said. Marian had not the most distant idea of what she meant, but she made good her entrance to the room, saying, as she did so, “My sister—my sister! The Countess de Blonde. I would see her.” “ Sister!” exclaimed the young girl, stepping back in surprise, for that was not exactly the place for relatives to visit. Marian took advantage of the surprise and irresolution of this girl, and ran through two rooms that opened to her right in a moment. She stood, then, transfixed at the open door of a third apartment. Annie was there. It was a most magnificent dressing-room. White satin and gold seemed to be everywhere ; and Annie was in the very act of fixing some ornaments in her beautiful hair opposite to a large mirror, when Marian appeared at the door of the room. Annie saw her in the mirror. Marian stood at the door with her hands clasped, and, for the moment, unable to move or speak. Pale as death, Annie slowly turned round, and the gold ornament fell with a tinkling sound to the floor. ‘‘ Marian!” she gasped. “Annie! Annie! Annie!” The Countess de Blonde clasped her hands tightly—she stamped with her feet—she pressed her hands over her eyes; and then, in a loud, un- Se eRe ca a eS a ee ee ee THE DARK WOMAN. 237 natural voice, she cried, ‘‘ What, oh, what do you want here? I will not come away—lI will not come away! I am happy—I am happy!” “Annie! Annie! In mercy 43 “No, no, no! Do not come here to drive me mad! I was-happy.” Marian held out her arms. The tears rolled down her cheeks; her attitude was one of caress ; she was half bent forward, and al] she sobbed was ‘* Annie—dear, dear Annie!” “You cannot—yes, you do—you forgive me, Marian ?” “Tl do—I do!” ‘You love me still?” “T do—I do!” Annie burst into tears, and was in another moment at her sister’s feet. Her sobs were terrible to hear, and Marian bent over her and folded her head in her arms, and for more than five minutes not a word was spoken. It was Annie, then, that, in a childish, wailing voice said, ‘‘No, no! It is too late—too late!” “To late for what, dear?” sobbed Marian. ‘For me to be other than what I am. I am what I have made myself; I am what I have chosen to be; and I must be happy—happy, gay, and lighthearted, or I must die! Die, I say! Ha! ha! ha! Iamhappy! Go! go!l—oh, go! and leave me for ever, and forget me! I cannot listen to you! Too well I know what you have come to say !—but it is too late—it is too late!” “No, Annie,” said Marian, sadly, “I did not come to ask you to come away with me. Heaven knows I would do anything to restore you to— to ” “Innocence! Say the word—say the word, Marian. To innocence; but I am a bad girl, you see—a wanton—a thing to scorn! Don’t touch me—don’t kiss me! I wonder you can touch me! I do not want to see you—I do not want to hear you! Oh, why—why did you come to me, to remind me of the past? Thank heaven !—thank heaven!” ‘‘ Annie, Annie, for what do you so suddenly thank heaven ?” ‘‘ That I have no mother, no father !” _ “Oh, this is terrible !” “ Go—go at once! I hate you—I hate all who are not asI am! I am a Countess! Ha! ha! ha! Well, you can bea Countess, Marian! I am so happy, too! I have wealth, luxuries! I have but to wish, and like the princess in the fairy tale, allcomes to me! Why should I not be happy— happy—happy ?” She wrung her hands, and sobbed now again as if her heart would break. * Annie! Annie! do you remember Allan?” “T do! Ido!” ‘“ Allan is my husband now!” “ Ah!” “ Yes, Annie. And on Monday morning next he is to be dragged out to die!” “To what?” ““ To die by the hands of the executioner !” “* Good heavens!” “ He has been accused, tried, and condemned, for a crime of which he is as innocent as you or I. The Regent alone can save him |” “The Regent?” “Yes. I am here! now |” You know the cause Annie clasped her hands together, and uttered scream of delight. ‘‘ They no more dare hurt a hair of his head,” ahe said, ‘“‘ than they dare come and kill me now!” ** Annie, Annie, you will save him?” ‘* He is saved !” “ God bless you!” “Hal ha! ha! Ob, heaven! —oh, mercy! Hal ha! ha! My sister Marian comes to me, and says, ‘ God bless you!’ Ha! ha! ha! ha!” The laughter was unnatural, wild, and hyste- rical; .and Annie was compelled to gasp for breath. ‘‘ Oh, this is fearful!” sobbed Marian. “ No, no—do not say that! Go home, or go to Allan Fearon! He shall be saved! I will have itso! He shall be saved! He is saved!” “ Then again, God bless you, Annie! Fare- well! But if—if you——” ‘* No, no, no! I know what you would say! No more home for me! Never, never! I have no home!” * You will not forget, Annie? Allan now is in that terrible prison of Newgate!” ‘‘ Tf I live another hour, he is saved! Hate me as you did! sister, and forget me!” *¢ Never! never!” Marian held out her arms again, and would fain have clasped Annie to her heart; but the Countess. shrunk from her. “No!” she said; ‘ you are pure! Iam! Go!” Marian tottered towards the rooms through which she had come to Annie; but the latter called out to her, “ This way! this way!” Annie then opened that same door by which the Regent had left the room, and in another moment Marian had crossed the threshold. Then, with a cry of heartfelt agony, Annie rushed after her, and flung herself upon her neck. “ Sister! sister !” “ Dear Annie!” It was but for a moment. With a sob that sounded almost as if it were the last that could come from a broken heart, Annie disengaged her- self from Marian’s embrace, and re-entered the room. The door was closed. Once more Marian was in that Vandyke gal- lery which she had traversed with such shrinking and saddened feelings on her approach to Annie’s apartments. She had suffered deeply through that agitating interview, but it was past, and she departed hopefully. She seemed to feel that Allan would be saved; that, in fact, to use the language of Annie, he was saved from the moment the request had been made, and the promise had been given; and this feeling brought a lightness to the heart of Marian, it had not known since that fearful period on the Monday morning when the myrmidons of the law had laid their hands upon her heart’s best trea- sure, The gallery did not look so gloomy. The old portraits no longer bore the scowling look that they had seemed to wear to her, on first beholding them; and now that she conld look back upon that interview, instead of looking for- ward to it, it bere to her a very different aspect ; Go! go! Condemn me as you did, I am what ‘ erin rar ee ht PCRs eae tl ep Oa ct ts cp ie nematic tia iarisniattttan tigi bestia 238 for even amid all the wild excitement that had characterised the manner of Annie, Marian could see that there was a hope yet that she might be saved, and find happiness, even if it mingled with repentance, The Yeoman of the Guard was still on his post, and warmly thanking him for his aid, Marian passed out into the Colour Court of old Si. James’s, and hurtied to her home. She knew that it was past the hour at which ske could see Allan at the prison, but she could write to him, and write to him hopefully—indeed, more than hopefully, for could she not write to him assuredly that he would be saved ? Marian took her own letter to the gate of Newgate; and then, with a peace of mind he had not known for many an hour, she waited the result she thought certain, because she was yet ignorant of the fearful machinations of those who had brought Allan to his present condition of grief and danger. CHAPTER LXI. SIR HINCKTON MOYS PERFORMS HIS PART OF THE COMPACT. Marian prebably had been absent an hour from those apartments in St. James's which were in the occupation of the Countess de Blonde, before the latter could compose her spirits sufficiently for an interview of any kind with any one. Annie knew that she should rec-ive no visit from the Regent for many an hour, and for once she was deeply thankful that such was the case, so far as she was herself concerned; but she be- came speedily anxious that the request of Marian should not be delayed in fulfilment by the absence of his Royal Highness from the Palace. She thought he had said something about going to Windsor. but she was not quite sure. Sir Hinckton Moys, however, would know all about that; and when Annie had dried her tears, and had managed pretty well to efface the traces of the deep emotion she had suffered, she sent for the courtier. Now, Sir Hinckton Moys, but that he had a special anxiety of his own, would not have been so ready at the call of the Countess de Blonde as he anpeared to be. Tt will be recollected that Annie had promised to lose no time in making the request to the Regent which he had preferred to her; and from some stray expression which had dropped from the Prince, Sir Hinckton Moys fancied that she had spoken to him; and he was, in fact, waiting with no small amount of impatience to see Annie, in order that he might hear‘from her own lips if the grant of the nice little bit of Crown land in Hampshire would be given to him. The Regent had actually left the Palace, for Annie was quite right in her recollection that he had to go to Windsor; but there was Sir Hinck- ton Moys, her most humble servant, and within ten minutes of her sending for him he was making his most courtly bow in her gracious presence. Annie received him in that peculiarly beautifal apartment which adjoined the small ante-room THE DARK WOMAN. where Allan Fearon had run go great a risk of death, — And how confident did Annie feel that she had but to express her wish that a human life should be spared, and it would be granted! In the excitement of the interviewe-which Marian had had with her sister, she had unfortunately om&ted to acquaint her with the fact that it waa to the revenge of Sir Hinckton Moys she attri- buted the perilous position of Allan. It had not occurred to Marian that he would be spoken to. In her imagination on the subject, Marian only saw Aanie and the Regent; and when Annie promised her influence, she considered all was done that could be done. Had she dreamt for a moment that Sir Hinckton Moys would have been sent for, she would probably have possessed Annie’s mind with very different feelings on the: subject. * Fair Countess,” said Sir Hinckton, when he had resumed the perpendicular, after making his low bow, “‘I am your sincerest admirer and hum- blest slave.” ““T hope so,” said Annie. “Can you doubt it? It is a bondage so de- lightful that to be freed from it would be the slavery, while it is freedom and joy.” “ Very well. I spoke to the Regent, and you will get that little piece of land you want in Hampshire. Some field, is it not ?” Sir Hinckton coughed. ‘A few fields,” he said, ‘‘and a few trees, and some water, I think.” “Very well. He says you shall have it.” ** Countess, I feel so much your debtor, that my whole thonghts, for the time to come, will be bent upon how I can oblige you!” ‘* Well,” said Annie, ‘I want some informa- tion.” “Command me!” “Now, if you were going to be hanged, what would you do?” “‘ Hanged ?” “Yes,—you know you ought to be! Suppose you were—suppose you were tried and convicted, and only waiting to be hanged next Monday morning—what would you do?” “Do? I—a—a—really ——What on earth can she mean ?” thought Sir Hinckton Moys. “ Well, my dear Countess, I almost think I should apply to you to get me a pardon from the Regent.” “ Then the Regent could pardon you?” “Unquestionably. He exercises the royal functions, and can pardon, change, or mitigate the sentence of all criminals,—that is to say, provided he don’t give them anything worse than the original sentence.” “Very well. I don't know what I should do in your case, Sir Hinckton Moys—that has not come on yet, you know; but there is some one lying in Newgate now—tried, convicted, and condemned— for whom I must have a patdon!” Sir Hinckton Moys looked alarmed. “Yes,” added Annie, “it-must be got directly! Where is the Regent? Don't say I'm to wait, for I won't wait! The name is Allan Fearon, and I know he's perfectly innocent! There's been some dreadful villany at work, and so soon as I find out who it is, I'll speak to the Regent about that, ” “Allan Fearon?” gasped Sir Hinckton Moys. | — THE DARK WOMAN. 239 CC eh sama “Why, what—how—that is, in what way—how came you—I mean, my dear Countess, who told you—that is to say, I—a-——” ‘What's the matter?” said Annie. “ One would almost think you had some interest in the case.” “T? Oh, no! Ha! ha! Not the slightest! Only I can’t help admitting that I have heard of the case—a serious crime, and a very bad affair indeed: so much so, that I’m really afraid— seriously afraid, I may say, that the Regent will hardly feel inclined to grant a pardon.” “ But he shall!” ‘Oh, that’s quite another thing! And may I ask, Countess, what has awakened your interest in this affair ?” “That’s nothing to you. hanged, and he shall be pardoned! Regent ?” “Gone to Windsor.” “Very well. I shall see him to-night ; and as, notwithstanding you are such a slave to me, Sir Hinckton Moys, you seem reluctant to do this thing, or to help me to do if, or put me in the way of doing it, perhaps there may be yet some difficulties about the two or three fields-—” “My dear Countess i *‘ And the trees y “Nay, nay !” “ And the water.” “Confusion!” cried Sir Hinckton Moys. “Countess, will you tell me—will you really interest me in this case, by informing me how it is that, shut up here, hearing nothing, and seeing no one, you became aware that eyen such a case was in progress ?” Annie quite enjoyed this little bit of triumph, which the astonishment of Sir Hinckton Moys gave her over him. “‘Oh,” she said, “I hear everything, and know everything.” “By heavens, then,” muttered Sir Hinckton Moys, “she gets out, and is a thousand times more artful than I ever thought her!” “ What is that you say?” “ Nothing—nothing, charming Countess! I was only remarking to myself, that let one’s objections be what they may, to anything you wish, they must weigh as nothing in the balance against your desires,” . “You are beginning to be more reasonable.” ** Let me think!” * About what 2?” “ About the best way of getting this pardon. Ah, yes, I have it. You will leave it all to me, Countess, and it shall be done. There is nothing the Regent dislikes so much, as to be troubled about these affairs; and if he be spoken to abruptly about it, he will just say, ‘Go to my Lord Ichester—it is his business.’ And I hap- pen to know in this particular case, my Lord II- chester has a strong opinion, So, you see, Coun- tess, the thing will require some management; and as you know perfectly well I am not a bad hand at management, you will safely, and with a perfect conviction that your wishes will be carried out, leave the matter to me, and dismiss it from your mind.” “J will do no such thing,” said Annie. “T I say he shall not be Where is the will speak to the Regent to-night, and make him sign something, or say something, or do some- |} man; thing, that will take Allan Fearon out of prison. He is my——” Annie stopped short. Ske was about to say “ sister’s husband;” but there was a something that seemed to rise up in her throat at the moment, as that word sister was about to pass her lips. bronght back to her that tearful interview she had had with Marian; and she did not care that a man like Sir Hinckton Moys should fancy that a sob of emotion was so near the surface of her heart. Sir Hinckton Moys was an acute and clever but at this moment he made a most serious mistake. Annie would have said “ sister’s usband.” Sir Hinckton Moys thought she would haye said ** lover !” A new light, as he thought, had struck into his brain. Allan Fearon, he thought, had married one sister, while the other was in love with him; and as no scruples would have stood in the way of Sir Hinckton Moys himself, or any of his ac- quaintances, perpetratmg such a piece of dupli- city, he thought it just possible that Allan Fearon might have made love to both the sisters; and that he and Annie might have kept up a preca- rious connexion even after she became the mis- tress of the Regent. If he could discover this to be the case, he felt that he had the fair Countess de Blonde in his power; and that he had nothing to do but hint as much to the Prince, to ensure the execution of Allan. All these ideas, false as they were, passed with rapidity through the mind of Sir Hinckton Moys; and he quite resumed his cheerfulness. ** Countess,” he said, “ what are all the lives of all the prisoners in Newgate, compared for a single moment to your wishes? I am sure you have nothing to do but to let the Regent see that you are interested in this young man, and his case will be attended to most fully.” “Tt had better!” said Annie, ‘‘ And-all I've got to say is, that if you interfere in any way, I’m sure to hear of it. It will be ali the worse for you. The Prince never keeps any secrets from me that I want to know; so I shall be sure to find you out !” Sir Hinckton Moys affected to laugh; but hae was exceedingly anxious, in reality, to bring the interview to a close. He thought it had been an important one, and had enabled him to find out something which would materially improve his position, and enlarge his powers as between the Countess de Blonde and the Regertt. sai This man of intrigue was always much’ more pleased when he thought he saw his way to ac- complish something by craft and dissimulation, than if the formal and most straightforward means had been presented to him. . “Ah,” he said to himself, when he had left Annie, I wonder how I could have been so blind for so long. Now, however, a new light breaks upon me, and I can see the way to destroy my enemy without compromising myself with the fair Countess de Blonde.” ¥ The way that Sir Hinckton Moys thought he saw was to ask the Regent, as he had promised to do in Annie’s name, for the pardon of Allan Fearon; but to take care to couple the request with the insinuation that the Countess de Blonde’s aa eiereaetaar ainsi omnenaniineeyany rt er aia ee nett epee en nore SnEerun ees parennee oan, aa = EARS A ONL eter LE OL Et GL CEE LOE CSE CE ECE ET BA OLY I ET tt cee a ct nee nape eer ! ~ ek AEA STALE SE RR 240 interest in the condemned man was that of a lover. Sir Hincktun knew perfectly well that the very extreme of jealousy would take possession of the Regent on this intklligence, and that then the fate of Allan Fearon would be sealed. Thus we see that abundance of perils still en- viron the innocent. And thus we see that, after all, Marian has not achieved much towardsthe safety of Allan by her painful interview with her sister Annie. The Regent did not return until dusk from Windsor. The King had taken a sudden turn for the better; and all the Court parasites, who had all but looked upon the Prince of Wales for the past month as the actual monarch, were in despair. They would have been in greater despair still if they had only known that the old King was to live six years from that time, which he actually did, Tt was a great point now with Moys that he should see the Prince before Annie had an oppor- tunity of engaging him by some positive promise in regard to Allan Fearon. She might even actually get a note under his sign manual to the Home Secretary, commanding the pardon, if she were permited to act with her usual impetuosity. Therefore was it that Sir Hinckton Moys almost might be said to liein wait for the Regent. “Well, Moys,” said the Prince, ‘what is the matter? You look full of news.” ‘t Nay, it is from your Royal Highness we all look for news from Windsor.” ‘You can have it in a word then—the King is better.” “ T rejoice to hear it, of course.” ‘Qf course,” echoed the Prince, as he placed himself upon a sofa—" oh, of course.” “But I have something to say to your Royal Highness, from the Countess.” “ De Blonde?” * Yes, I am tolerably anxious to keep in her good graces; and therefore I do not wish to delay a moment longer than may be necessary, in con- voyizg a message frum her to your Royal High- ness.” ‘‘What now? what new freak has she taken? What does she want now? I have positively no money.” ‘“‘ It is not money ; but it appears that there is a man now lying in Newgate, under sentence of death, for some most atrocious robbery, attended, I believe, by the very worst circumstances; and she wants a free and unconditional pardon for him.” “Why? why? What can she want a par- don for such a person for? ‘That is not for me to know.” Sir Hiockton Moys placed such an emphasis upon the word know, that it would have been quite impossible for any one to do any other than reply as the Regent did. ‘SYou may not know, but guess.” ‘“‘T am afraid of two things if I should attempt to guess.” “What are they ?” “‘ Of offending your Royal Highness.” “That is one.” I fancy you can THE DARK WOMAN. ‘“* OF offending the Countess de Blonde.” ‘Those are the two things, are they ?” “They are, Prince.” “Very well. Then I will set you at ease about them both. I will not be offended, and the Counte#s de Blonde shall not.” ‘Ah, your Royal Highness, if I could only have your word that you would not, on any con- sideration whatever, be induced to repeat to the Countess what I say, I would let your Royal Highness know my most inmost thoughts,” * Speak freely.” “Tt is a promise ?” On my word.” “T am quite content. Then this man who is in Newgate is a young man.” ke Ah thd “‘ Handsome as Apollo.” (73 Oh {” “He is an old friend—shall I say only friend? —of the Countess.” ; “Sir Hinckton Moys,” said the Regent, “I don’t think you need say any more.” Moys bowed. “Tf he had nine lives’ ‘Like a cat?” said Sir Hinckton. “* He should die!” : Sir Hinckton bowed again. “It is not I who take his life—it is the law; and although my reluctance to the punishment of death is well known, yet as you say this is an aggravated case, I do not feel that I am called upon to interfere.” ** Decidedly not.” “‘ And so the law must take its course.” ‘Yes, your Royal Highness; but what shall I say to the Countess, and what will you say?” ‘You will say you asked me for the pardon, and that I could not grant it. I will say the same thing.” “There will be a scene.” “Confusion! . Where in the world shall I know peace ?” Sir Hinckton Moys shook his head. “Tf I might suggest ”” he said, “ Well, suggest.” ‘‘T would refer the matter to the Earl of Ilchester.” “So I will.” : “JT would write a note, saying that if anything can be found, in his judgment, sufficient to warrant the reprieve, he might send it.” “ Will that satisfy ?” ‘The Countess ?” “Yes; the Countess.” “Tt will, if your Royal Highness will be so good as to say that that is the proper and con- stitutional way of pardoning a criminal.” _ T will say so; and it is quite correct, too. I ? feel convinced, Moys, that you have my interest at heart. “T have indeed ; and it will not be through any negligence of mine if either your Royal High- ness’s interests or pleasures are crossed.” “T know it—I feel it! I only wonder how, for a moment, I could have preferred that Colonel Hanger to you, Moys.” Sir Hinckton gave one of his little genteel, courtly coughs, and bowed. “ But it won’t happen again—I feel assured it won't happen again. And if you are fortunate THE DARK WOMAN. SK uz AS LY enough now, Moys, to persuade that woman, | Linda de Chevenaux, not to persecute me any more, you will have conferred upou me a great | favour.” “Tt will be done, I hope and trust, to-night. I have a clue to where to find her.” ‘* You are a capital fellow, Moys !” The Regent rose, and, with a slight bow, left | the room. | “ Ha! ha!” said Moys; “I rather think, now, | I have managed that well! And now I will be off to my astrologer, in Frith Street; but. on the way I think I will give my Lord Ilchester a/| call,” Sir Hinckton Moys thought it much better to go 0a foot when he was upon any expedition that | had secrecy for one of its elements. He, however, | took one of the plain royal- carriages, of which | he had the use, as far as the house of Lord Il- | chester, No, 81.—Dark Woman, 241 SSS ———— — p= His lordship, whom we have not seen for some time, was at home. He and Moys knew each other tolerably well, although it cannot be said that they had much affection for each other. Still, so fully expected was the death of the old King—a circumstance that might happen at any moment—that my Lord Ilchester did not think if prudent to be upon bad terms with the favourite of the new monarch. He accordingly received Sir Hinckton Moys | with affected cordiality. “ Ah, my dear Sir Hinckton Moys, how do you do? You are such a stranger at Iichester | House, that when I do see you, I am always in hopes that I may be able to do something for you.” “You are very good, my lord,” replied the courtier; ‘* but the fact is, my attendance on the Thames was frozen in many places from bank to bank. Now Brads had followed with all the skill which his old practice as one of Paul’s Chickens had taught him, the coach which had brought his old mistress from Hampstead. When he saw her step out of the vehicle at the door of the old house in Soho, his first impression was that there would be an end of his adventures for that night; but then it suddenly occurred to him that Sixteen-stringed Jack had beguiled the tedium of a weary evening in the cavern at Hampstead by telling him and Shucks of his adventures at the astrologer’s house in Frith Street, Soho. THB DARK WOMAN. And here was Frith Street, Soho, and no doubt the very house. What, then, was he to conclude? Had the Dark Woman gone there for the pur- pose of acquiring information from the stars about anything, or was he to conclude that she actually now resided in that house ? Brads was meditating with himself what he should do, when he saw the door suddenly opened, and a mufiled-up, apparently female figure came out. “ That’s her!” said Brads. There was a something about the walk and manner of the Dark Woman, that at once let Brads know who she was. CHAPTER LXV. THE DARK WOMAN ENCOUNTERS HER FOES THE FROZEN RIVER. ON WHETHeR or not that house in Soho were the residence of the Dark Woman became a matter of small account now to Brads, since he saw her come out of if. Luckily he had disposed of the horse that had brought him to London, for so soon as he had seen the coach which had conveyed the Dark Woman deposit her at that house, and then go away, he had rang sharply at the ostler’s bell of a livery stables near at hand, and with a half-crown as an earnest of future largesse, had left the pony in the care of the half asleep stable-boy who an- swered the summons. Brads was then on foot. So was the Dark Woman. Little, however, did she imagine that one whom she had such cause to think an implacable foe was on her track. And we may well believe that, after all the breach of faith she had been guilty of towards Brads and Shucks, and after the desperate attempts she had made upon their lives, their feelings to- wards her were of the most fierce and revengeful description. ‘‘ What shall I do with her?” That was the question which presented itself to the mind of Brads. He was armed. Nothing would have been so easy as to kill her there and then. She was not fifty paces from him; he could ave decreased those fifty paces to two in a few seconds, and one touch then to the trigger of a pistol that he had with him would have at once settled the question. But Brads and Shucks both, thieves and house- breakers as they were, were not murderers. Brads shrunk from the act of assassination, even in the case of one who had made such des- perate attempts upon his life. : And besides, although her actions had certainly gone far to deprive her of any consideration on account of her sex, still Brads could not forget that she was a woman. ' He shrunk, then, from having her death on his own hands. What could he do, then? What course could he adopt, now that he had followed her so far, and now that, to all appearances, he had her in his actual power? THE DARK WOMAN, Brads found it a difficult question to answer. Meanwhile the Dark Woman was rapidly mak- ing her way towards the river. It seemed to be her object to reach it at the nearest possible point ; and of course what object she had in going there was quite unknown to Brads. Still he followed her. They reached the Strand, and down one of the long, narrow, gloomy streets that go from that thoroughfare to the banks of the Thames, she plunged. We say plunged, for heedless of the frost and the snow, the Dark Woman increased her pace as she proceeded, and it looked like a plunge as she darted down that narrow street. Brads was on the point of passing her, when a man made a dart out of a doorway, and made an effort to detain him. “ Now, my fine fellow,” he said, “ who are you, that are in so desperate a hurry ?” “Don’t stop me!” “Oh, but I will, though!” “Then your death be on your own head !” Brads drew back a step or two, and in a mo- ment had his pistol in his hand. But the man who had stopped him was evidently armed, and by the dim light of one of the wretched oil street lamps Brads saw the collar of the red waistcoat which was usually worn by the Bow Street runners. A new idea struck Brads. ** Don’t fire!’ he said. “Stop!” “What now ?” said the officer, for such indeed ne was. ““Do you know,” added Brads, “you are the very man I wanted to see ?” 66 I ?” ‘Yes, or one of that sort. “* Anybody may see that.” “Very well. Did you happen to see a woman go down this street ?” “TI did.” “Good. Did you ever happen to hear of the Dark Woman ?” ** What, she who was at the head of all the thieves and burglars called Paul's Chickens ?” “ That’s the woman !” it) No 1”? “Yes, I say. That’s the very woman who has just gone down that street. I have been follow- ing her all the night, from Hampstead to London, and hoping I should meet with an officer.” “Why, I fancy her capture would bring in a good reward. There was five hundred pounds offered for her once.” “ And is so still, I don’t want the money; you may as well have it. Take her, and take good ore she don’t escape you, and I shall be satis- ed.” “‘Do you belong to the county police ?” “ Just so.” “Come on, then, with me, and we will soon have her. She cannot get anywhere but on to the Thames down this street.” The officer ran as fast as he could down the narrow turning, and as he went he drew his staff with the gilt crown at the end of it from his pocket, and.called out, “Hoy! hoy! Watchman, there! Hoy !” “Here you are!” said a voice. You are a runner?” A watchman came forward with his lantern in one hand, and a thick bludgeon in the other, “‘ Has any one passed you, watchman ?” “Yes, @ woman.” ‘“‘ Where did she go?” “I don’t know; but I don’t see where she conld go buton tothe ice. They come past me as quick as she did sometimes, when they take it into their heads to drewn themselves; but this one cannot do that ?” “ Why not ?—why not ?” ‘‘ Because she might make a hole in the water ; but she cannot in the ice.” “ Ig the river frozen right over, then ?” “Tt is.” “Never mind that. Follow me. You will make a good night’s work of it if you help me to capture that woman. Come on—come on!” “On to the ice ?” “Ay, or anywhere else, so that we find her. Come on! Hold up your lantern, How fearfully slippery the old steps are!” The Bow Streetrunner made his way down a flight of narrow stairs that led to the river, at the foot of which in summer-time there were always wherries on hire. Now they were all ffozen hard in some two feet thickness of ice. The watchman followed the Bow Street runner closely. He held up his lantern, so that it cast a dull, lurid glare far over the frozen river. It was a most curious scene that that lantern revealed to be in a temperate region, such as that of England. The Thames was completely frozen over from bank to bank, but there were huge blocks of ice, which had first floated down from the upper por- tions of the stream, and which, by the action of the tides, had piled themselves up the one over the other in terrible confusion. The spectacle was one that might have been looked for in the Arctic regions, but one which had been seldom seen on the Thames at London. There was a curious white light in the air, and it was associated with a sort of mist, as if the snow and the ice exhaled a kind of atmosphere of their own. But that white light, which was, in fact, grow- ing brighter every moment, arose from the fact that the sua was just about to rise above the visible horizon, and to shed its cold rays upon that wintry and chilling scene. “There she goes!” cried the watchman. ‘ Where ?—where ?” “ Over yonder, by those big blocks of ice.” ‘Ah, I see her!” A dark, flitting figure conld be just seen upon the ice, darting onward as quickly as it could, con- sidering the nature of the ground it had to go over. It was indeed the Dark Woman. “Come on!—come on!” shouted the Bow Street officer—and he made a dash forward on the ice. Then he almost immediately, as a consequence of the imprudent way in which he was trying to run on such a surface, met with a heavy fall, and by the mere impetus of his own progress, he slid along upon the ice for a considerable distance. These last. words of the Bow Street runner, and a loud shout from the watchman, were the first 254 indications to the Dark Woman that she was pursued. She turned on the instant, and stood at bay. Who and what could it be that followed on her track ? How was it that at such an hour and in such a place any one would think it worth while with shouts and cries to pursue her? The expression that came over her face, as she held over the lower part of it some of the coarse clothing she had put on, as well to keep out the intense cold as to disguise herself, was one fearful and vengeful in the extreme. ' The Bow Street runner was half stunned by his fall, and was picking himself up with difficulty, when the Dark Woman so turned, and stood like some wild beast of the chase, who disdained to make'sport for the hunters by flight. ‘‘ Who is weary of life,” she said, “that they will be so bold as to interfere with me, on this frozen river ?” “She rather uttered those words to herself than in a voice sufficiently loud for them to take the character of a threat to those two men who were upon her track. “There she is! there she is!’’ cried the watch- man again, as he held up his lantern, so that it cast a long yellow ray of light over the ice. But at that moment the broad round dise of the moon showed itself over the roofs of the old snow- laden warehouses and wretched buts that were on the river’s bank, In a moment there was a bright soft light over the ice and the snow; and the figure of the Dark Woman could be distinctly seen, standing as if in an attitude of defence. “There she is! there she is!” watchman again. ‘\T see her.” “Hoy! Hold there! You are our prisoner!” ‘My prisoner, at all events!’ cried the Bow Street runner, in a loud voice, for his fall had made him angry. ‘My prisoner, or I will know a good reason why.” He went towards the Dark Woman at all the speed he dared make on the slippery ice; and holding out the gilt staff, as the symbol of his authority, he cried out ‘“ Surrender !—surrender ! I know yeu!” “Ah!” “Yes, you are the Dark Woman.” ‘Fool! Your death warrant was said in those two words!” 4 : The Dark Woman fired a pistol right into the face of the officer. The bullet crashed into his brain, and he at once feli backwards dead upon the ice. The watchman was some twenty paces in the rear, but anticipating the speedy and easy capture of the woman, be she whom she might, he was making what speed he could to reach the spot, when he saw the flash of the pistol, and heard the report. The fall of the officer was so sudden, and so complete, that if he had been struck by lightning, he could not have gone to the snow and ice with more of ashock, . Those events at once effected a revolution in the mind of the watchman, and he turned to fly in an opposite direction as rapidly as he had been pursuing the Dark Woman. The icy platform he was on would not, however, cried the THE DARK WOMAN. be played with in such a fashion; and the moment he turned be fell heavily, and striking his head against a block of ice, he lay fora few moments as insensible as the officer who had the bullet in his brain. . ) ; The Dark Woman was now free of both of her oes, It was curious to see the lantern of the watch. man, which fell from his grasp, sliding along the ice to an incredible distance; and even the Dark Woman for a few minutes glanced after it with. a doubt in her mind as to whether it was not in the hands of some other foe. ) ** So perish,” she cried, “ those who will oppose themselves to my path! I will not be stayed in. my purposes by mortal man!” S thon Gathering, then, close around, her the old ap- parel in which she had thought proper to disguise herself, she ran rapidly along the river's, bank,, only diverging from her path now and then in order to avoid the huge blocks of ice which were in her. way. Brads had remained at the top of the stairs that led down from the narrow street to the river. He could hardly believe it possible that two well- armed and able men could fail to capture one woman, let her be ever so desperate; and he got into a deep doorway, and chafing his fingers to keep them from actually chilling in the cold, he waited to see the Dark Woman brought back a prisoner. ° But he might have waited until that wintry season had given place to the soft sunshine of summer before seeing such a spectacle. It was a good hour before Brads, with an idea rapidly growing upon his mind that something uncomfortable must have happened, slowly de- scended the steps towards the river. The moon was now considerably higher in the heavens; and at about a hundred yards from the foot of the stairs, Brads saw one dark-looking ob- ject lying on the ice. That was the watchman. He carried his eyes still further on, and he saw another dark-looking object. That was the Bow Strect runner. * For the first time in his life, then, a supersti- stitious fear began to creep over the heart of Brads. He began then to think that the Dark Woman, his old mistress, was something more than mortal, and that any attempt at her destruction was likely to recoil upon the heads of those who made it. Shading the moonlight from his eyes with his hands, Brads took a long look over the frozen river. He could see no one. ‘ She is gone,” he said,—‘ gone, and got rid of both those men; so I think my best plan is to get back to Jack and the cave on the heath as soon as possible,” Brads acted upon this, idea, and went to the livery-stables and got back the pony, and rode to the commencement of the heath with it, and then let it loose. ‘ “T dare say you will find your way home,” he said; ‘' and if not, you will not be long without a master.” But the dangers of the Dark Woman were not over, although she had got rid of the Bow Street THE DARK WOMAN. 255 officer, and of the watchman, and Brads had abandoned the pursuit of her. There was too much light on the Thames from the bright moon for her to escape observation even at that hour of the night, after attention had been aroused by the report of the pistol. There were some watermen frozen out of their regular occupation, who were in the employ of a river police that had been organized since the frost, for the protection of the cargoes of ships in the Pool. Those ships were now comeé-at-able by thieves from the shore, since they could walk to them; and such a measure for their protection had become absolutely necessary. Some of these men, although a considerable dis- tance off, heard the report of the pistol in the clear, frosty air, and they started on a voyage, or rather it may be called journey of discovery over the ice, in order to find ont what it meant. These men came in the other direction to that from which the officer and the watchman had come in pursuit of the Dark Woman, so that the greater speed she now made, the sooner she would come upon them and into their power. It was upon making a rather longer detour than usual towards the centre of the river, in order to avoid some heaped-up blocks of ice, that the Dark Woman became conscious that some half-dozen men were approaching her with links. She could not at that moment forbear a cry. It had been her intention to avoid no one on the river who did not show hostile intentions towards her, but to endeavour, if she were questioned, to pass muster as a poor woman looking for drift firewood. There was in the day-time many such poor per- sons on the river about the entrances to the ship- building and ship-breaking yards. But now there could be nothing but danger for her, since she had already left a dead man in her path. The moment, then, that the Dark Woman saw these persons approaching her, she uttered, as we have said, a ery of alarm. Simultaneously with the utterance of that cry she fled in a diagonal path over to the other bank of the river. The men pursued her instantly. But the Dark Woman had the start of about a couple of hundred yards, and she was fleet of foot. The very recklessness with which she trod the ice brought with it its own safety, and she did not fall, while several of the river watch had severe tumbles the moment they began to run after her. That portion of the opposite bank to which the Dark Woman now fled was in deep shadow, end she saw that close at hand there was a group of mean-looking buildings. To reach them was her object, for they had all the appearance of presenting numerous hiding- places. Without, then, more than one glance behind her to see how far off were her pursuers, the Dark Woman reached the river's bank, and scrambled over huge fragments of ice and frost-bound barges and wherries, until she fairly reached the shore. . | It was difficult, however, amid all that ice and ‘snow to tell where the shore began and the river ended; but it was with a feeling of desperation that the Dark Woman made her way into a door- way of some deserted house, and felt that her pursuers were yet a considerable distance behind her. Then she paused to listen, and she heard a loud voice cry out, ““Yoy might as well try to finda needle in a bottle of hay, Joe, as any one there.” “Ah, she’s off, whoever she was!” said an- other. “Yes; she has taken refuge in the burnt mill, and so there we may as well leave her.” The Dark Woman was very nearly now utter- ing another cry, but if she had it would have been one of exultation. Was not that burnt mill the very place that had been named by the dying Mrs. Adams as close to the lone house where her daughter was to be found— that daughter who, in all probability, by force or by persuasion, would be induced to give her, the Dark Woman, the information she was there upon the banks of the frozen river to seek ? Yes, that was the place. Chance, after all, without a single inquiry on her part, had guided her to it. Should she not accept that as a favourable omen in regard to the whole enterprise? Surely, yes!—oh, surely, yes! The Dark Woman struggled onwards over pros- trate beams charred by fire, and all the debris of a place where flame had made its power manifest. The ruin was intensely dark; but after a time the Dark Woman came to one portion where, through a rent in the roof, the moonbeams shone down. Then she could no longer have a doubt, if any had remained, that the place she was in was the ruins of a mill. There was the shape of the old walls — there were ‘fragments of the machinery lying about; and it was with a deep breath of congratulation and of thankfulness that the Dark Woman, as she stood there amid those lonely ruins, exclaimed, “Yes, this is the place. I have but to leok for the lone house and for that woman, by name Laura Adams, and the search of my life will be over.” She was about to issue from the ruin when she shrunk back, as she heard voices close to her. © Some persons were evidently entering the ruin for refuge. Who could they be? The Dark Woman listened with a painful and profound attention. “Come on,” said a voice; ‘I tell you it’s of no use to-night—the moon is too high. You will easily clamber into the brig by the fore-chains to- morrow night, but it’s of no use to-night. Besides, we shall have morning here soon.” ’ “Well, I suppose you are right,” replied an- other voice; ‘‘so I shall try and get a sleep.” “ So will I.” “Have you a match?” “'To be sure, my boy.” “ Light up, then.” The Dark Woman felt her danger. The place had many nooks and corners in which she might hide with perfect safety, had she happened to be sufficiently well acquainted with the ruin to find them, but in her complete ignorance of the topo- graphy of the old mill, she was quite at fault in which direction to turn. nS NS: 256 THE DARK WOMAN. The very extent of the ruin prevented any guess at its formation, for the mill itself, properly so called, had been connected with a great number of out-houses, store-houses, and such like buildings, all of which seemed to have suffered, more or less, from the conflagration, and to straggle for a con- siderable distance along the river’s bank. And here had arrived two persons who, no doubt, were perfectly familiar with the locality. The were striding onward over the ruins, and all that the Dark Woman could do was to shrink back as they advanced, in the hope that they would turn to the right or to the left, and so leave her at liberty. But in another moment there came the flash of a light among the old charred ruins. It was evident that these two men formed part of a gang of river thieves, and that they now thought they were far enough in the intricacies of the old ruins to indulge themselves with a lantern. Over the blackened beams and heaps of rubbish the Dark Woman struggled onward until she came to a space into which none of these relics of the fire had fallen, or else they had been cleared away. It appeared to her, too, that the thieves had taken another direction; and so they had, but as the Dark Woman soon found, it was only that they might reach, through a better path than she had chosen, the precise spot she had reached. A flash from the lantern ran round a dreary, blackened-looking wall, and as it did so the Dark Woman could hear the voices and the footsteps of the two men who were approaching. There was no resource but to allow them to dis- cover her there amid those ruins, when she might possibly fall a victim to their ferocity, or to accept the first hiding-place, inefficient though it might be, which presented itself. There was a door in that wall, along which the gleam of the lantern went—it hung all aslant, being only partially supported by its lower hinges. There was not a moment to spare; and as the Dark Woman made her way over the lower por- tion of this door, into a small room beyond it, which was damp and bitterly cold, and strewn with broken laths, and other charred fragments from the fire, the two men reached the cleared space. “6 Well,” said one; ‘' I proposes that we have a rest, and a smoke, and a drop of something that'll warm one’s heart, this chill morning.” ‘“‘ I’m agreeable,” said the other. “ Bring out the kilderkins, then; and there’s one thing, Joe, I've always noticed about you!” ‘* What may that be, Crumpet ?” ‘“ Why, that you’re always what you calls agreeable when there’s anything to drink!” Joe laughed; and from her secret recess, the Dark Woman could see that they hauled out from a corner three small casks or kilderkins, as they were called. Two of these served for seats; the third for a table. “ Sit down, Crumpet,” said Joe; “ and I'll get the stone jar. There seemed a good drop in it when I shook it last night.” ‘‘ Ay, to be sure. Now, if we had but a fire here, we might be as comfortable as kings!” “‘ There’s been fire enough here, at some time, Crumpet, old fellow!” said Joe, as he stood in the broad gleam of light that came from their lantern, and shook a two-gallon spirit jar, in order to listen to the pleasant tinkle of the strong waters within. The Dark Woman was so close at hand to these two men that not a word they uttered es- caped her; not that they spoke in low or myste- rious tones in the least; for there can be no doubt they fancied themselves in perfect security, and that they were the sole occupants of the burnt mill on the banks of the Thames. Notwithstanding an assumed jocularity of the tones of the man who was called Crumpet, there was something inexpressibly ferocious in a short, dry laugh with which he generally concluded what he had to say. The stone jar passed repeatedly from mouth to mouth, for cup or glass they had none; and the Dark Woman began to be exceedingly impatient of her detention in those ruins, where sbe had og intended temporarily to have sheltered her- self. Cautiously she felt all round the walls of the room in which she was, and she was compelled to come to the conclusion that there was no outlet whatever from it but by the door at whick she had entered. There was, certainly, a small grating let into one of the walls, through which the cold wind from the river whistled; but that was all. It had been only intended for ventilation, and was no doubt purposely made too small to be danger- ous to the security of the premises. What was she to do? Could she have patience, sick at heart as she already was at the many delays that had inter- posed between her and her interview with Laura Adams, to wait until these men should voluntarily take their departure ? Who could say when they would go? The day was coming—the light of day, which was inimical to their pursuits; and for all she knew, for the whole of that coming Sunday they might remain where they were, until the shadows of the evening enabled them again to plunder the ice-bound vessels on the Thames. ; They neither of them sat in a position to com- mand a view through the broken doorway into the small store-room, as it evidently had been, where the Dark Woman had found a refuge; but as she looked from darkness to light upon them she could observe them clearly. More than an hour thus passed away, and then fearful thoughts began to crowd themselves into the brain of the Dark Woman. They were evidently, to a certain extent, losing their self-possession by their continued attentions to the stone jar. She had fire-arms with her, and what could hinder her at any moment from releas- ing herself out of the thraldom in which she was by the death of both these men? “It is my destiny,” she muttered to herself, “‘ to wade through blood to my purposes ! Alread y to-night has one fallen — why not these like- wise ?” The Dark Woman glared upon these men— who little suspected such eyes were upon their move- ments—with fiery glances that each moment wera taking more the hue of premeditated murder. And probably, had their conversation not a3- THE DARK WOMAN. Dy) i y WV sumed a different complexion from the low, ribald, meaningless talk, which up to that period they had kept up, their doom would have been certain. But suddenly the man who was called Crumpet assumed a different air and manner; and although he spoke somewhat thickly from incipient intoxi- cation, yet there was a purpose in his language, which to any other listener than one so familiar with crime as the Dark Woman would have been terribly suggestive. To her it was simply interesting, inasmuch as it related to her objects. “Look you here, Joe,” said Crumpet, ‘I’ve got a something to say to you, old pal, that I wouldn’t say anywhere but here for the best booty we ever saw, or are likely to see.” “Hand over the jar, and tell us what it is,” said Joe. “No, it won't do to take any more, if I'm to tell you, because, may be, you'll have something to No. 33,.—Dark Woman. do; and we must both be steady, or it can’t be done at all.” “Tt’s a horrid thing to be thirsty, though, Crumpet !” ‘Be quiet and listen to me, will you ?” “You recollect, Dick—Dick the Jobber, as we used to call him—who is now under the ice ever so many feet deep, and has been ever since the beginning of the frost ?” ‘ Reeollect him?” said Joe. ‘1 rather think I do. Why, there wasn’t such a man on the river! He got the name of Jobber from that little queer pickaxe he used to carry with him. Why it wasn’t bigger than a child's toy, but what a beauty it was! He'd climb up the side of any of the river craft with it like a monkey going up a tree.” “ Ah!” said Crumpet, ‘he’s a public loss—he is! He never let anybody interfere with business, and with that little pickaxe he could bring down a man—whether it was one of the river police or 258 THE DARK WODLAN. a night-watch on one of the craft—in such a way that you'd never know it had happened.” “That's true, Crumpet. And whatanodd way of going out of the world, too !” ‘Very odd !” ‘“‘ Ti was to be, I should say, Crumpet !” “Tt looks like it,” said Crumpet. ‘Hand over the jar.” “Why, you've got it yourself, and wouldn't let me have any more, because you'd got some- thing particular to say!” * True, Joe, true—so I had; but we began to talk about Dick, and that put it out of my head. I recollect how he went under just the same as if it had happened to night.” tai Ay, ay!” ‘‘ Yes, Joe, it was the first week of the frost. > The river would bear you, and it wouldn't, if you can understand that; and there were holes, out of which the tide came bobbing and bubbling uo and down, as though old Father Thames kept boiling water under the ice. There was a square- rigged ship from Hamburgh, and Dick thonght it was a rare chance to get on board of her through the glazed ports of the Captain’s cabin. I was to help him, and it was as dark as pitch, Joey, when we crawled round the ice-bound ship. There was a watch on deck, and we could hear him singing, but we did'nt mind that.” ‘*T should think not,” said Joe. ‘But I'll tell you what we did mind, old pal, and that was all the odd noises that the ice made. You see, it wasn’t quite thick enough, and the tide was driving underneath; and it had such a sound with it, that, for the first time in his life, Dick felt skeared and yueer; and if I hadn’t been with him he would have gone straight off, and left the Hamburgh ship in peace.” “And a good thing for him if he had, Crum- pet. ” “You may say that, Silke but he didn’t. I saw the sheer cold iron of that little pickaxe of his, as he drove it in for the first foot-hold be- tween the plankings of the old ship. I waited below, you see, with asack. We were doing the job in the old way: he had a ball of twine with him, and was to let down one after the other what was worth taking, from the cabin windows. You see, Josey, we knew the captain was on shore, so it seemed all right, and up went Dick.” “Well,” said Joe, uy never heard the rights of, it till now.” “I'm telling it to you, then. Who should know but me? I only wish I could forget it. Weil, up he went, and he got his face dead level with the | cabin windows; and at that moment—what for, I —ow “ And that was an end of Dick?” said Joe. “No, it wasn’t. I saw him after that. the jar, will you?” “Why, I tell you, you've got it yourself.” “So I’ have,—so I have. Weill, as I was a saying, | saw him after that.” “You dreamt it?” “No, Joey, no. It was Dick himself. " “You don’t mean that ?” “Yes, Ido. And I'll just tell you how it was. I was holding on by the rudder-chains, a bit skeared at what had happened, and wondering if it would be safe to clear off shore-ways, when all at once I saw something right in front of me, that I hadn’t seen before |” “What was it?” “Dick's hand and arm, right up out of the hole, with the pick in it.” “y No {2 ‘‘'Yes, as true as I see you. It was only for half a moment, and then down it went. IL was rather afraid of the broken ice, but I placed the sack flat, and crawled along a bit, till I got to the little round hole; but I wish I hadn't.” “ What for, Crampet ?” “ Because there was about three parts of Dick's face staring up from underneath, and the tide bobbing in and out his mouth, and his dead eyes. looking up into the night so as I shall never for- - get them; andif you'll believe me, Joey, the hole in the ice wasn’t near big enough for me to see all his face, and yet he'd gone through it, like a bullet through a pane of glass.” ‘That was a rum go,” said Joe. “Tt was, comrade; and I fergot all about the thin ice, and the night-watch on the deck of the Hamburgher, and off I set; and that, if you please, was the last I saw of Dick. i * And he’s under now ?” “To be sure he is. Hasn't there been eleven week's frost, stupid ? and the little reund, hole’s frozen over. But it wasn’t, after all, about Dick I meant to speak.” ‘* Who then ?” “ Why, that Laura Adams, that used to live with him, and he called his wife.” ** What of her ?” “What of her, do you say? Why, I tell you she’s got more money hid about what's called the ‘lone house’ down yonder, than you or I ever saw.” “T shouldn’t wonder,” ‘You see, she’s been there ever so long, and there was always a something, though I couldn't make out what it was; and Dick, when he was Paks _ ever so drunk, he wouldn’t say much about if, don’t know, and never shall,—he gave a queer sort | of a half-screech, and back he fell like a stone; | and the little pickaxe struck the ice, and through | it went Dick; and he was away from before my | But there was always a something that seemed odd about her ways, and once when I called on Dick, and the door was hanging open, I heard hor say something about going to the old King, and eyes like a flash. And there I stood with the | sack in my hand, and a little round hole close to my feet in the ice, that you'd have sworn no mortal man’s body could have gone through. And then in another mcment the tide came popling, popling up, just for all the world like yee water; and the watch on the ship’s deck calle cut something, and I could fancy he was ee over the stern gallery, so I hugged close under the rudder, and he didn’t see me, and didn't seem to know what had happened.” making a clean breast of it, or something of that sort, bat I couldn't make it well out.” “What could it be?” said Joe. “T don’t know, and I don’t know that if much matters. Dick was always close about his affaira, and if there isn’t a good show of gold pieces in the lone house, I for one should be surprised. And now you know, Joe, what it wasI wanted to speak to you about.” ‘Yes, I know now; but she’s mora like a tigress than any thing else; and unless—eh; Crumpet ?— THE DARK WOMAN. unless you thought proper to get rid of her alto- gether . “And why not?” hissed Crumpet. “ Why not, Joe? What’s the use of having a hue and cry arter you, when you need not, eh? Say the word—shall it be done, or shall it not? Are you with me, or must I do the job by myself? For do it I will, either with or without you.” “I'm your man, Crumpet,” said Joe. make two words about it.” “Then now’s the time. Come on at once. I’m in the humour for it; and before daylight, who knows but we may have enough to last us well this winter out ?” . The two ruffians rose to their feet; and this conversation, so deeply interesting to the Dark Woman, came to an end, It had given her all the information she had expected to derive from any one respecting Laura Adams before seeing her, and the few words that Crumpet had dropped with respect to the seeming mystery that surrounded the widow of the river pirate, fell pleasantly upon her ears. Those words sufficed to convince her that she was on the right track to make the important dis- covery. that had been the hope and toil of her life, Bat that these ruffians, notwithstanding their old companionship with the husband or protector of Laura Adams, would, without scruple or re- morse, take her life for the sake of appropriating the hoarded booty which they believed to be in the lone dwelling, was evident. How, then, was she to reach that place before them, and by warning and succouriug their in- tended victim, entitle herself, from gratitude, to a revelation of all she knew ? It scemed to her as if fate, heaven, or good for- tune—call it which she might—had now placed in her hands a powerful weapon to work upon | every feeling that might be found in the breast of Laura,Adams. Could she but reach the lone house before those | two men, surely all her wishes would be accom- plished. * But what knew she even of the locality of that : gloomy residence.. To her it was but a name— ‘‘the lone house near the burnt mill.” She was in the burnt mill, but where was the lone house ? | Why was it called such, and was there anything in the name which would lead her to a knowledge of its identity when she saw it ? The Dark Woman did not know that this house | formed part of the numerous out-buildings of the old mill; and that it was merely called the ‘‘ Jone house” because it was the only part of the numerous buildings actually deteched from the remainder, Half maddened by the length of time that she had been, so to speak, imprisoned, in that gloomy chamber, fevered from the want of sleep, and ex- cited by the events of that night of adventures, the Dark Woman was not probably in a state of mind to reason calmly upon what was best to be done. She only felt that by some means she must find out the way to the lone house, where resided Laura Adams, and reach it before those men who were intent upon pillage and murder. She would follow them—yes, that was the only thing todo. She would creep after them, step by ** Don’t a 259 might not hear her, but they would act as hes unconscious guides to the place she wished to visit; and then—why, then, had she not tha means of their destruction by the fire-arms in her possession ? This mode of action was rather forced upon her than decided upon, for the two river pirates rose suddenly from the casks upon which they had heen seated. Joe, who was decidedly the most sober of the two, took the lantern. “ You go first,” said Crumpet. “I begin to think the cold air don’t agree with me. I feel quite giddy.” | _ * Ah, that comes of taking too much of your share out of the stone jar!” “ No—all’s right! Come on—that is, I mean goon! Keep the path! It’s a very odd thing how you keep swaying about, Joey, for all the world as if you’d had a drop too much!” “¥ tell you what it is,” said Joe, as he turned and faced his companion. ‘¢ This job were on isn’t the sort of thing to set about except with a cool head!” “ Cool enough—cool enough,” said Crumpet. “Tll let a few pieces of ice slip down my throat; and if that don’t cool me, Joe, I don’t know what will!” Joe laughed, and preceded his companion with © the lantern. The Dark Woman at once emerged from the small store-house, in which she had been a spec- tatorto the carouse of these men, and a listener to their conversation. - She recollected how she had reached tha little clear space which they, too, had sought. It was not by the path that led them to it, but over a confused heap of half-burnt rubbish from the mill, The path they took, then, must be circuitous, since they avoided that heap of rubbish, and yet had first alarmed her by their presence at the com- mencement of it. She thought it safer now to emerge from the burnt mill in the same way she had entered it; and accordingly she took her route over the old charred beams and soddened ruins that lay before her. She calculated upon reaching the.entrance be- fore the river pirates, and there she would wait for them; for they were still to be her guides to the lone house. And even as she went now, the flash of the lantern carried by Joe shone at intervals upon the mass of rubbish she was slowly crawling over. She had entered the burnt mill by that ronte without the smallest sound betraying her pre- sence, but she was not destined to leave it so easily. By some accident she trod upon the end of some lightly balancei beam, which toppling over, brought with it, with a rush and a rattle, a quan- tity of the ruins of ‘the fire from the highest point | to which they were piled, to the lowest. The confusion was much too great to escape the ears of the two river pirates. They both paused instantly. “ Hilloa !” cried Joe. ‘* What can all this mean?” - “Rats!” said Crumpet, with tipsy gravity. “No; rats never made such a racket as that. step, through the ruins of the old mill. They | By all that’s bad, Crumpet, if any one’s been berg 260 > THE DARK WOMAN, and overheard us, our game is cut pretty short, I fancy |” “Stop! stop!” said Crumpet. “What do you want ?” *t Don’t leave me in the dark.” “ Stuff! I must. I will see what it is,” cried Joe. The Dark Woman crouched down so low among the fallen beams and charred laths of the burnt mill, that, dressed in sombre garments as she was, she presented nothing that could catch the eye as appertaining to the human form. She yet hoped she should not be seen; for althongh she was well armed—that is to say, so far as one life went, for one of the brace of pistols she had with her was discharged—she could not but feel that to provoke a contest in that gloomy place with two such men would be to hazard all her hopes upon the chances of a mere incidental brawl. Joe scrambled up upon some rubbish, and held the lantern above his head. He waved it to and fro, and looked dubiously upon the great heap of charred timbers. “ What is it?” said Crumpet. old pal?” “T see nothing.” “Tt was the king of the rats, then !” “Hush! hold a moment!” “ Hold what ?” “Your tongue, stupid! lying out away yonder. old clothes.” The Dark Woman’s heart beat quickly. “ Never mind it, then,” said Crumpet. “Nay; I can’t say I likes the looks of it. Don’t start if you hear a shot; it will be only me.” The Dark Woman heard the click of a pistol- lock, and she sprang at once to her feet. Joe uttered an exclamation of surprise, but he did not fire. “ Hold your hand—hold your hand!” cried the Dark Woman. ‘Good gentkemen, what have I done? Let a poor, forlorn oreature pick up a few sticks for her winter fire.” That was the part she now made up her mind to play—a mendicant gathering sticks. Ifit suc- ceeded, well and good; if it failed, she still had one loaded pistol in her possession, and a poniard, which she believed would do her good service. And, oh! what agony it was to her to find her- self, when thus so near the fruition of all her hopes, involved in perhaps greater danger than had ever yet fallen to her lot in life. “ What is it, There’s something odd It looks like a bundle of CHAPTER LXVI. THE DARK WOMAN SOLVES A HEART- BREAKING MYSTERY. THe exclamation which Joe bad u'tered at sight of the female figure rising up from those neglected ruins, and the few words she had uttered, went far towards sobering Crumpet on the instant, and he rushed up to the side of Joe with all his ordinary savage ferocity. ‘* Who have we here?—who have we here?” he cried. “A spy upon us in our own old place, we not even the grabs and sharps will track us?’ “No,” said the Dark Woman; “I am poor and helpless, I seek a few charred sticks to help my wretched fire,” ‘She looks a beggar,” said Joe. * How long have you been here, woman?” cried Crumpet. “I’ve just wandered in, good gentlemen.” “Ts that true?” “‘ As true as—as—anything, that I didn’t know anybody was here, so I didn’t mind how I went over the old ruins.” ‘And why go over them at all?” said Crumpet, with sudden suspicion. ‘If you only wanted a few sticks, the sticks at the door are as good as at the further end.” “Very likely, kind sir; but I’m only a poor woman.” “And you mean to say,” cried Joe, “that you never saw the flash of the lantern?” ‘“‘ Ah, dear me, I’m very poor indeed!” Crumpet bent a ferocious glare upon her from his bloodshot eyes; and it seemed to be a moot point with him whether he would take her life at once or let her go. It was Joe that decided him. ‘* Hark’ee, comrade. This may be all very true, and the old dame may be just what she says ; but I should advise that for the next few hours she stay here in the burnt mill. When we come back we can let her go again.” ‘‘ Very well,” said Crumpet; “‘beit so. Shut her up in the old top loft. It has a good door and a good bar to if, as we very well know. Come, old one, you make your life easy. Now you are here you'll have to stay till daylight.” ‘‘ Hold the light,” said Joe. Crumpet took the lantern. Jos made a scrambling stride forward to seize the Dark Woman; but she felt all the peril of her situation. Beneath her female apparel there might possibly show forth some portion of that elegant dress she wore as Mr. Waller. She had, too, a large sum in gold in her possession, with which she had meant to tempt a full confession from -Laura Adams. And worse than all, if she were made a prisoner, might not that tongue be for ever stilled in death which only had the power to inform her of the fate of the child for whom she had lived so long? The desperation of madness seized her. Any- thing but capture—anything, but to let those men get to within arm’s length of her, was the cry of her heart. She drew the still charged pistol from her breast, and presenting it full at Joe, she cried in accents that rung through the whole ruins, ‘* Another step, and you’re a dead man! For your life’s sake, interrupt me not! I will not be stayed on my purposes by mortal-hands !” Joe recoiled a step. **So, so!” cried Crumpet ; —-we are betrayed, comrade! Death to the spy, be it man, woman, or child! I don’t value the popgun arush! Blaze away, if you can!” Crumpet advanced quickly. The Dark Woman thought him the more dan- gerous of the two, and she turned the muzzle of the pistol to his breast, and pulled the trigger. There was a bright flash and a faint sound; the * T thought as much - THE DARK WOMAN. 261 powder had exploded in the pan, but the pistol had missed fire. The Dark Woman was defenceless, for the dagger, after all, would be but a toy against such men as those. Perhaps that was the heaviest hour the heart of the Dark Woman had yet known, for it seemed to bring with it a feeling of unmitigated despair. She was seized in a moment by both the river pirates, and then the cry she uttered was so un- earthly, and so much more full of mental agony than even the circumstances warranted, that they almost dropped their hold of her in dismay and surprise. ‘*Men—men!” she cried; ‘‘ you want gold— you strive for gold night and day ! Booty—plunder is your aim, not murder! Release me, and I will enrich you both beyond your utmost wishes. I have wealth beyond your dreams, and you shall sink, if you will to do so, beneath the weight of gold that I will heap upon you. But oh, release me—release me—release me!” The imploring, shrieking accents in which she uttered these words were terrible to hear. “Why, she’s mad!” cried Joe. “T shall be mad—I shall be mad, if you release me not! Do you love jewels—the fairest you ever saw? They shall be yours if you will let me free |” The frantic vehemence with which the Dark Woman addressed these men puzzled and sur- prised them, and they looked at her and at each other in mingled doubt what to do. ‘‘You hear me!” she continued,—‘‘ you hear me, and you understand me! You shall find me arich prize; but you must let me go, in order that I may be so. Yes—oh, yes, you must and you will let me go! To-morrow you shall have gold, I tell you. You shall know where to come for it, and it shall be dispensed to you with no niggard hand. What is gold to me, compared with my liberty this night?” —~ It was Crumpet, then, who, with an oath, dashed forward to seize her. “Come on, Joe,” he said. ‘She will go on raving in this sort of way till the daylight comes!” This sudden movement of Crumpet’s seemed to break the spell that had kept the faculties of Joe in a state of abeyance, and he at once joined his companion. They seized roughly the Dark Woman. All hope died away in her breast. “ Villains!” she shrieked, ‘‘I will not even yet become an easy prey to you!” While she had been speaking to them—while she had been making all those profuse offers, and imploring and entreating them to let her go free— her hand had been nervously clutching the hilt of the poniard, which was the only weapon of offence or of defence left to her. Now that expostulations and promises had alike failed, she seemed more like some wild animal of the plain or the jungle than aught human, as she, with loud shrieks, drew the poniard and made a desperate attack on the river pirates with it. So sudden and unexpected was this assault that she succeeded in inflicting a wouud on both the men; and Crumpet uttered a yell of pain, as the poniard tore up the skin and flesh upon his shoulder. Op A) Se ee eee ae, “Kill her !—kill her!” he cried. Joe tried to force the poniard from her. He succeeded, but it was at the expense of a lacerated hand. For one moment, then, she was free from their grasp, and she fled. The confusion incident to the terrible scene she had gone through, was such that she could not tell in which direction she rushed, on finding, for a moment, she was free from the hold of the river pirates. Over the charred beams, dashing on regardless of the rattling fall of the heaps of piled up rubbish from the fire, she went. There was a staircase standing out from the wall, and which, in some strange way, had been preserved from the fire. The Dark Woman came suddenly upon if, and it presented to her mind a sort of vantage ground, where she hoped, for a few minutes more, to defy her pursuers. The river pirates had recovered from the first shock of their wounds, and the terror of the savage assault that had been made upon them, and they were close upon her track. The Dark Woman bounded up the stairs. The steps crushed and groaned beneath her weight, and she fully expected each moment that they would come down with a crash, and prs- cipitate her, bleeding and wounded, perhaps killed, among the rubbish from the burnt mill. But on she flew. ‘Hold there!” cried Crumpet. witch, devil that you are! She heeded him not. * Down, or we fire !” She still dashed on. Then there were two sharp reports of pistols. Both the river pirates had fired after her, and the Dark Woman was conscious that she had been slightly hit by a bullet; for there was a strange, sharp, burning seusation for a moment over one of her arms as if a red-hot iron had been, with the rapidity of thought, drawn across the skin. The wound, however, was too slight to have any effect in staying her progress; aud she con- tinued her ascent ot the old staircase. It was without hand-rail of any kind, and seemed as if suspended in the frailest manner from one of the side walls of the house. Probably that was tlie first time since the mill and its outhouses had been destroyed, that any mortal foot had ventured upon those stairs. Certainly, it was the last. The Dark Woman reached a landing place, from where a kind of passage ran for some distance both right and left. The moment she took her foot off the topmost stair of that fearful-looking, half- burnt flight that had led her so high, the whole fell down with a loud crash into the body of the building. She is killed!” cried Joe. “No, no! I see her still!” cried Crumpet. “ This way—this way !” To the surprise of the Dark Woman now, both of those men, who had sought her life with so much avidity, made their way from the heap of charred wood on which they had been standing. She thought that they had given up now all chase of her. The idea that such might be the case was one “ Come down, Come down !” en ee en re ee eee | UR RRR RIOR -CAC 9 Keep ce eee 262 THE DARK WOMAN. MeN PMMMOIDE RS Sa he Cone eee re care TOMO ene ee a near that brought to her mind a feeling of exultation for a few moments. * But that feeling was quickly succeeded by one of great despondency. What was she to do now to carry out her ob- jects? How was she still to reach the lone house withont a guide, and how was she to ask the im- portant question she had to put to Laura Adams before those men carried out their terrible design of murder ? These were questions of sad import enough ; but there was another of a more immediate and local character which forced itself upon her attention, and that was how was she, now that the staircase was destroyed, fo make her way to the lower part of the ruins. There she was on one of its upper floors, and all below her appeared to be a wide open space. The height was somewhere about thirty feet, and could she contrive, with any prospect of safety, to let herself drop from such an eminence? For a few moments she wrung her hands in despair, and seemed as if she were half inclined to give up the contest with adverse fortune. “Oh, cruel, cruel fate!” she cried. ‘* Why should the cup of expectation be thus snatched from my lips at the very moment when I fondly hoped all was well?” But this idea of depression was but momen- tary. If the river pirates had deserted the mill, believing that after the fall of the staircase she was out of the way of interfering with their plans and projects, she was all the more called upon to make some effort at escape. If she were to be kiiled in that effort, surely even that would be better than a death, perhaps, by starvation where she was. Bitterly she regretted now that she had not brought Binks with her on the expedition. But it was not now the time for unavailing re- egrets. If ever there was a period of action, surely it had come now. She had everything to lose, and nothing to gain by inertness. And what began to alarm her was that she saw, or fancied she saw, that the moonlight was waning and slowly giving place to alight of a different colour. What could that be but daylight? The Dark Woman took a timid glance about her. At about half a dozen paces from the sort of landing-place on which she stood there was a sma!l door. Through that door she saw another and much narrower flight of steps than those she had so miraculously ascended from the ground floor. These small, narrow steps seemed as if they had escaped wholly from the fire, for there was not the least blackness, or appearance of having so suffered, about them. On the contrary, the steps were white with flour, and it would seem that they had been often trodden by persons employed in the mill when it was doing its work bravely in the gales of spring. Above these few small steps there was yet an- other door. The Dark Woman pushed it open, There came broad streaks of moonlight through slant weather boards, that were filling up the window frames of a small equare room. She was at the top of the mill Through the crevices of these slant boards, tha Dark Woman commanded a view far and wide over the frozen river, and all the house-tops in the vicinity of that place. But a fair prospect had no charms now for her. It was freedom she required; and she felt that it was not to be obtained by seeking the topmost chamber of the old burnt mill. ‘“* No, no,” she said, ** there is no escape, I ean well perceive, this way. I must return, and allow myself to drop the height which those first stairs carried me in safety. I may fall upon the ruins below, and possibly escape allinjury. It must be done!” There was, indeed, no other apparent resource ; and the Dark Woman turned from her brief obser- vation of the river through the crevices of the weather boards, and would have left that little room with its odd rounded roof and old wooden walls. She had taken two steps towards the door. One step more, and she would have reached it, for the room, if room it could properly be called, was very small. Her hand was outstretched to open the door, which she had seen had swung lazily shut as she entered the place. It opened outwards—a push would surely swing it back. No, no! *‘ Good heaven !” she cried,—“ what is this Y The door was fast! No, no! It could not be! It was not pact possible! What bad—what could fasten it? She was alone there! It was the damp—the flour. The door had swung shut from some sudden draught coming from below, and had stuck. That was all! surely that was all! She tried to open it. She recollected that it opened outwards towards the few steps that led to that little topmost room of the mill, and, therefore, a push—a push with vigour would open it in a moment. She gave the vigorous push. The door was fast as a rock. Then, as the Dark Woman felt.asif a cold hand had beon Jaid upon her heart, and a hot one upon her brain, she heard a sound from outside the door. It was a hideous laugh. “Hal ha!” She answered it by a cry of despair. ‘* Hal ba!” came the laugh again. ‘‘ Mercy, mercy!” she shrieked. ‘Ha! hal” The Dark Woman clasped her hands over her eyes, and for a moment she debated in her own mind the possibility of tearing out some of the boards from the window frame, and trusting to chance to enable her to climb down the very out~ side of the mill from roof to ground. Then there came a voice from outside the door, and she soon comprehended all that had happened to her. ‘Now, my fine lady,” said the voice, “ you and all your grand promises, I rather think, are safe for a time. You are in the mill-loft, and a steut bar ig over the door. You did not kno w, it seems, that there was another staircase, and one too, that is perfectly safe, leading up to here! Ha! hal” Alas! Now she understood all! Now sha THE DARK knew why the two river pirates had so suddenly moved away from where she last saw them, when rhe reached tho head of the staircase that had fallen. Of course they had but availed themselves of their knowledge of theinterior of the mill to go and crawl and creep after her, and make her a prisoner. The thought was a terrible one. She flew against the door with all her might. She hammered at it with her hands. ‘“‘Let me out—let me out! Ob, let me out! I double—I treble all my offers to you if you will let me ont!” “‘ Tia! ha!” laughed Crumpet, ““Men-—men, you are mad! You know not what you do—you know not what you lose! Let me ont, Tsay! Oh, let me out, that I may enrich youl’ ‘Hold your row!” said Joe, “You—you! To you I speak!” she cried. “ You, who are more sober and less ferocious than your companion, I speak to you!” “* What is it?” “ Why will you not be a rich man for the re- mainder of your days? A thousand pounds--two thousand . pounds—-ten thousand pounds, if you will let me but pass one hour with—with “With who?” yelled Crumpet. “Laura Adams.” If the Dark Woman had sought for two in- discreet words to utter in the present condition of her fortunes, certainly those two would have been the most indiscreet. At once they let the two river pirates know that she must have overheard all their scheme, and that they were in her power, provided they should let her free. “You have done it now,” said Joe, who had begun to be a little dazzled by the profuse offer of wealth that had been made to him. ‘. Yes,” said Crumpet, ‘she confesses that she has played the part of spy upon us.” “No, no, no!” screamed the Dark. Woman; “I am no spy upon you!” “Then what do you mean about Laura Adams —eh? ‘Tell us that!” *T must see her—I must speak toher! You may kill her a thousand times over if it were possible, and you had the will. so to do, sfter she has told me what I want to know! Let me see her first—lei me get from her the information I require, and I will give you ten thousand pounds, and likewise leave you to carry out any plans you like in regard to her. You hearme? Say you hear me?” “Oh, yes!” ‘¢- You consent?” “‘ What do you say, Joe?” © ‘¢ Ah, you consent ?” ““ Well, what do you say, Crumpet ?” “Well, I am willing.” * So am I.”. The Dark Woman gave a scream of joy. Still she beat upon the aati of the door with her clenched bands. ‘Be quiet !” said Crumpet. “Yes, yes.” _ “ We mean to let you out.” “ Yesa—oh, yes!” * 'T'o-morrow !’’ The Dark Woman uttered so fearful a cry of rage and disappointment that the two river pirates s ~ 263° —_ WOMAN. were only too glad to make their way from the spot with speed. They had not the least faith in her promises. They betieved one or other of the propositions they put to each other as they left the mill—that is, that she was either a dangerous lunatic, or ona of the most artful of police spies. In either case, they were delighted to feel that she was secured from interrupting them, by being shut up in the topmost loft of the old burnt mill, CHAPTER LXVII. THE DARK WOMAN MAKES A WONDERFUL ESCAPE FROM THE OLD RUIN. Tor a few minutes after the departure of Crumpet and Joe from outside the door of the mill-loft, one might have thought that the Dark Woman was dead. If any human eye could have looked in upon her in that little chamber, it might weil have con- cluded that it gazed upon one who had bidden adieu to mortal life. She had fallen to the floor, and lay perfectly still upon her face. She felt that she would be glad to die then, and that, as she was doomed to fail even at the eleventh hour in the object of her life, it would be better for her to quit a world which would hence- forth have neither hopes nor joys for her. Then she heard some distant church strike, She mechanically counted the strokes. One—two—three—four-——five. It was five o’clock in the morning—that Piety morning, which alone intervened between the exe- cution of Allan Fearon. But the Dark Woman had no thought of him. It is not too much to say that, in.the all-absorb- ing character of her thoughts concerning herself and Laura Adams, she had no thought and no recollection of the innocent man who was to suffer death, in order that she might be able to pay to Sir Hinckton Moys the price of the information which now appeared to be completely lost and thrown away. There was no pity in her breast. only blank despair. But who shall say that while there is life, hope utterly dies away in the human heart ? As moment after moment passed away, the violently excited feelings of Linda de Chevenaux calmed down. She no longer lay so perfectly supine in that dreary place; but she looked up, and with deep sighs and moans she began to rise to her feet. Was she completely helpless ?. Was there nothing that human ingenuity— such ingenuity, too, as she possessed, incited and inflamed to action by such motives as she had— could suggest to alleviate her condition? In another hour it would be daylight, Then all would be lost. But there was, at that season of the year, yet an hour of night—an hour of such darkness, too, as usually precedes the dawn. The moon had passed its maridian, and had sunk deeply down into a mass of clouds in the west. clock There was ee a ee ren er RN A SSL EC SC TSE SO SL AE TATED AOL LCL LSD LALA LOLA LOE ET ROT Fence nine eer tr er FR Ee ESN NT A A NS 264 THE DARK WOMAN. [ST LL ere The darkness began to look black and pal- pable. Then the Dark Woman dashed aside from her face the tresses of her hair, which had escaped from their confinement and strayed over her cheeks, and she strove to think. Then she felt in a pocket of her dress. Yes, she had some phosphorus matches—she was not without the means of getting a light. Those matches—there were three of them—were pro- videntially, she thought, in a little tin case which was in the pocket of the dress she had slipped on over her male costume during the brief rest she had taken at the house in Soho. Another moment, and there was a dim, blue Might in that old loft of the mill. The Dark Woman thought she had noticed on first entering that place, and while the moonlight lasted, a heap of rubbish lying in one corner. She wanted, now, to see what that was. Old canvass, some sacks, some decayed pieces of clothing and odd shaped wood-work, that no doubt had belonged to worn-out machinery of the mill, and a long coil of old, dirty rove. The Dark Woman once more uttered a cry of joy when she saw that rope. It was very strangely knotted at intervals of about six feeteach. It had belonged to the sails of the mill. “Tam saved!” she exultingly cried,—“ I am paved!” From the moment that she laid her hands on that rope, she saw a means of deliverance; and with the new hope, there came to her new strength and new courage. She went to one of the openings in the wall, where the slant weather boards were, and put forth all her strength to remove one. No doubt, many of the readers of this most eventful chronicle have at times in their lives drawn in a deep breath, and braced every nerve to lift some great weight, and found that it flew ap in their hands with ease and lightness, being no weight at all. ~ It was so in regard to the slant weather boards that were ia the window frames of the top loft of the mill. The moment the Dark Woman put forth any strength at all to remove one, it almost dropped to pieces under her hands. Time and weather had completely rotted the boards, and they had not much more strength than wet pasteboard. There were six of them to each window. The Dark Woman lifted them down with ease. It looked a fearful depth, though, when she leant over the sill of the opening in the wall, and strove to pierce with her earnest gaze through the intense darkness down to the basement of the mill. Would the rope reach so far? That was the question. But if it would not, what else could she do? —what other hope could she have? At least she would avail herself of its aid as far as it would go, and drop the remainder of the distance. Now the mode in which the Dark Woman would reach the ground would be very peculiar in this case. There was not a sheer depth right down from this top loft of the mill to the ground. About ne half-way down, some low buildings, which had shared in the general destruction of the premises, closely adjoined the mill. The roof of those low buildings had fallen in, so that when the Dark Woman should descend by the rope she would necessarily pass through that fallen roof, and come down still within the old ruins of the mill and its out-buildings. And now she set to work with speed and ability to effect the escape that had become so suddenly a thing within the bounds of probability. There was among the rubbish on the floor a thick, tough-looking piece of wood—thick at one end and thinner at the other, and clamped with some iron braces. Screws and nails were projeet- ing from it, and it was evidently a portion of the wooden machinery of the mill. But whatever use it had ever been of in past times was nothing in the estimation of the Dark Woman to the use she found for it now. By tying one end of the rope to it, she found that she could place this piece of wood across the window opening, in such a way as to be perfectly secure. To do so was the work of a moment. Then the Dark Woman tied the other end of the rope round her waist, so that, in case of aslip, she would not wholly fall. Then she got on to the ledge of the window and let herself out, and hung wholly by the rope, which fell from her waist and from the bit of cross-stick at the window in a long loop. She let the rope pass gradually through her hands, and began to descend. Down—down—deep down into the blackness of the night she went! The rope hurt her hands, but she heeded not that. Through the huge, jagged-looking orifice made by the falling in of the roof of the outhouse that was immediately below, she passed. Beneath that, the darkness was now so intense that the sensation was like descending into the depths of a well. Then suddenly she came to the end of the rope. It was not long enough! A fear came over the Dark Woman that she. was doomed to a bad fall yet. But a second thought put an end to that apprehension; she was certain that she had descended some ten or twelve feet after passing through the roof of the outhouse. How, then, could she be far from the base- ment ? She had tied the cord round her waist in a bow knot, so that she could easily, at any moment re- lease it ; but before she did so, she tried, by stretch- ing her feet as low down as she could, to feel the ground, or the heap of fallen rubbish, which she fully expected to have alighted upon. No. All seemed to be vacancy below her. For a few seconds a fearful thought took pos- session of her. Who should say that chance might not have brought her over the opening to some well; and that when she let herself go, she might descend, like a pebble cast into it, some hundreds of feet below the surface of the earth ? This was an extravagant idea, and it was not one with which to feed the fancy, under such cir- cumstances as she was placed in. She pulled the end of the rope that tied the bows, and she slid from it. SS THE DARK The heap of rubbish the Dark Woman fell upon, was not six inches from her feet. She did fall, and the debris of the fire rolled down some distance with her; but she was un- burt. “Tam free !—I am free!” she cried, as she now sprung lightly to her feet. “I am free, and I may yet bein time! Oh, grant it, heaven!” She hastily now lit another of the matches she had with her, and she saw that she was close to the open air. There was a doorway without a door, and she had but to pass through it, and she at once trod upon the snow. Yes; she was free, But where was the lone house? At some distance off she saw alight. It ap- peared to be moving slowly along, as if carried by some one at a creeping pace. Then there came upon the still morning air a No, $4 --Darx Wonran. ft WOMAN, SSS I I) i dreaming, half-sleepy voice—“! Half past five, and a cold morning!” It was a watchman, and that light was his lantern. The Dark Woman dived her right hand into one of the numerous pockets she had about her, and secured a guinea. With that in her grasp, she ran over the snow towards the watchman. “Stop! stop!” she cried. ‘‘ Watch!” The watchman paused. He raised his lantern, and in a gruff voice called out, ‘‘ What now?” “Stop a moment; I would speak to you. be ‘Who are you, eh? Move on, can’t your “There is a guinea.” * A what?” ‘* A guinea.” “A bad one?” ; “No, as good as gold can make it. I want you to tell me if you know a building about here that is called the lone house?” Te ASE RR nS te IIE a AST ae ee ee ee ene finan nea s-mtngs shame Scones neonates eran tem ea en ce tte A ETE NE AP NTN A A SRA RT Nt 266 “To be sure, I do!” * Ah, where—where is it ? * Do you want Mrs. Dick?” “ Laura Adams.” “Oh, it’s all the same thing. She’s up, too, which is rather strange, for I saw a light in one of the windows only ten minutes ago.” “ Good ‘heaven:!” “Eh? ‘What's ‘the matter?” Show it to me? “Murder! Murder is the matter! She is by this time, perhaps, dead, ‘and all is lost! Lost at the Jast hour—at ‘the last moment! ‘Which is the ‘house? Oh, show it tome now—at once— at‘once! ‘Which is the house?” “This way—this way !” Tire watchman was now wide awake, and the terror ‘and vehemence of the Dark Woman frightened ‘him into speed. He ran on down @ very ‘narrow turning, which brought them out close‘to the banks of the Thames. ‘That's the ‘lone house,’” said the watchman, as ‘he held up his stick, and pointed towards a dreaty-looking building that was .close to the bank of the river. ‘That's what's called the ‘Tone house;’ it belonged to the old mill afore it was burnt down, and the fire did scorch it a bit.” ‘Ah! Isee!” cried the Dark Woman. “But there is no light now—all is darkness, from the road to the roof. I'thank you. there. Heaven grant that she lives yet! T.am full of fears—oh, ‘so full of fears!” “Stop!” cried the watchman, as the Dark Woman was darting from him,—‘ stop! with you. You said something about murder, and it's in my beat.” “No, ‘10; all is over—all is over! Yetstaya moment. Have you fire-arms?—for I:may meet’ those I:must kill, or be killed.” ‘Tord ‘bless you, no! ‘I have only ‘my ‘stick and my 'ratile.” “Then syoucannot'help me. Farewell!” There’was narrow bit of ‘roadway, and ‘then an irregular, dilapidated jpiece «of ground, which was rapidly accumulating ‘into a dust-heap and a receptacle for broken ‘crockery for ‘the entire neighbourhood, between the Dark Woman and the lone house. The snow, however, lay thickly over the entire spot, for it had drifted in from the river; and as the Dark Woman ran hastily towards the house, she left the deep impression of her footsteps behind her. It was a most dilapidated-looking dwelling; and as she approached it, her mind ran over the strange history she had heard from the two river thieves concerning Laura Adams, who inhabited it. She seemed almost to know that woman, so much had she heard of her within the last twelve hours; and yet there was a dreary sensation at her heart that she would never see her alive. The Dark Woman reached the house, but she had to run round it to get to its proper doorway, which she found was low and narrow, and arched over by a dilapidated framework of laths, to which clung the dreary remains of some creeping plant. There was a cold, grey appearance of light now in the east. The morning was coming, and with it-a white mist that swept over the frozen river. “'Too late—too late!” cried the Dark Woman, I haye business But. Vil go: nS SESS ee eee ee THE DARK WOMAN. as she hammered on the door with the top of one of her pistols, for knocker or bell there was none, “Too late !—too late! Alas! I fear I am too late. and all is lost |” She waited impatiently for some response to her knocking, but not 2 sound was heard within the house, and, to all appearance, it was thoroughly deserted, or might, indeed, be a mansion of death. A feverish impatience seized upon the Dark Woman, and ‘she stepped back a step or two to scan ‘with eager eyes the front of the house. There were five ‘windows, and all were closed except one, That one was only partially open. A portion of one of the shutters seemed to have | been thrust aside; and it brought a pang to the heart of the Dark Woman ‘to see that one of the panes ‘of glass of the window was broken. Such an evidence of violence convinced her more ‘and more that the river thieves had been in the house; and again,-as she wrung her hands, she whispered, ‘Too late—too late!” She hammered at the door a second time; and then, before even the echoes of the knocking had died away, she felt the necessity of forcing her way into that lone house to satify her mind of the worst, or to give herself some hope'that-all was not lost. No one was near her at that still hour of the morning. She might have been in the dreariest ‘waste that nature ever formed, so far as regarded any human eye being upon her actions. The cold wind whistled from the river, and the white mist thickened. “Oh, for a weapon! oh, for a weapon,” she veried, ‘‘to force ‘this door~—although I feel that ‘the dead alone will meet: my gaze within it!” ‘It was instinctively, rather than with any hope of ‘forcing ‘the door, that she dashed her hands ‘againstiit; and then she felt, by the:slight rattle that it made, and by the manner‘in which it gave way toa limited extent, ‘that its fastening, be it what it might, must be someéthinug weak and fragile. ‘The excitement of her feelings lent'her strength ; she almost threw herself againstithe frail door of that lone house ; and then the oldrust-worn latch, by which it was only fastened, gave way, and a dull, black space-appeared before her. There was no hall or passage to the house. The outer door opened at once into one of the lower rooms, and into this lower room the Dark Woman, with her hands outstretched, made her way. “Laura Adams! Laura Adams!’ she cried in a high, excited tone of voice,—‘‘ Laura Adams, I would speak with you!” All was still. “One word —one word,” added the Dark Woman, “to tell me that you live! Iwill bea friend, forgetting and forgiving all the past! I will. be such a friend as King or Regent never can be. Speak but a word, and let me-know that you live, and that the toils and troubles of years which hang upon this moment are not cast to the winds!” In a painful attitude of listening, the Dark Woman now bent forward to catch the slightest sound that might arise in the lone house. Upon the still air of the place there came a moan, as of one in mortal agony. ‘Ah, I hear that! It sounds like death, and yet while life lingers there. may be speech sufficient THE DARK WOMAN. to tell me that which I must know. Laura Adams —Laura Adams! linger yet in life—cling to your latest breath! You must not, dare not die, until I have spoken to you! Your soul must not leave this world charged with such a secret! Where can I find you? Moan again — sigh again— that I may reach you! Speak, I say —speak !” " Again the Dark Woman listened, and again she heard, or fancied she heard, a deep groan reply to her. She felt satisfied that wherever the sound was she would have to ascend to it, for it was neither in that intensely dark room with its closed shutters where she was, nor did it seem to come from any other apartment on the same floor. The Dark Woman, with her hands outstretched before her to save her from a collision with any obstacles which might be in her way, felt her route through and about this room. She struck against some articles of furniture, and then she felt her arms passing through a vacancy in the wall, That was a doorway, surely. Yes, and better still, the entrance to a staircase. Another moment, and the Dark Woman was ascending a narrow stairs. They wound round spirally, and when past the first turn she saw a dim gleam of light, and she felt certain she was reaching that room where the shutter had been partially unclosed and the window broken. Higher, higher still, and her head was level with the landing; then, and not till then, she paused, for lying upon that landing was an un- mistakable human form. ** She is murdered!” cried the Dark Woman. ‘They have done the deed !” The apparent dead body was lying on its face, with the head projecting over the topmost stair. ‘With a feeling of despair and utter hopelessness, now, the Dark Woman raised the insensible form, and half carried and half dragged it into the first room that presented itself. That was the room with the shutter partially open, and the broken window. There came in quite sufficient light now to make all objects visible, and at first sight the Dark Woman thonght that it was a dead body she held in her arms. It was a youngish woman, with a pale, suffering-locking face, and scanty dark hair, which was now clotted with blood. “Dead!” cried the Dark Woman. “ Dead, and so all is lost! Hope has expired, and vengeance alone remains. I am called the Dark Woman, but henceforth darkness shall be as glorious sun- light, compared with the deed I will do. I can- not live for hope, but I will live for ven- geance |” She let the apparent dead body fall from her arms; but as it reached the floor there came another low moan from the partially opened lips, similar to those that had replied to the frantic calls of the Dark Woman, upon her first entering the lone house. “Ah, she lives, she lives! The mysterious principle of life has not departed yet. She lives, and I will not abandon hope. But what shal! I do?—what shallIdo? What course now ?—how shall I fan this spark of life into a flame? Home! yes, home! I have a home still! To that dim and mysterious abode, where I play the part of Astorath, the astrologer, I will convey this, to me, precious existence! I will watch over her, as never devotee watched the shrine of any saint.” Rapid in action when she saw her way, and had firmly come to a determination, the Dark Woman left the house. She had no fear of any intruders in that lone mansion, at least for hours to come, and she knew she had with her the means of purchasing service from the most unwilling. The gold with which she intended to bribe Laura Adams was still about her, and so she made her way over that dilapidated bit of ground again, and across the narrow roadway, and down the little turning which the watchman had taken, and on still further, until she came to a regular street of houses, The object of the Dark Woman was to reach some stables, at which she might hire a vehicle to convey Laura Adams to the gloomy house in Soho. This was a matter of no difficulty, and the liberal display which the Dark Woman made of the gold she had about her, smoothed all obstacles. A coach was soon at the door of the lone house, and the Dark Woman spoke briefly to the driver. “My sister,” she said, “has met with an accident, and I wish to take her away from here, where she is alone, to where she will receive abundant help. Assist me to carry her from the room above—your reward will be ample.” The coachman was nothing loth, and in five minutes more, the Dark Woman drove off in a sort of triumph with that Laura Adams who was the depository of the secret she would have given all she possessed at any time to know—the secret of what had become of her son, whose father was George, Prince of Wales, and Regent of England. CHAPTER LXVIIL BINKS SECURES THE SERVICES OF A MEDICAL MAN. Tae Dark Woman was perfectly satisfied that whatever was the nature or the extent of the injuries which Laura Adams had received at the hands of the river pirates, they were not going to be productive of immediate death, The low moans which she occasionally uttered, rather increased in frequency; and the Dark Woman, who had heard of the injury called con- cussion of the brain producing symptoms analogous to those she saw before her, made up her mind that that was what had taken place to Laura Adams. , Nothing could be more reasonable, or more likely to be the truth, if such had taken place, The river thieves had made their way into the house, and in an ordinary brutal manner had struck down their victim. The Dark Woman was getting wonderfully composed and collected now. ‘The agitations and the events of the night had passed away. She knew the worst, and she hoped for the best. Pro- bably the hope predominated; for she began to look as usual—cold, stern, and implacable. The coachman had orders to drive to Soho Square; but it was no part of the intention of the Dark Woman to leave a clue behind her from the lone house to the river's bank to Astorath’s man- sion in Frith Street. IF an reece Dap NEP en NE RI RNR titre et pf A ASE GS SapS nr eEG dgsbony mjunes ewoueryes mahipapponon erie See . eee eT nner per re at pe EE RS TE Se RR eR Re ere aay omen wen pnp pr 268 She determined to break that clue by having the coach drawn up in Scho Square, and then taking a means of preventing the coachman know- ing where the wounded woman was taken to. It was gold, all-powerful gold that accom- plished this; and no sooner had the coachman brought his horses to a standstill in Soho Square, than the Dark Woman let down one of the front windows, and spoke to him. ‘‘ Here are five guineas,” she said, as she prof- fered the gold in her open hand. “ If you would earn them in a quarter of an hour, without detri- ment or damage to yourself or any one else, say 80.” “T'm a poor man, marm; and it will be a for- tune to me.” “ You will obey me, then, strictly.” ‘With all my heart, marm !” “& Wait here, then, until a tall, stout man comes to you. He will call himself ‘ Number Three ;’ and when you see him, you will alight from your box, and he will take your place. You will thea take a walk into the Oxford Road for a clear quarter of an hour, without looking once behind you; and then you will come back, and find your coach on this spot as safe as you left it.” 6 T'll do it,” said the man. “ That is well.” The Dark Woman alighted, and made her way on foot to what had been Astorath’s house in Frith Street, but which she now considered her own by right of conquest, and was instantly ad- mitted. The little arrangement succeeded well; and Binks brought Laura Adams in safety to the door, and carried her up to one of the upper apartments of the house. ‘The coach was then taken back, and the coachman, not less gratified than mysti- fied, found it as he had been promised. It was now half-past seven o'clock in the morn- ing. It wanted but twenty-three hours and a half to the execution of Allan Fearon; and yet the Dark Woman never gave him a thought. She was wholly engrossed with the wounded female she had brought from the lone house by the burnt mill; and after seeing her placed carefully in bed, she summoned Binks, for she had some- thing for him to do which would require perhaps ell his skill and all his audacity. The white mist, which the Dark Woman had noticed as creeping over from the frozen river, appeared to have been but the precursor of a dense fog, which was now slowly settling over London. It seemed as if that day had but dawned for the purpose of setting in deeper ob- scurity than before. It was one of those fogs that could positively be felt, and which oc- casionally confound the great city into a mass of floating vapour. The Dark Woman was in the laboratory of the dead Astorath. She had sent Felix, the page, to summon the attendance of Binks; but before that unscrupulous rufhan could reach the room, this fog, that we have mentioned, descended upon the metropolis, and a complete darkness was upon ; all things. The one window which lighted that room was obscured at the best of times by the accumulated dust of years; but still, in the bright morning time, there would come sufficient I‘ght into it to make most objects visible. Now, however, the THE DARK WOMAN. Dark Woman, as she sat watching the arrival of the minister of her passions, presented in the darkness but a dim outline of a human form. ‘I'm here,” said Binks. ‘What would you have?” “You are skilful in your duty to me; and I have now a work for you to do, which will require all your skill, and all your courage.” ‘“* Another robbery ?” asked Binks. “No; but the person you have brought here in the coach from Soho Square, is badly burt, and goes in danger of her life. It is necessary for my purposes that she should recover.” “ Ob !” said Binks. “T therefore require the best surgical attend- ance for her; and the duty I put you upon is, that you should procure it, without, at the same time, allowing the surgeon to know where he comes, and who is his employer.” Binks looked puzzled. “Do you comprehend me?” added the Dark Woman. “TI think I do. You want a doctor. You want him brought here, and yet to kuow ne- thing.” 4c Yes.” “ How often do you want him ?’ “Once, I think, only.” “ Ah, then,” said Binks with animation, * what can be more easy ?” “You have thought of a plan ?” “To be sure I have! I will get the best doctor in all London to come to you; and when he has paid his visit, and done all he can, I will meet him in the passage, and wring his head off. That’s the way to do it. It is almost too pleasant and easy.” “No,” replied the Dark Woman; ‘that will not do. It does not suit my purposes that there should be more murder done in this house, if it can possibly be avoided.” “Murder!” said Binks, with a doubtful look. “ Well, some folks are so mighty particular, I don't mean to say but they might call it murder!’ “No, no—that will not do!” “T am at your service, my lady,” Binks. The Dark Woman considered for a few moments, and then she said slowly, ‘ There is a surgeon of great skill who resides in Spring Gardens. His name is Amos. Go to him. Take what means and what money you please; all I ask of you is to Go him no harm, but to bring him here, so that he may come and go from this house, and know nothing.” Binks was so much in the habit of looking upon the orders of the Dark Woman as so many laws, that must neither be commented upon nor altered, that he said not another word, but went on his missicn. Now, but for that terrible fog which had come over London, Binks might have found that: mission to be anything but easy of accomplishment; but the moment he stepped ont into the open street, and saw what a vapour was over the City, he clapped his hands together as he said, “ That's as good as done! I will have him! It’s easy enough!” Binks was so familiar with London, that, no doubt, he could have made his way easily enough to Spring Gardens without any help, if he had added THE DARK WOMAN, 269 Ee ee ae ae eT DR oe GR a ee ee a ies besiah been so inclined ; but being resolved to do the thing grandly, he engaged the services of a couple of link-boys, one of whom ran on each side of him with their flaming flambeaux. In great state, as he considered it, Binks thus made his way to Spring Gardens; and when there, he dismissed each of the boys by catching their links from them and throwing them into the middle of the road. 3 Binks then adopted the best possible way of at ' once finding out which was Doctor Amos’s house, | | mr —_— and that was by going into the first doorway that presented itself, and knocking and ringing furiously. The door was opened promptly to such an appeal, for the people.thought at least that the house was on fire, or that the French had landed. ** Doctor Anios !” roared Binks. : ““ Why, he don’t live here,” was the reply. “ Where then—eh ?” “At No. 7, to be sure.” ‘That will do.” Binks walked away with all the coolness in the world, leaving the people who had been so disturbed in a great state of irritation. But, as Binks had accomplished his object, he cared nothing for what anybody felt or thought. He knew now where to go for Doctor Amos, but he by no means assailed the surgeon's door in the manner he had already knocked at one of those houses in Spring Gardens. Binks had an idea. A plan had suggested itself to him which probably would never have found a place in his brain, but that years since, when he was a mere boy, he had been employed as what is called a “ doctor’s boy,” and therefore Binks knew the habits of the profession. He had a lively recollection of how he had lost that emplyment, in consequence of a little practical joke which he had played one day. It consisted in shifting all the labels and addresses of a large cargo of draughts and boluses which he had to deliver in different parts of the town, so that every- body had the wrong physic. The patients did just as well, or as ill, notwith- standing that, as Binks was found out, he was dis- charged with ignominy. Nevertheless Binks knew that physicians and surgeons in good practice had a time of the day for being at home, and atime of the day for going out. He wanted to catch Doctor Amos as he should go out, and he felt certain that he was in good time, since the morning was yet young. It was, then, to get the information of when Doctor Amos would be going out that Binks knocked modestly and gently at the door of No. 7, in Spring Gardens. The door was opened by a footman. Binks put his question in the most insinuating manner. bs! “ Her ladyship the Countess,” he said, ‘‘ wishes to know at what time the doctor will come out to- day ?” Oh, as usual,” said the footman. ‘“ About one.” “Oh, not till one?” “Oh, yes,” said another voice; ‘the Doctor has ordered the carriage at a quarter before eleven, He has some special visit to make this morning ; I heard him order it.” “Very good,” said the footman. “Very goed,” said Binks. In another moment Binks left the Coor-step, and had disappeared in the fog. “Well,” said the footman, as he closed tha door, “I will say that a more ill-looking, cut- throat sort of fellow than that I never saw in all my days.” Binks’s appearance was not prepossessing, al- though he was well dressed since he had been in the service of the Dark Woman. And now, being exactly in possession of all the information he wanted, Binks quietly retired to a doorway opposite, and there waited the arrival of the carriage of Dr. Amos. He had not to wait very long before he saw the plain chariot of the celebrated surgeon drive up to the door of No. 7. He could only just see it through the dense rolling masses of the fog, that was rather increas- ing than diminishing as the day advanced. The carriage waited at the Doctor's door pro- bably about ten minutes, and then Binks heard the door slammed shut, and it started off towards Charing Cross. Binks was after it in a moment. There was a footman, a coachman, and the Doctor himself, to contend with, so one might think that Binks would be a little over-matched, but he did not think so; and when he saw the chariot start off in the fog he looked upon Dr. Amos as his own particular capture, and had no more doubt about taking him, whether he liked it or not, to Frith Street, Soho, than he had of his own identity, or that there was a fog in the streets of London. That fog it was that made Binks so confident of success, because he had nothing to fear from any interference on the part of bystanders or chance passengers in the street. No one could see at all into the middle of the road, or if they did see sufficiently through the fog to be conscious that some vehicle was passing, that would be all. Binks, then, ran after the Doctor’s carriage, and went at once through a little performance, whick the reader of these chronicles has observed once before he was an adept in. It will be recollected that upen one occasicn Binks had very adroitly disposed of a man, whe was at the back of the coach of my Lord II] chester, with the intent of apprehending the Dark Woman. It was in the same way now that he disposed of Dr. Amos’s footman. The process was short and decisive. It con- sisted of laying hold of the legs of the footman, and by one jerk landing him in the road off the perch behind; and so suddenly and adroitly was this done, that the astonished footman had no time to cry out, but lay partially stunned in the road, while the coach went on without him as if nothing had happened. The next step on the part of Binks was fo sup- ply the deficiency in a footman by getting up be- hind the coach himself, Then Binks came (o a stand-still, and was rather in doubt a3 to what he should do next. As a statesman of the present day used to say, two courses were open to him to pursue. The one was what he had originally intended, and that was to get up behind the coach as he had done, and 270 then scramble over the roof and knock the coach- man off the box, and assume the reins himself, and drive Dr. Amos quietly and comfortably to the house in Frith Street, Soho. There were advantages in this course; but then there were drawbacks. The Doctor would, perhaps, at a glance, know Frith Street; and in that case, one of the direc- tions of the Dark Woman would be outraged, since she had distinctly said that she required Dr. Amos to be brought to the astrologer’s house with- out his knowing where he was. ** No,” said Binks; “that won’t do.” The other plan we need not describe, since, as it was the one Binks carried out, it will explain itself sufficiently in practice. There was a small square of glass in the back panel of the coach, and through this Binks would have seen the Doctor, but that there was on the inside a little moveable pad which just fitted to it, and acted as an impenetrable screen. But Binks did not allow this to be an obstacle for long. The coach was going along Pall Mall, which was a course that took it each moment further from the direction of the Dark Woman’s abode, therefore Binks saw the necessity for imme- diate action. He at once broke the little square of glass with the barrel of a pistol, and then with a jerk he tore down the small pad which closed it on the inner side. But these were actions that could not escape the observation of Dr. Amos, who was trying to keep his feet warm, and pretending to consider about the case he was going to visit. The first impression of the Doctor was that a stone had been flung at the coach, and had done all the mischief, but he soon had a truer sense of his situation. Binks put the barrel of the pistol about six inches into the coach through the opening at the back, and pointing it full in the face of the Doctor, he said, ‘‘Sir, you are a dead man, or you may have a fee of one hundred guineas—which you like.” The Doctor had been about to raise a cry of alarm, but the sight of the pistol-barrel, and the singular words that had been uttered, deterred him. “ What is this?” he said. ‘‘ Who and what are you?” ab * Be quiet.” “No, no. Thieves! Samuel!” “ Another word in that tone, and I will scatter your brains out on the coach roof.” The coachman, however, had heard his name called, and drew up. “ Tell him to go on,” said Binks, “or you are a dead man.” * Go on!” said Doctor Amos. “That is right. Now attend to me.” “ Murder !” “Tt will be if you are not prudent.” “What do you want? Ihave no money with me. If you must have my watch, I will hand it out to you.” “No, I don’t want your money or your watch, Doctor Amos; but you are wanted to see some one who is hurt.” “Ah! Ibegin to comprehend.” “No, you don’t.” THE DARK WOMAN. ” ** But ‘*Be quiet. Don’t speak so loud, but listen to me, and answer only when you ought. You must come with me wherever I want you to come; and that you may do that in the way I choose, you will order the coachman to drive to the corner of Swallow Street.” “But-——” “You will.go on saying ‘ but,’ will you ?” St No, no.” “There are two of us.” “Two of what?” ““Me and my pal. Now, you see, I am coming to sit a little inside with you, to talk to you. If, . while I am coming round to open the door, you try to be treacherous or-to give any alarm, my pal will shoot you dead.” “I won’t—I won't.” “Very good. Pull up, then—order your coach- man to pull up.” “‘ Stop, Samuel, stop.” “Say you see a friend.” ‘*T see a friend, Samuel.” The coach stopped. Binks dismounted from behind, and ran round to one of the doors, and as he opened it, he said, ‘* Ah, how do you do, Doctor Amos, old fellow ? Why, I haven’t seen you for I don’t know how long.” ‘‘Hem!” said the Doctor. ‘ Say,” added Binks, in a whisper,—" say ‘I am delighted to see you, Smith.’” ‘T am delighted to see you, Smith,” said Doctor Amos, with rather a bad grace. Binks was now seated by the Doctor’s side in the coach, and had closed the door, He turned with the most ferocious look he could put on—ané that was most ferocious, indeed—and with some expletives, with which we need not trouble the reader, he clapped the pistol-barrel against his forehead, saying, in suppressed tones, “I will shoot you here, in your own coach, as certainly as that you are now alive, if you attempt the least treachery.” ‘“‘ Treachery ?” said Doctor Amos, faintly, and in a tone which signified that if he had had the courage to do so, he could have added, ‘Yours is the only treachery I know of.” ‘‘Don’t be abusive,” said Binks. * Abusive ?” “Come, come; a gentleman don’t like his blessed words repeated, so don’t do it. Now tell the coachman to pull up at the corner of Swallow Street.” The order was given. Binks was well acquainted with a complicated nest of courts and alleys which led from the corner of Swallow Street to Frith Street, “Soho; and he had made up his mind to take Doctor Amos on foot, by that route, to the house of the Dark Woman. The distance was short, and the handsome, plain chariot of the Doctor soon paused at the comer of the street specified, and Binks added, in a tone that admitted of no excuse, the rest of his instructions. “You will get out now with me,” he said, “and come on foot to see the wounded person I spoke of, and you will tell yourcoachman to wait for you.” “Tf your intention is to rob me,” said the THE DARK WOMAN. Doctor, “do it here, at once; but I will not go with you.” “You won't?” “T certainly will not. You may be about to conduct me into some den of murder.” “ Stuff !” “Where I may be quietly disposed of, and no one know what has become of me.” “ Very well.” 7A Why do you say very well? Do you doubt it?” . “No. But if you won’t come, my orders are to take your life here, at once, and escape in the fog. If you do come, you will be perfectly safe, and not a hair of your head will be injured.” “ How can I know that ?” ““Nohow, beforehand. You can please your- self.” It was this extreme candour on the part of ‘ Binks that probably had more effect on Doctor Ames than anything else; and after a few mo- ments’ silence, he said, ‘If you had come to me in the regular way, you might have secured my at- tendance with perfect safety. It is no part of the duty of a surgeon to know anything, or to say anything to others, of those whom he visits pro- fessionally.” “T can’t help it,” said Binks; “ I act under orders.” “Very well; I consent.” “You are safe, then.” Binks put his hand out at the coach window and opened the door. He and Doctor Amos then both alighted, and Binks closed the door. “You will wait here, Samuel,” said the Doctor. “ Yes, sir.” “ Now, Mr. Smith, I am at your service.” ‘6 You are a wise man,” said Binks. Arm-in-arm—for Binks took good care to hold the Doctor’s arm tightly within his own, for fear, in the fog, he should try to give him the slip— they left the coach, and dived down a narrow court. “t Well,” said the coachman, when he saw his master, and the Mr. Smith who had been appa- rently picked up so strangely in the street, dis- appear in the fog,—“ well, John, this is an odd go, is it not? What do you say about it, eh?” There was no reply. “Why don’t you speak, John, eh? Are you friz with the cold, eh?” Still no John uttered a word. The coachman then, by leaning back, and taking as good a look as the fog would let him over the top of the coach, became aware that the footman was gone—a circumstance that naturally added to his surprise at the whole affair. In the meanwhile, Binks had conducted the Doctor through some of the most squalid courts in that part of London, and as they dived into one which seemed to be somewhat worse than any of the others, Dr. Amos spoke. “Ts it somewhere in these disreputable haunts that I am to go?” tt Oh, no!” “ Where, then ?” “That's just what you are not to know. You will please now to stand still a minute, while I tie @ handkerchief over your eyes.” “Must it be so ?” 271 ea “ Take my own, then,” The Doctor handed to Binks a silk handkerchief, which the latter tied over his eyes, and, indeed, one half his face, in such a manner that it was impossible he could see, ‘“‘ Now, fear nothing,” said Binks; “but walk with me boldly forward. There is no danger.” About three minutes’ walking now brought them to the door of the house in Frith Street, where, no doubt, the Dark Woman waited with no small amount of impatience the arrival of Binks with the surgeon. Binks rang at the secret bell. The page Felix was waiting, and the door was opened on the instant. “‘Comein. Two steps!” said Binks. They were in the passage, and the door was closed again. Binks slipped his hold of the arm of the Doctor down to his wrist, and then he held him by the cuff of his coat. ** Follow!” said a voice. “All right!” replied Binks. ‘' Stairs.” The blindfolded Doctor stumbled at the first stair, and then he ascended carefully, still held by Binks. ‘*You are counting the steps!” said Binks; “but that will do you no good.” | ‘T like to know what I can,” said the Doctor. ‘You are not such a coward as I thought you.” ‘TJ am no coward, but I don’t want to throw away my life needlessly.” ‘¢ Follow! follow!” said the voice again. “Straight on!” said Binks. ‘ No steps.” The Doctor counted that he was led now for a distance that took him one hundred and two paces to traverse. Probably he was led all round tha large apartment on the first floor of the house, on purpose to mislead him. Then he became conscious of an increased warmth, and he was certain he was in a room with a fire, and that it was not far from him. “Go !” said a voice. The Doctor could not decide in his own mind whether that voice was masculine or feminine, but he felt the cuff of his coat released from the hold that Binks had kept on it, and then a door was abruptly closed. Some one snatched the bandage from his eyes at the same moment. ees CHAPTER LXIX. DR. AMOS GIVES SMALL HOPES TO THE DARK WOMAN, THE moment the surgeon felt the bandage re- moved from before his eyes, he saw that he was in rather a small apartment, tolerably furnished, in which the most prominent object was a bed. A bright fire was in the grate, and standing by it was a person enveloped in along black garment, fastened by a belt round the waist. On this person’s face was a mask of black velvet, which effectually hid the features. Then that voice which he bad not been able to detect as masculine or feminine spoke again. ‘“Doctcr Amos, I am aware that you are a 272 THE DARK WOMAN. skilful surgeon. Iam sure you will pardon any inconvenience in the mode by which you have been brought here, when I tell you it was not choice, but necessity, that dictated it.” * What would yon have of me,” said the surgeon, ‘‘ now that I am here?” ‘“‘ There is your patient.” The Dark Woman—for it was she who wore the black habit and the mask—advanced to the bed, and drawing aside the curtain which shielded it from the fire, she said, ‘‘ There is your patient.” Laura Adams lay upon that bed, still now as if death had indeed claimed her as its own. On a little table by the head of the bed was an oil lamp, with a shade, which could be shifted round at pleasure; for the dense fog that was with- out now made it seem to be dark night in that gloomy house. : ‘*‘Tg she sick, or hurt?” asked the Doctor. “Fiurt. I fancy she suffers from a blow on the head.” ‘Ah, I see!” The surgeon turned the lamp-shade, so that a fall beam of light fell upon the head and face of Laura Adams. He opened one of her half-closed syes carefully, and then he aaid, briefly and ab- ruptly, ‘‘ Concussion of the brain.” “T suspected so.” “Tt is quite clear. pened ?” The Dark Woman considered for a few moments, and then’she said, in a deep, hollow voice, behind the mask, “‘ About five hours.” ‘Ah! We will see what we can do. water, and a sponge. once.” The Dark Woman touched the bell, and the page, Felix, appeared. That faithful follower of the Dark Woman re- mained on the threshold of the door, so that the surgeon could not see her, and took the order for the articles he wanted, which were soon pro- duced. The surgeon cut away the long matted hair of Laura Adams, and examined-the wound she had evidently received at the back of the head with some blunt instrument. ‘¢ T can do nothing !” he said. The Dark Woman uttered an exclamation. *¢ Nothing ? nothing ?” ‘No. She will die!” * Let her die, but let her speak !” *¢ Speak ?” “ Yes, she must—she shall speak !” ** T cannot make her speak; but if she be care- fully watched, it is possible that just before death, she may say something. I know such things happen, but no human skill can save her!” “Tt isenough. Alas, alas!” “I might,” added the surgeon, “ try to raise the depressed skull, but she would, no doubt, die at once.” “ And without speaking ?” ‘‘ Like enough. Perhaps with a cry that would not be articulate.” ““ No, no, no!” ** What do you mean ?” “IT mean that I will wait and watch, for she shall speak, if it be possible. There, sir—there is your fee; and you will do well to forget that you ever Saw me, or that poor, murdered woman !” How long has this hap- Some A pair of scissors, too, at The Dark Woman placed a heavy purse in the hand of the surgeon. He made a half bow of acknowledgment, as he then said, ‘‘ I will come again, most willingly, if you wish it.” ‘¢ No, no—unless you have doubts about what you have said.” ‘‘ T have none in the least.” “Then I will not trouble you. All may be lost; and then—and then! Ob, I rave! [I rave!” She struck the bell. The Doctor stood looking at her in surprise, ag she sank back into a chair, and clasping her handg over her eyes, rocked to and fro in despair. Then the page spoke from outside the door. ‘“¢ T am here.” ‘¢ Number Three,” said the Dark Woman, “ will do his duty.” ‘“‘T am here,” said the rough voice of Binks. A feeling of apprehension began to steal over the mind of the surgeon; but he was in no posi- tion to resist, whatever might happen, and he felt that it might be very imprudent even to show any apprehension. Binks picked up the silk handkerchief from the floor, and bound it around his eyes and face again. Then he took hold of him by the cuff, as he had done on the occasion of bringing him to the house of the Dark Woman, and led him from the room. is It was a pleasant relief to the mind of tha Doctor when he felt that he was in the open air again; and never had a London fog made its way so welcomely into his lungs as upon this occasion. Binks led him through all the courts again, towards the carriage, which had been kept waiting : | at the corner of Swallow Street. ‘“‘ Tell your employer,” said the surgeon, “that I will pledge my word of honour to reveal nothing that I may know or see, if I am sent for again to see that wounded person.” ‘* T’ll mention it,” said Binks, grufily. The next moment, the surgeon was alone. He tore the handkerchief off his face, and found him- self at the door of his coach. Twelve o’clock struck by a neighbouring church clock at that moment. If Allan Fearon were not reprieved, he had just twenty hours to live. That noon, en the Sunday which intervened between those condemned to death and the last fearful penalty of the law, was hard by. Marian, as she sat in her solitary little home, wondered that she heard nothing of Allan’s release. Poor Marian had so fully believed in the pledged word of Annie to procure his pardon from the Regent, that she had from the moment of leaving St. James’s Palace, after the agitating interview with her sister, felt her mind relieved from the principal weight of her sorrows. She had made an application at the gate oi Newgate tosee Allan; but some sinister influence was at work, and denied her admittance on one pretext or another. So Marian had written to him. Two lettera she had herself carried to the wicket of old New- gate, and they had both been received with a promise that they should be given to him. On the contrary, they were handed to the Gover- nor, who had received a visit from Sir Hiackfon THE DARK WOMAN. CyeAx DES. ey} —\N (a Nl bo “I Qo yy A \\s pf Yj Ws SS ee et —e fi ne — , ——————/\ Moys, who had not scrupled to use the name of the Regent, in demanding that all correspon- dence with the prisoner should be sent to him, So the cruel, crafty Court parasite had posses- sion of those two letters of poor Marian, full of fond affection as they were. Sir Hinckton Moys thought back, then, right away to that night of the masquerade at the Opera House, where he had been on the express service of the Regent to get possession of Annie, and when he had seen and remarked upon the rare beauty of Marian. ‘On my life,” said Moys to himself, “I don’t see why I should not make the endeavour to comfort the loneliness of this fair girl, when the husband of a few minutes is hanged, as he most assuredly will be.” Sir Hinckton Moys was indulging himself in these reflections, when Willes made his appearance in the room where he was sitting. No. 35.—DARK Woman. Sir Hinckton,” said Willes, ‘‘our fair Countess de Blonde is in a terrible passion about something.” “ Ah, indeed !” ‘‘ Yes; and she demands to see you at once.” “ Well, Willes, I think I can guess.” ‘She never looked so enraged.” Sir Hinckton Moys laughed. ‘My dear Willes,” he said, “for my part, I rather like to see beauty in a passion or in tears. I hate, of all things, insipidity.” “Very well,” said Willes. ‘You will be gratified, Sir Hinckton, for when I took the message to seek you, I expected that she was about to fling something damaging at my head.” , “Did she let fall any word by which you could gather what it is about ?” * Not one.” “Where is the Regent ?” * At the Chapel Royal, praying for the recovery of the King.” 274 Sir Hinckton Moys looked at Willes for a . moment, and then, as their eyes met, they both burst into a laugh. “ Well, well,” said Moys, “I will go to this little passionate beauty, and hear what itis all about, though I have a tolerable guess.” Sir Hinckton Moys at once now sought the magnificent apartments of Annie, Countess de Blonde; and certainly Willes had not at all ex- aggerated in the report he had made of her state ef mind. Annie was standing in the middle of the floor of the charming apartment she specially called her own, and she held in her hand a letter. “So,” she said,—‘“‘ so, sir, you are here at last?” “Ever at your service, fair Countess, at last as at first.” “Then tell me, Sir Hinckton Moys, how and why it is that the pardon, ‘or reprieve, or what- ever you call it, has not beem sent to that young man in Newgate?” Sir Hinckton Moys put on a look of blank astonishment. “Not sent ?” ** Not sent!” added Annie. “ Really, Countess, you must be in error.” *T am not im error.” Sir Hinckton bowed. ‘I say, Lam notin error. I thought he was free long ago-——completely free. It was promised me that it should be so. It was promised by you. Not that I would trust or believe you; but I spoke to the Regent, and he said he would write to my lord—my lord-——” * Tichester ?” “Yes, Iichester. He said he would write to him; aad after that he said he had written to him: and I felt sure he did, for he could not look me in the face, and tell. me such a falsehood.’ “ Certainly not.” ‘Then why is not the pardon sent? And why has hour upon hour passed away? And why does this person, in whose fate I choose to interest myself, still linger in Newgate? Eh?” This tirade rather took Sir Hinckton Moys by surprise. He hardly believed that there had been force enough in the character of Annie to have spoken in such a way. ‘May I,” he said, ‘be permitted to make one short remark ?” : “* Speak.” “Then I would suggest that you are by some means misinformed, Countess.” * No!” ‘*Nay, I really cannot help thinking that the young man in whom you have so kindly interested yourself is at liberty.” * He is not.” _ “I bow to your superior information ; but I was fold he was set free last night by the generous pardon of the Regent,” “Who told you that?” ‘Why, it must have been some one about the Palace; but really, just now I can hardly say who it. was.” “Sir Hinckton Moys,” said Annie, “you are telling a lie.” There came a flush of colour over the usually pale face of the courtier. It is astonishing how great an objection per- sons, whose very existence consists in dissimula- THE DARK WOMAN. tion and falsehood, have to the one word which clearly and curtly describes what they are. Sir Hinckton Moys was a man to whom truth was a fable, and who, if falsehood would better answer his purposes, esteemed it quite as highly, if not more so; and yet there he was, with a flush of real anger upon his face, when Annie, Countess de Blonde, as she called herself, flung that one word —lie—sharply and clearly at him. How frequent it is that the name of the thing in this world, and not the thing itself, excites indignation and remonstrance. ~ “Countess,” said Sir Hinckton Moys, with real anger in his tone,—‘' Countess, you have given me the lic. I cannot help it, because you are a woman.” ‘ST should think I am,” said Annie. ‘And Ill let you know that when I want anybody hanged they shall be hanged, and when I want anybody to be saved they shall be saved ; and I tell you that my wishes and my orders Bave been disregarded. Allan Fearon has not been discharged from New- gate: he isthere still. I have a letter.” ‘A letter?” said Sir Hinckton Moys—and his eyebrows arched themselves high in his forehead. All his original suspicions returned, that in Allan Fearon Annie had a lover, for as yet he bad not been able to fathom her interest in his fate except upon such a supposition. He felt at that moment that he would have given a large sum for possession of that letter; and indeed, assuming that it came from Newgate, and was written by Allan Fearon, he was quite lost in surprise to know how it had got to St. James’s Palace. He controlled his passion, with the hope of ob- taining a glimpse of that letter—perhaps, indeed, of obtaining absolute possession of it; and what a weapon, then, would it be to bend Aunie to his purposes, provided that it contained love passages, which would infuriate the Regent. Sir Hinckton Moys banished in a moment all his anger, and became the supple, pliant, cringing courtier again. - “ My dear Countess,” he said, ‘you are angry, because you are informed your wishes have not been complied with. I will not say you are mis- taken, because you assert positively you are right; but assuming it to be so, pray do not be angry with me. I have done all I could; and indeed, in so simple a matter as the execution or non- execution of anybody, believe me, I should never think of thwarting you. Ispoke to the Regent, and procured his promise, I went down to my Lord Ilchester’s, and begged of him that there should be no delays. I went to the Governor of Newgate, even, and informed him that a pardon would come, to which he was to take care to give immediate effect; and now, my dear Coun- tess, you tell me there is something wrong. What could I say ? and what could I think?” “Tf you did all that,” said Annie, I am sorry I accused you; but I have a letter dated at ten o'clock this morning.” “Ah! a letter?” said Sir Hinckton Moys. * What is there so wonderful in a letter?” added Annie. ‘I have a letter, and here it states that Allan Fearon is still in Newgate, and that nothing has there been heard of any reprieve or pardon for | f him. Now that is too bad, Sir Hinckton Moys.” “ It is, Countess; and it shall beseen to imme- diately. Those who have interposed these delays shall suffer for them. I have a happy thought. The Regent is in the Chapel Royal—he will be out at one o’clock. Give me that letter, Countess, and I will convince him at once, by meeting him as he comes out, that his orders have been disre- garded, and then the whole thing will be settled.” ‘* Very well,” said Annie. She held out the letter, and Sir Hinckton Moys made a rapid movement forward. There was a something then, however, from the malignant look which flashed from his eyes, which put her upon her guard, and she withheld the letter. It was a simple enough epistle, and could not have done her a shadow of harm, even in the jealous eyes of the Regent, since it was from her sister Marian, and had reached her through the instru- mentality of the wife of the Yeoman of the Guard, who had already befriended Marian. ** No,” said Annie, “I will not give you the letter. It is nearly one, and I shall soon see the Regent myself,” “She plays with me,” thought Sir Hinckton Moys. ‘Of course, she never intended to give me the letter; but I will try to get it, for all that.” He stepped back, and covered his confusion by a bow. “No,” added Annie,-—no! I ‘will not give you the letter. Ah! whatis this? A postscript, which I did not see. ‘‘ ¢ Remember, Annie, that the bitter foe of Allan Fearon is Sir Hinckton Moys. Remember that scene by St. Paul’s Church, and do not trust him in this matter, as he will strain every nerve to compass the death of one against whom he’ feels such implacable resentment. He is a villain, Annie, as who should know so well as you?’” Annie read these words aloud, and then she cried hastily, “Ah! I understand it now! It is you, false one and hypocrite—it is yon who are endeavouring to destroy this young man! AndI should not be surprised, if ever the truth comes to light, to find that the very crime of which he is accused is of your making up!” This was a random shot of Annie’s, but it con- tained so home a truth that it hit Sir Hinckton Moys hard. , “IT seem to see, Countess,” he said, “that the bond of union which should unite usin one common interest is being broken, but not by me.” “Let it break, then,” said Annie. “I will have this pardon. Yes, it is nearly one! I shall'see the Regent! I will get it under his own hand! 1 will take my own carriage! I will go to Newgate; and, if needs be, I will go into the very cell, and take him out! I may be whatI am, but he shall be saved!” Annie thrust the letter into the bosom of her apparel as she spoke, and then Sir Hinckton Moys drew himself up, and fixed a long, malignant gaze upon her. “Annie Gray,” he said, “ calling yourself Coun- tess de Blonde, I tell you that Allan Fearon shall be hanged to-morrow morning, in front of Newgate, at eight o’clock !” “ Ah! you say that?” “T say that.” “You throw off the mask, then?” THE DARK WOMAN. ee 275 “TY throw off the mask.” Villain !” ‘Mistress of the Regent !” “Wretch! From this moment, I have done with you, and have no compact with you! Vile minister of another’s pleasures, whom I have-always | hated and despised—cringing, artful villain, with the worst passions, and none of the feelings of a man! Ugly monster!” Sir Hinckton Moys looked very white. There was a curious curl about his nostrils, and his eyes had an awkward flash in them, as he regarded Annie. “Be it so,” he said. “ Let it be war! A strug- gle, short, sharp, and decided! A struggle, in which you will fall, despicable as you are, into your native mire !” An elegant ormolu inkstand was on the table. It was seized upon by Annie, and in another moment, like a cannon-shot, it struck Sir Hinckton Moys on the side of the head, and two streams, one of black, and the other of red ink, ran a race down his face. After this, Sir Hinckton Moys just stayed long enough to see Annie approach in a threatening manner the fire-irons; and the speed with which he evacuated the apartment was something ludi- crous to behold. Bang! came either a poker or a shovel, he could not tell which, against the inner panel of the door the moment he got it shut. “Good heaven!” said Willes, “ what’s the matter ?”’ as he pretended to be passing along the gallery, but had no doubt been listening to the whole of the conference. “Go to the devil!” said Sir Hinckton Moys. “My dear Sir Hinckton,” said Willes, “we're all going. But do tell me what has happened! I see you're bleeding to death; but I never saw anybody’s blood of such a colour.” “Confusion seize you! Get out of my way! It is not blood.” “Not blood ?” “No—ink, if you must know! I tell you, Willes, that seeming soft, simple-looking Countess de Blonde is a perfect fiend. We must get rid of her, Willes. Wecan have no compact with her.” ‘‘T don’t know,” said Willes. ‘She never broke two ink-bottles over my head, one red and tHe other black. On my life, Sir Hinckton Moys, I thought one was arterial, and the other veinous blood. What is it all about?” “ Willes, your fortune and mine must and will run together. What do you say to being Sir Thomas Willes some day, eh? Who is to know you were ever a valet? Sir Thomas Willes and a pretty fortune! Think of that! But I tell you, honestly and candidly, that if you have any hopes of such a thing, you must join me in getting rid of this termagant—this she-fiend of a Countess de Blonde!” “My dear Sir Hinckton Moys,’” said Willes, “now that I see you're serious, believe me when I tell you I am with you in everything.” ** Really and truly, Willes ?” “ Most assuredly. Shall I swear it?” ; ‘6 No, don’t do that, for I shall never believe you then. I cannot speak to you much now, for I must clear myself from this skirmish ; but I tell you, Willes, that by depending upon me, you de- pend upon one who has triumph in his grasp, | | 276 The reign of the Countess de Blonde is just over. I know asecret! Ha! ha!” * A secret ?” “ Yes, She has now a letter in her bosom which the Regent shall demand to see, and which, when he sees, will dismiss her with ignominy from his Palace. -What’s the time ?” ‘ Twenty minutes to one.” ‘Meet me at one in the Painted Chamber. The Regent will pass through it on his way from the Chapel Royal. I feel assured that the Countess de Blonde will not sleep in St. James’s to-night. I tell you, Willes, the Regent will be savage, and wild with anger. His wife may have twenty lovers, but he won't allow his mistress one.” “ Good!” said Willes. “ Ha! ha!” laughed Sir Hinckton Moys, bit- terly. ‘In the Painted Chamber, at one! Don’t forget—we tnderstand each other!” Sir Hinckton Moys hurried to his own apart- ments, and Willes stood staring after him for some moments in silence. “Well,” said the valet to himself, “it has come to that, has it? Understand each other! I should think we do! Why, the man must think me a fool! Join him against the Countess de Blonde! Oh, dear, no! That way, disgrace lies—this way, a fortune!” Willes jerked his head, first in the way that Sir Hinckton Moys had gone, and then in that of Annie’s apartments. Then he paced the gallery for a few minutes, with folded arms, and spoke to himself in low tones. ** Ah! to be sure! of course! The Regent is not tired of her a bit. Her very temper and ca- prices keep him to her, and there’s no denying her beauty; while, in regard to Moys, he has nothing to do now, and may be got rid of at any time. Now, does he think he has the least chance of turning out the Countess de Blonde? Why, the man must be mad! Sir Thomas Willes, indeed! If ever I am Sir Thomas Willes, with a pretty fortune, it will not be by the good grace of Sir Hinckton Moys. So I'll go to the fair Countess at once, and put her on her guard, and tell her I am her most devoted, humble, and obedient ser- vant, Bah! the man’s a fool!” Willes went and tapped gently at the door of that same room from which Sir Hinckton Moys had emerged with such alarming rapidity. One of Annie’s attendants answered the sum- mons. “T want to see the Countess.” “JT don’t think——” begun the girl; but she was stopped short by the sudden dashing open of @ door of an inner apartment, at which Annie appeared, exclaiming, “‘ What, are you back again, beast 2?” ‘*No,” said Willes, with alow bow. “I have the honour to be the most humble and devoted servant of the matchless and peerless Countess de Blonde.” “Oh! it’s Willes.” “T have the honour to be Willes, and would fain say a few words to your Grace. Excuse me using that title, but, as I’ve not the slightest doubt you will live to be a duchess, it is only a little premature.” ‘“* Come in,” said Annie, ‘and don't stand there THE DARK WOMAN, i LT LLL LL LC tts in the doorway. Go, girl! Willes?” “Madam, I feel it my duty, as well as my pleasure, to tell you that you have an enemy in Sir Hinckton Moys—that I have quarrelled with him, and separated my interest entirely from his, because I will not go against you.” ‘Tndeed !? ~~ ‘Yes, madam. He met me just now, with two streams of ink down his face, and wanted me to join him in some plot against you. He means to meet the Regent, as he comes out of the Chapel Royal, through the Painted Chamber.” “Ah!” “‘ And he means to tell him ” (here Willes’s voice sunk to a whisper) “that you, Countess, have a letter, now concealed in your bosom, which, he says, will destroy you.” “ Indeed |” “Yes. And he means to urge the Regent to come here at once, and insist upon seeing it; so that, Countess, if—if you have any such letter, I trust I am in time to tell you—to warn you—that you may foil this vile treachery.” ‘Ah, I comprehend,” said rene, “T have no such letter.” **No such letter ?” “No. It is true that I have a letter, but it is not such an one as Sir Hinckton Moys imagines ; but, for all that, Willes, I feel that you have come and warned me, and I'll not forget it.” “T am more than re-paid by that expression alone; and be assured, Countess, let who will go against you, and whether their cabals may be formed contrary to your interests, I am always with you and for you. The Prince is my master: he loves you—will love you long, and I am your devoted servant.” “Very well,” said Annie. ‘‘ Somebody told me you liked jewels—here is an emerald. It is worth something.” ‘““A thousand pounds, Countess.” “Very well. I’m glad to hear it. Take it—it is yours. It isin a woman’s ornament, but its value is the same.” “ Precisely,” said Willes. Annie struck her breast slightly, as she then added, “I have the letter that Sir Hinckton Moys speaks of, and I can very well understand now how it has led him astray. The Regent shall see it, and to the confusion of Sir Hinckton Moys.” “T am rejoiced,” said Willes. One of the magnificent Louis Quatorze clocks in the apartment struck the hour of one. “The service,” said Willes, ‘in the Chapel Royal will be over. The Regent will pass through the Painted Chamber.” “ Be it so,” said Annie. “ He will meet Sir Hinckton Moys.” Annie laughed. “There is no danger: let him meet him—let the villain say his say !” ‘s He has said, fair Countess, that you shall not sleep to-night beneath the roof of St. James’s.” Annie’s eyes sparkled for a moment, and then she cried, ‘I say, then, that both Sir Hinckten Moys and myself shall not rest to-night beneath this roof; and since it has come to this, he sha'l 0 |” ‘“‘ Harken !” said Willes. ‘“ What is it?” Now, what is it, THE DARK WOMAN. 277 “Footsteps! Hush! The Regent! I hear the doors opened ; I hear the Yeomen of the Guard. ‘Way for the Regent!’ they cry. He comes! He’s in the gallery! JI would not be seen here, Countess, and yet I would fain hear and see what happens; and if aught goes amiss, I might be of some help.” Annie stepped up to a large armoire that was in the room, and opening one of its gilded doors, she said, “Go in here. You must stoop a little, but not much.” “It’s just the thing,” said Willes. The door of the armoire was just closed, as there came a sharp rap at that door of the apartment which opened into the gallery. It was the Regent’s practice to knock sharply, pause for about half a moment, and then open the door. He did so on the present occasion; and in another moment, leaving the door swinging behind him, he stepped into the apartment. Standing at the open doorway, and on the very threshold of the room, appeared another figure. Ydat was Sir Hinckton Moys. CHAPTER LXX. SIR HINCKTON MOYS DOES NOT SLEEP IN SI. JAMESS PALACE. THERE was an angry flush upon the brow of the Regent. If there was anything in the world that that illustrious person hated more than another, it was trouble—to be annoyed about anything— to be told of anything that required putting to rights, or that immediately called for some action on his part, whick promised neither pleasure nor satisfaction: consequently, although he could not very well say so, he was by no means ex- ceedivgly well pleased with Sir Hinckton Moys. A very few words in the Painted Chamber, as the Regent passed through it from the Chapel Royal, had sufficed to explain to him what he, Sir Hinckton Moys, thought of the state of affairs. And it will be remembered that the Prince was not altogether unprepared for some such communi- cation, inasmuch as his jealousy had already been awakened in regard to Allan Fearon. Hence, then, the angry flush upon his brow; and hence the peevish expression upon his face. Annie met him with a determined front; and his first words opened the case as against her pretty decidedly. ‘¢ What is all this ?—what is all this, Countess ?” he said. ‘ How is this, that you are in correspon- dence with a felon in Newgate, in whom you are go much interested that it seems to absorb all your faculties ?” “T have not the honour of knowing what you mean,” said Annie, “Oh, you must know! Don’t say you don't know! You must know all about it! What does it mean? Are you tired of me, the Palace, or what ?” “ Will your Royal Highness,” said Annie, “ con- descend to explain yourself? What is it you mean? and of whom do you speak ?” “You know well enough. What’s his name? Allan—Allan somebody.” “Ah! I recollect,” said Annie, ~ “Ob, you recollect, do you?” “Certainly I do. I recollect that I petitioned the Regent of England, as a personal favour to me, and as a piece of justice to somebody I felt cer- tain was wrongfully condemned, to send a pardon to a prisoner in Newgate; and the Regent pro- mised me it should be done. Bhat was now some eight and forty hours ago; and I say it is not done.” “But, Annie—” “Oh, you are not to blame. It is some crawl- ing, revengeful wretch, who is about you. Some person, perhaps, who has a personal vengeance to. gratify against the prisoner.” “Nay, this is too much,” said the Regent. ‘¢There are reasons, Annie.” ‘“* What reasons ?” “‘T faney you know them as well as I do; but if you will affect an ignorance you cannot feel, tell me at once why it is that you feel this won- derful interest in the fate of this person ?” “Stop,” said Annie; ‘I want te ask a question before I answer that. Will Sir Hinckton Moys say why it is that he feels so wonderful an in- terest in the fate of that person ?” “Tt is for my sake, Annie,” said the Regent. “ Moys is my devoted servant, and does not like to see me wronged, even in matters which—which— that is to say where——” ““ Why don’t you goon, George?” said Annie stamping her foot. ‘ What do you mean?” *¢ Come in,” said the Regent, with an impatient gesture to Sir Hinckton Moys, who still stood upon the threshold of the door; ‘* come in, and let us have this affair settled, by all means.” ‘*No,” cried Annie, as Sir Hinckton Moys moved a step forward,—‘' no, I will not have him here. Never across the threshold of these rooms, again. I always had an aversion to reptiles.” “So bold!” said Sir Hinckton Moys through his clenched teeth. “Yes, and bolder still,” cried Annie. “ Tell me, Prince, what is it you want to ask of me; and I will reply to you—on my soul, I will—with all my heart, and with all the truth in the world.” The Regent was silent for a few moments, and most devoutly wished himself out of the whole affair; then Sir Hinckton Moys, whose passion was again getting the better of his prudence, raised his voice, and in a clear tone cried out, “I am at the orders of his Royal Highness the Regent, and here, either within the threshold or without the threshold of this room, I will speak.” ** Speak !” cried Annie. tS Speak!” said the Regent with a dewncast 00 “T will,” added Moys; “it is my duty, and I will do it. This person, Annie Gray—styled sportively, and by courtesy, Countess de Blonde— is residing here under the protection of your Royal Highness. Loaded by benefits, lapped in luxury, her lightest wish gratified, her endless ca- prices attended to, as though they were laws,—and in the midst of all, she has a lover, who is now a convicted felon in Newgate, and who she not only tries to pervert the Royal clemency to save, but actually corresponds with, by the connivance, no doubt, of some of the people about your Royal Highness.” “Ah!” said the Regent, with a deep breath, “Ts that all?” said Annie. a 278 THE DARK WOMAN. “Not quite,” said Sir Hinckton Moys, with a “What I have said is mere as- sardonic bow. sertion—the proof is wanting.” “Yes, the proof?” said the Regent, looking very “It’s very much wanted, indeed,” said Annie. “T would hardly,” added Sir Hinckton Moys, “have hazarded almost my head in this affair, but that I know where the proof lies hidden.” “ Ah!” said the Regent again. “ Yes,” added Moys. “ Beneath the folds of that exquisite silk, which covers, perhaps, the fairest | and most treacherous bosom in the universe.” “My scent-bottle!” cried Annie. is turning complimentary !” “Pooh, pooh!” said the Regent. “‘T have seen a letter,” continued Moys. “TI almost had it in my grasp. Will your Royal Highness ask for it? It is part of the corre- spondence between the Palace of St. James’s and Newgate—the pretty series of billets, no doubt catried by some trustful Mercury, between the Countess de Blonde, the fair friend of the Regent, and the gentleman who to-day has just heard his Will your Royal condemned sermon in’ Newgate. Highness ask the lady for the letter?” “Will you?” said Annie, looking in the Prince’s face. ““T think I ought.” *¢ But I might give you the wrong one. would you do then, George?” The Regent looked up at the ceiling, and then down to the floor; but gathering no inspiration from either, he merely said he did not know. “Fortunately,” chimed in Sir Hinckton Moys,— and he gave his arm an oratorical flourish as he spoke,—* fortunately, your Royal Highness, the letter can be identified, inasmuch as the fair Countess was good enough to read to me a post- script so personally abusive that I cannot forget it.” Oh, that’s the letter wanted!” said Annie. “That is the letter!” “Yes,” said the Regent, “I suppose that’s the When Sir Hinckton Moys left me, a short time since, with the ink-stand on his head, I placed it in my letter.” ; “Ah! Iknow now! I have it here. bosom, because—because——”’ ‘“‘ Because what?” cried the Regent. “Because it comes from one whom I love.” *tAh!” cried the Regent. “Ha! ha!” sneered Sir Hinckton Moys. ‘One whom I love very much,” added Annie. “But still, if you would like to see it—if you cannot trust me—if you believe all I’ve said to be a delusion——” “No, no!” said the Regeht. Moys, I wish you'd never told me about it.” “Tf your Royal Highness refuses proof,” said Sir Hinckton, ‘IT can say no more.” “ Oh, but he can’t help refusing it,” said Annie; “and, upon second thoughts, I think I will show him the letter. I was very near showing it to you, but I saw something in your eyes that stayed me; only, as you have said one thing which, as a gentleman and man of honour, as you call yourself, you must abide by, I feel bound to show the letter before I go.” “Go?” said the Regent. “To be sure!” half screamed Annie. ‘The man What * Upon my life, “Your favourite—your adder—your snake has promised himself that I shall not sleep this night in St. James's. So there’s the letter—read it, and turn me out! Here, you two girls, pack up—pack up; I’m going!” “Stop!” said the Regent. “T won't!” said Annie, y ‘Read the letter,” cried Sir Hinckton Moys, “and with it my justification.” The Regent raised the paper to his eyes, and read :— “* Annie, you are still dear to me, Even in out brief and painful interview-— ” “An interview!” cried Sir Hinckton Moys. ‘By Jove!” said the Prince, and then he pro- ceeded to read :— “¢Hven in our brief and painful interview, I could perceive traces of our past affection. I came to you to beg a life. Oh, Annie, that life still trembles in the balance of fatel No pardon has reached Newgate, and Allan Fearon, my husband still, though innocent, inhabits a condemned cell, Speak for me, speak forme again, Annie, I implore you, and save from despair your broken-hearted sister, “ MARIAN FEARON.’ “* Sister?” cried the Regent. ** Fiends and devils!” cried Sir Hinckton Moys. “No,” said Annie, “ there’s only one, and there he stands on the threshold of the door.” “Tt is not the letter,” yelled Sir Hinckton, as he stamped his foot on the floor. *‘Ah!” said the Regent with a dubious look. “Tsay it is not the letter !—where is the post- seript?” ‘ Why, over leaf, idiot, to be sure,” said Annie. ** Yes,” said the Regent, ‘here it is.” ‘‘¢ Remember, Annie, that the bitter foe of Allan Fearon is Sir Hinckton Moys. Remember that scene by St. Paul’s Church, and do not trust him in this matter, as he will strain every nerve to compass the death of one against whom he feels such implacable resentment. He is a villain, Annie, as who should know so well as you do?” A cold perspiration stood upon the brow of Sir Hinckton Moys. The Regent had read slowly and distinctly, and in a low tone of voice; and, now as he held the letter towards Annie, he turned a cold glance upon the sallow face of the courtier. “So that is the postscript,” he said. ‘ Well, Sir Hinckton, are you satisfied ?” The defeated man looked from one to the other, and for a moment he knew not what to say. Then his old audacity came to his aid, and he bowed low as he muttered, “I should be better satisfied if I did not feel that my Prince was in some way juggled. An agitating interview is mentioned in that letter.” £ “ Yes,” said Annie, “my sister came tome; with difficulty, she got access tome: but she did; and I promised to use my influence with the Regent to get a pardon for her husband. It seems I have failed.” , “No,” said the Regent, “ you shall have it.” a THE DARK WOMAN. “Shall!” replied Annie reproachfully. ‘You said that eight and forty hours ago.” * On my word |” “Stop. I’ve something more to say. Don’t let that man go, for he will be delighted to hear it? I think, do you know, George, you ought to know all my faults at once; and I’m afraid, even now, I shall not sleep in St. James’s to-night.” ** Good heayens! What mean you?” ‘She will destroy me!” muttered Moys. “No,” added Annie, ‘My poor George, you're dreadfully deceived. I don’t mean abont this letter—that is all just as it seems—but, oh, rt) se * Good gracious! what ?” “ The artful baggage!” muttered Sir Hinckton. ** I have had a man to visit me, and even now he is concealed in these rooms!” An odd noise at this moment came from the armoire. “What?” cried the Regent, as he placed his hand on his sword. * It’s some infernal trick!” growled Sir Hinck- ton Moys. “ Yes,” added Annie. ‘‘ Do you know, I heard you coming, and J hid him!” “Where?” cried the Regent, as he drew his sword. “ Don’t be rash. In the armoire.” ‘* Murder!” yelled Willes, as he dashed ope the glass door, and rolled on to the floor. ‘¢ There he is,” said Annie, “ Villain!” roared the Regent, as he made a pass with his sword at Willes’s throat. “ Willes, by all that’s infernal!” Hinckton Moys. ‘‘ Murder! ‘mercy, your Royal Highness!” cried Willes, as he struggled to his feet: “ it’s e {?? ‘¢ Willes ?” ; “Yes, your Royal Highness, I only came to tell the Countess de Blonde that Sir Hinckton Moys wanted me to join him against her, and to get your Royal Highness to turn her out of the Palace. And he wanted me to meet him in the Painted Chamber, and intercept your Royal High- ness as you came from the Chapel Royal, and tell you that the Countess had a lover.” “ That's it,” said Annie, as she laid her band on the shoulder of Willes. “ This is my witness, and I had a right to take care of him.” “ Every right in the world, Countess,” said the Regent, as he sheathed his sword. ‘“ Willes, I never saw you look so ridiculous in all my life!” ‘*’m delighted, your Royal Highness, to be ridiculous in your service, and in that of the Countess de Blonde,” ** Well, George,” said Annie, ‘‘ are you satis- fied now ?” Quite, quite—most fully, most entirely!” “ That'll do, then. I’m off! Willes, fetch a coach! Here, you girls, have you packed up? Or a sedan chair, Willes! They keep one at the corner of Bury Street.” “ But, my dear Annie——” Yes, I’m off!” “But what for? what for, now? What have I said?—what have I done? Why can’t you stay?” — * It’s impossible!” “ Why impossible ?” ' said Sir 279 “* Because,” said Annie, drawing herself up, and speaking in a sharp, clipping voice,— because Sir Hinckton Moys and I cannot both sleep under the roof of St. James’s Palace to-night!” Moys looked livid, as the Regent slowly turned and looked him in the face. “I am afraid, Sir Hinckton, that, I cannot help advising you. to leave. I do not, at present see, that 1 have any vacancy in my household for your, no, doubt, very meritorious services; and, if you could conveniently leave St. James's z ‘‘ Within one hour,” putin Annic. ‘It’s two o'clock now, and you'll be off by three.” Sir Hinckton Moys’s very lips. were white. “T go,” hesaid; “but when—when your Royal Highness recovers from—from this infatuation ; when the time shall come that-——that He “ There now,” cried Annie, “ you’re wasting valuable time. You must have no end of plunder to pack up.” ‘‘ Curses!” cried Sir Hinckton Moys, as, with a stamp of his foot, he turned from the doorway, and dashed down the gallery. The Regent shook his head, as he said quietly, “A man may be ever so bad, but he shouldn’t lose his manners. And now, dear Annie, that the fatigue of thinking you wrong, and then of thinking you right, is all over, I’m sure | owe you some amends, and what shall I say or do to please you?” “The pardon of Allan Fearon. write it once. of paper.” “But my dear, Annie, it’s so irregular.” “'Then I’m off!” “ Well, well—stop, stop! writing it:— Sif down, and There’s a pen, and there’s a piece There, you see, I'm ‘*¢ Release unconditionally, Allan Fearon, now lying in Newgate, condemned to death. “ ¢GEORGE, REGENT.’ There now, Annie, will that do?” “You ought to know. Will it do, I say to you ?” “Unquestionably, it will’be obeyed. One of the few last prerogatives left to royalty in England is that of pardon. As Regent, I exercise the functions of the King, in the commutation of a sentence, or the release of a prisoner. I am ab- solute !” “ And I,” said Annie. “You are absolute, too, Countess, it seems.” “* Look you, George—will you spare me for an hour ?” * An hour?” “Yes. I want to go and see my lover in Newgate! Don’t you see?—I won’t trust any- body, now, with this bit of paper, but myself. Willes will come with me. May I go?” “Well, well!” “Oh, I meant to go, at any rate; only you looked charming when you gave me leave! Willes, order my coach to Newgate! Quick, Willes!—my coach! I shall be gone an hour; and by the time I return, the air of St. James's will be all the purer, for somebody will have left it who has contaminated it too long by his pre- sence. A cloak—a hood! Quick there! I’m off to Newgate !” teenie THE DARK WOMAN, CHAPTER LXXI. SIR HINCKTON MOYS STILL MEDITATES REVENGE. From what the reader has seen and heard during the interview we have recorded in St. James’s Palace, which threatened at one time to be of so much consequence to Annie Gray, and became at last so fearfully complicated and dangerous to Sir Hinckton Moys, much may be gathered, which the exigences of our story have not enabled us to detail. It will appear that Marian had thought proper again to avail herself of the kind services of the Yeoman of the Guard and his wife, in getting the letter conveyed to Annie, the writer of which was supposed by Sir Hinckton Moys to be Ailan Fearon. It will be seen, too, that the private commu- nications which had been made to the Home Secre- tary, the Earl of Ilchester, had had their full effect, and that Allan Fearon was still in the condemned cell at Newgate, awaiting his fate. But for that letter, then, which Annie had re- ceived so opportunely, she at least would have supposed that Allan was free and happy. That it was otherwise, had awakened all the pettish and rebellious feelings of her nature, and the scene which had ended in the disgrace of the favourite courtier of the Regent had been the consequence. But Sir Hinckton Moys was a man of wonder- ful resources. He was at once clever and au- dacious, and the last man in the world to allow himself to be baffled, if by any unheard-of as- surance he could prevent it. It was a principle with him, that those who did the boldest and most audacious acts, were those who succeeded best. He had seen, or imagined he had seen, that truth looming out of every affair of life in which he had been engaged, and more particularly had he seen it at the Court. Now, there was another strong impression upon the mind of Moys; and that was, that notwith- standing all that had happened, the Regent was not quite satisfied, and that if he were to hear that Allan Fearon was really hanged, he would not say much about it. The feelings of Sir Hinckton Moys, we are well aware, were in a very exasperated state, as re- garded Allan, long before this scene at the Palace which we have detailed ; but now, the anger, the hate, and the exasperation with which he re- garded him, were increased tenfold. It was to him, indirectly, he felt, that he owed his present disgrace. It was through him that he had had trouble, and difficulty, and expense; and finally, about him that he had lost his temper, and quarrelled with the Countess de Blonde—which was avery foolish thing to do, considering the state of parties at the Palace. That quarrel had gone too far, and was too virulent an one to be made up. He and Annie had not had one of those polite differences, which mutual interests will arrange again, leaving the parties as good friends as ever. No; they had had what Sheridan used to call an ‘‘epithetical quarrel.” That is to say, they had called each other hard names, which they could never forget. . It was impossible that Sir Hinckton Moys and the Countess de Blonde could ever be friends again, But was he to be baulked of his revenge against Allan Fearon? That was the question he asked himself, after he had, with such an accession of rage that the Regent had declared he had forgotten his manners, left the gallery of St. James’s Palace. The answer that he gave himself was decidedly ““No;” and he bent all his mental resources in the one direction of baffling the hopes of Annie: in procuring the pardon and liberation of her sis- ter’s husband. When the Countess de Blonde had told him he was losing time, for he no doubt had plunder to pack up, it was one of those happy guesses which such people as Annie are so felicitous in. It was strictly true. But Sir Hinckton Moys had a private valet and servant of his own—a Swiss. Him, he knew, or thought ‘he knew, he could trust; and it was to seek this man that he went with speed down the old gallery of the Palace. The Swiss was in the three rooms which the Regent had allowed Moys to occupy in the Palace; and when he saw the pale countenance and flashing eyes of his master, he guessed that something far out of the usual course had occurred. “‘ Leroy,” said Sir Hinckton, “ you will get together, as soon as you can, all that belongs to me in these rooms.” “Yes, master.” “In fact, anything that is small enough to be packed in boxes and trunks, and take them to the Thatched House Hotel in St. James’s Street.” ‘¢ Tt shall be done, sir.” “ Be faithful and vigilant. Lock yourself in while you pack up; and if any one comes, keep a strict silence until they are gone, so that they may think the rooms deserted.” “JT will, sir. Shall you be long gone?” “Yes, I shall not come back here again.” * Not again 2” “No. It matters not; you will find me at the hotel.” The Swiss valet bowed, and Sir Hinckton Moys then at once left the Palace. Well did the courtier know that the story of his disgrace would soon be bandied all over the Palace; but still, quickly as such rumours spread themselves, he was just a little in advance of the news; therefore, he found no difficulty in pro- curing a good horse from the Prince’s stables, and heedless what construction might be put upon his taking it, he mounted and galloped through the Park, and out at the gate of the Horse Guards. At the moment that Sir Hinckton Moys emerged from St. James’s Park into Whitehall, Annie stepped into her coach in the Colour Court of St. James’s. | ‘“‘ To Newgate!” she cried. “To Newgate!” said Sir Hinckton Moys to himself, as he turned his horse’s head towards Charing Cross at the same moment. The distance from the gate of old St. James's Palace to Charing Cross was about the same as that from the Horse Guards in Whitehall to the corner of the Strand; so that if the coach which SA N ye Y WW 1) =z —_s Nas = Sf jf] fap Ly Ly 7 (PAL THE DARK. WOMAN. 281 j Nye | : 43 x . SS S]S25! y ye \ zy . YY SS bg =, Z Le. Losi ZZ conveyed Annie, and the horse which carried Sir Hinckton Moys, had happened to go at the same. pace, those two implacable foes would have met again very much sooner than they expected, at the corner of Northumberland House. Neither of them knew what the other was about. Sir Hinckton Moys had heard Annie say that she would go to Newgate herself, and free Allan Fearon; but he had no idea that the Regent would let her do so, or indeed that she had any serious intentions on the subject. But if Sir Hinckton Moys would have doubted Annie’s going to Newgate on that eventful Sunday morning, she most certainly would have been slow of belief that such was his destination. But such was the case. Annie, the Countess de Blonde, was on her road to Newgate, to ensure the liberation of Allan Fearon. No. 36.—Dark Woman. Sir Hinckton Moys was on his road to the prison, to make a last effort for the destruc- tion of the innocently accused and condemned young lover. The horse he was mounted on was fresh and fleet, and Moys was a good rider. He went at more than double the speed of the coach which conveyed Annie from the Palace. Sir Hinckton Moys was as far on his way as Somerset House, by the time the coach had got fairly into the Strand. Sir Hinckton Moys drew up at the door of the Governor’s house at Newgate, just as Annie’s coach went through Temple Bar. To dismount, and fling the reins of the horse to a boy, who eagerly ran over the way to take them, was the work of an instant to Moys; and he then executed a knock at the door of the Governors house, which at once convinced everybody who heard it, that he was some most important visitor. 282 The door was flung wide open, and every possi- ble respect was paid to Sir Hinckton Moys; and yet, even now, a poor wretch lingered in the cells of Newgate, who was an incarnation of virtue, compared to this man, who was bowed down to the very ground before by the officials of the Governor within?” asked Moys, haughtily. “Yes, sir—yes, sir. This way, if you please, sir.” He was at once shown into the Governor's parlour, and in a few moments that individual appeared before him, all smiles and affability. “Ah, Sir Hinckton Movs!” he said, ‘ This is, indeed, a most unexpected pleasure!” “To me likewise, Mr. Governor ; for if any one had told me I should have the satisfaction to see you this morning, I should have smiled with in- credulity.” “Then it is something important ?” “Well, no, not very. But the Regent must, you see, be humoured.” * Most undoubtedly.” * He places great reliance upon you.” “T am greatly honoured.” “ And as you know my position with him, of course you ean receive what I tell you in the most perfect confidence ?” ‘Oh, perfect, perfect !” “The Regent, then, is very anxious that nothing should interfere to prevent the execution, to-morrow morning, of Allan Fearon.” ‘My dear Sir Hinckton, nothing shall, nothing can, I assure you! He is as safe here as if he were at the bottom of a well; and I have already given all the necessary orders.” “That is right! But the Regent wants me to tell you that he is in a little difficulty.” “The Regent in a difficulty? His Royal Highness the Prince in a difiiculty ?” “Yes, Mr. Governor. You think it impossible that such should be the case; but if you knew as much of Courts asI do, you would no longer think 80.’ “But what?” ‘TI am about to tell you.” T am all attention.” “There is a fair lady-— * Oh!” “ A young girl who, just at present, is high in favour with the Regent; and she has taken it into her head, and has fixed it there as a matter of obstinacy, because she has been opposed, that she would get the pardon of this Allan Fearon.” “Ha, ha! I see!” “No, you don’t.” “Well, well! I shall see.” ‘You shall; for the Regent wishes you so to do, and I am the mouth-piece of his wishes and words. He has been in a measure compelled to pretend to pardon Allan Fearon, in consequence of the solicitation of a pretty woman, you see; but at the same time, he wants to have him hanged to-morrow.” “That is certainly a difficulty.” “ Just so.” ‘‘ And what, then, is to be done ?” “That I will tell you. You will no doubt re- céive an apparently peremptory order from the Regent to liberate Allan Fearon.” ? THE DARK WOMAN. “Shall I 2?” “Yes. But now I will tell you how you will act in regard to it.” . The Governor shook his head. ‘You hesitate?” “No, no! Go on, Sir Hinckton; I will hear you out.” “You will, then, pay no attention to the order, except to say to the messenger, who will be one from the Countess de Blonde, that Allan Fearon has already been liberated by an order from the Secretary of State.” “Flom 1" “You comprehend ?” “T do, but yet-——"” “Yet what ?” “Tt is very dangerous. It appears to me that I am playing with edged tools with a vengeance, and it may all end in something very disastrous to me.” ‘“* How can that be, when you act under the direction and by the express desire of the Regent ?” ** Are you sure of that, Sir Hinckton ?” “Sure of it? Why, don’t you know me, and who and what I am in the Prince’s household ?” ‘Oh, yes, yes!” “ What on earth is if to me whether this person is hanged or not? Do you think I would come here, or ever cross the threshold, about him? Not I! It is the Regent himself who speaks to you through me.” “ Then——” Bang! bang! bang! bang! came a furious knock at the Governor's house door at this moment. Both the Governor and Sir Hinckton Moys started to their feet. ‘Who is that, Mr. Governor ?” ‘“‘ The Sheriff, I suppose.” “No? By Jove!” “Eh ?” “ It’s the Countess de Blonde.” “ The favourite of the Regent?” “Tt is herself.” ‘‘ And she comes here to—to——” “Liberate the prisoner, Allan Fearon. You must be firm, or you will make an enemy for life of the Prince. Hide me somewhere, at once! Quick! Oh, yes! this cupboard! That will do! Does it fasten on the inside? No! Con found all doors that won't lock both ways!” Sir Hinckton Moys had just time to dart into a large cupboard that was in the room, and hold the door shut, as Annie was announced: “The Countess de Blonde,” cried the turnkey, who did duty as a footman in the Governor’s house. The Governor pushed a chair against the cup- board door in which Sir Hinckton Moys had taken refuge, and then made a low bow. ‘Pray take a seat, your ladyship.” “Thank you,” said Annie. There was a bright flush upon her face, partly from the cold air, and partly from the excitement she had so recently gone through, and she looked very beautiful. Annie was wrapped up in a cloak of the most costly sable, but her fair hair hung down upon it in charming contrast, and adorned the sable with a grace that it never had before. : ‘You are the Governor of Newgate?” she said. ‘‘T am, my lady.” THE DARK WOMAN. ‘t Read that, then.” Annie had in rather a crumpled up state—for she had been afraid to part with it fora moment—that most important slip of paper on which the Regent had written the order for the release of Allan Fearon. The Governor had read it, and for a moment he hesitated whether he ought not to give it effect, or believe in what Sir Hinckton Moys had told him in regard to the wishes of the Regent. The Governor felt himself in a difficulty. ‘You comprehend ?” said Annie. Fearon is to be liberated at once.” “ Yes—I 2 “‘ Why do you hesitate?” The Governor had been revolving matters in bis mind. He recollected that Sir Hinckton Moys was well known as the confidant and right hand man of the Regent; and he thought that, even to answer any private purpose of his own, he would hardly risk his place, and all its advantages, by making use of the Prince’s name in the manner he had done, if his authority was not fully equal to his assertions. So the Governor decided upon obeying the directions of Moys; and all the reasoning process which induced him so to do would have been perfect enough, provided Sir Hinckton Moys had still retained the favour of the Regent. The Governor never suspected for a moment that that favour was already gone, and that Moys was playing so desperate a game as he was. “‘ What is the matter?” said Annie. ‘ Why do you hesitate? What are yon thinking of?” ‘*T am only surprised, my lady.” ** Surprised ?” “Yes. Because the person to whom this paper refers is already free.” “Ah!” “Yes. He is no longer in my custody.” ‘When was that?” * About three or four hours ago.” “ Are you sure ?” “Oh, yes! An order from my Lord IIchester, the Secretary of State for the Home Department.” “He has done it now!” thought Sir Hinckton Moys, as, in the cupboard, he overheard all that passed. “That is very strange,” said Annie; “ and yet——” The Governor looked inquiringly at her. ‘And yet I don’t know. He said he had written to Lord Ilchester. Perhaps, after all, it was only some delay of office,” The Governor bowed. ‘Very well, sir,” added Annie, as she rose. “ If such be the ease, I have no need to trouble you further.” “It can never be a trouble, my lady, to receive the honour of a visit from your ladyship.” Annie gave a slight smile—she was too well used to compliments of all kinds and descriptions to care much for this one. But she had no desire to remain any longer in Newgate, and she bade the Governor good day. She left in his hands,the Regent’s order; but something came over her, she knew not what, that she would like to have it herself, and she turned round to him, when close to the door, saying, * Give me the Regent’s order |” “Nay, madam. Being once delivered to me, I {ancy it is but etiquette that it belongs to me,” % Aljan “ Give it me, I say!” “Madam! When a paper like that is delivered to the person to whom it is addressed-—~” “Tt is addressed to no one,” _“No one ?” ‘No. Look at it.” “Ah! Well! Tobesure! But——” ‘¢ How dare you dispute with me ?” cried Annie, as she snatched the slip of paper out of the hands of the Governor. “ Beware, sir, or the Regent may hear that of you which willdo you no good.” The Governor bit his lip. “The Regent seems to be threatening me on all sides!” he muttered. Annie took no further notice of him, but, witha look of some indignation, left the prison, and got again into her carriage. One of the two footmen who had accompanied it stood at the door, as a matter of ceremony, for an order where to drive to. ‘“‘ Martlett’s Court, Bow Street,” said Annie; but then almost with the same breath with which she gave this order, she said, ‘“* No, no, no!” The footman stood with an irresolute, respectful look, at the carriage door. ‘‘No, no! To the Palace!—to the Palace!” Bang went the door shut. ‘‘ Home!” said the footman. Off went the carriage back again to St. James’s. It had been the firm intention of Annie, when she stepped out of the Governor’s parlour at New- gate, to go at once to the residence of her sister Marian; and so test, while she was abroad, the accuracy of the statement which had been made to her, that Allan Fearon was, indeed, released from prison. But second thoughts had come, and Annie had considered to what a thousand strange disagreeables she might be bringing both herself and Marian, by a visit to the humble home, where, of course, she was known so well in the days of her poverty and her innocence. The faces of all the people in the house who - knew her, and who would sally out to stare at the Regent’s mistress, came before her, and Annie shrunk from such a trial. ‘‘No, no!” she said to herself. “Let Marian be happy; and let her and Allan conceal, if they please, that I have had anything to do with their happiness.” It was this idea that decided her; and so she missed the knowledge which would at once have released Allan, If Annie had gone to Martlett’s Court—if she had ascended the poor, well-known staircase of that house to the attic in the occupation of her sister, she would have heard that Allan was still in New- gate; and she would still have had time to call the power of the Regent into such activity and action that Allan must have been freed in spite of all his foes, But that was not to be. The carriage, within half an hour, rolled into the Colour Court of St. James’s Palace; and Annie told herself that she ought to feel satisfied, And yet somehow she was not. There was a strong feeling on her mind that all was not we and do what she would do, dismiss it she coul not. Sir Hinckton Moys stepped from out of the capacious cupboard in the Governor's parlour at wi Fs re — 284 THE DARK WOMAN. a i a Newgate, with an ill-concealed air of truamph on | side of the wounded Laura Adams, she thought his face. ‘‘That will do,” he said. “You have heard,” said the Governor, “ that I have obeyed your direction.” “You have, and all is well. You will further oblige the Regent by saying nothing of all this to any one; and you will, too, still further oblige him by denying all access to the prisoner from without the walls of Newgate.” ** Tt shall be so.” “Good day, then! Iam quite sure the day is not far distant when you will reap some most substantial reward for this compliance with the wishes of his Royal Highness.” The Governor now bade Sir Hinckton Moys good day cordially enough; but, like Annie, the Countess de Blonde, he, too, felt an uncomfortable sensation, as though there was something amiss which he could not exactly comprehend. It was getting late in the day now on that most eventful Sunday, and Allan Fearon had no difficulty in counting the minutes, even, which only seemed to intervene between him and a} shameful and terrible death. CHAPTER LXXII. THE DARK WOMAN WATCHES BY THE SIDE OF THE WOUNDED LAURA ADAMS. A FEELING of great anguish and despair began to creep over the mind of the Dark Woman, as the day slowly drew towards its close, and still no change for the better took place in the appearance of the wounded woman, whom she tended with a care as if her own life depended upon the first word she should speak. The fog hati cleared off from London about the hour of one; but at that season of the year the days were brief, and the darkness of the evening began to creep over all things; and still, beyond now and then a low moan, no sound had testified that life still lingered in the heart of Laura Adams. And now, the Dark Woman wished that Asto- rath had been alive; for although she had des- pised his pretended supernatural powers, yet she knew that he had been a good chemist; and she thought he might have known of some powerful remedy which would have raised the latent ener- gies of life in the dying woman. Again and again she repaired to the laboratory of the dead astrologer, and looked with avidity at the variously coloured compounds that were in many bottles. “ Oh,” she cried, * if I could tell which one of these would rouse life’s dormant powers, even for nr brief minute, how gladly would I administer 1 : But she had no such knowledge; and she dreaded to institute any experiments, which, for all she knew, might have the effect of only bring- ing about the catastrophe which would put an end to all her hopes at once. Those hopes, though, were getting very dim and indistinct, as hour after hour passed on. At length it came to be past eight o'clock at ight; and as the Dark Woman sat by the bed- she saw, by the light of an oil-lamp that was in the room, the change of death settling over the face. The Dark Woman uttered a cry of dismay. ““ No! no!” she said. ‘ Oh, live—if it be but for a moment—live to tell me of my child! [I will forgive all that you may have done, if you will but speak to me!” All was still. “She is dead—dead—dead!” said the Dark Woman, “ Allis over! She is dead!” The expression of the face of the wounded woman certainly was such as to warrant Linda de Chevenaux in believing that her spirit had fled, although such was not the case. For a few minutes the Dark Woman seemed to be completely prostrated with the feeling that death had indeed closed those lips for ever, through which she had hoped to hear the words that would have ended all her torturing anxieties. Then she rose, and with a deep sigh, she went to a small table that was close to the fire-place, and took from it a little hand-mirror. “T will be sure,” she said—‘ I will be quite sure before I give up this dreary watch.” She held the hand-mirror close to the lips of Laura Adams, and she watched the surface of the bright glass. Yes, there was a film upon it. ‘She breathes!” said the Dark Woman. ‘She breathes still! Oh, if there should still be hope!” Another hour passed away, and all was still. Then two hours more. It was past eleven o’clock, and the whole house—the whole neighbourhood— the whole city, seemed as if only inhabited by the dead, so still was everything. Then the Dark Woman suddenly checked upon her own lips a cry of surprise, mingled with hopeful gratification. The wounded Laura Adams had opened her eyes. There was a terrible look about those eyes. They seemed as if they saw everything, but comprehended nothing : as if they reflected images, but: held no connexion with the brain beyond them. They looked like dead eyes. But they had opened. There was hope in that. Surely now the time had come when, if anything was to be gathered from that compressed, and, perchance, tortured brain, it would be gained now. The Dark Woman knelt down by the side of the bed. She was going now to try her last plan. She was going to throw away her last hope. She placed her lips close to the ear of the dying woman. “Laura Adams ! Adams !” There was a low, moaning sound in reply. It was a faint attempt to articulate. , “She hears me!—she hears me!” cried the Dark Woman. “Oh, she hears me!” j For a few moments, in the deliriam—for it amounted to such—of her joy, the Dark Woman could not speak. p ' Then she recovered sufficiently again to whisper the words in the ear of Laura—“ Laura Adams! Laura Adams! Laura Adams!” Laura Adams! Laura THE PARK WOMAN. 285 The attempt to articulate came again, and more strongly than before. “Speak! speak!—oh, speak!” cried the Dark Woman. There was now a sound, something between a sob and a moan, and the wounded woman spoke. “Here! Here! Here!” “Yes, yes! Oh, tell me! Now, or never! Tell me! Speak! Truth—truth—truth! I implore you to speak !” “Here! Here! Here!” ‘“‘The child of Linda de Chevenaux—the child of the Prince of Wales, and of Linda de Chevenaux, of Dover Court—where is it ? What became of it ? Speak! speak!” “ Pardon !—oh, pardon !” “Yes! Full, and complete.” “Oh, heaven!” ‘‘ Speak! or such torments as the mind of man may not conceive, shall be yours.” “The child—the child! I took it—I took it!” “ Yes, yes!” “T thought that—that——” “That what?” “Tt would be to me fortune—fortune ; but when I wrote to him——” “To the Prince ?” “Yes. No notice was taken. I was then put into prison, because I waited for him once, and tried to speak to him.” ‘ Go on! go on!” “ Mercy! oh, mercy !” “ You shall have mercy—abundant mercy ; but you must tell all. As you tell, so will you be judged! Speak—oh, speak !” “ Are you an angel or a fiend ?” “ Ask not, but speak. What of the child— of Linda de Chevenaux’s child?” ~ “‘ They put me in prison. I tried to speak to him, and forced my way through the guard ; but they put me in prison. For three weary months I lay there.” *‘ But the child—the child ?” “T found it again—poor, and almost starving, and I kept it for revenge; and Linda de Cheve- naux was gone I knew not where.” “ Heed her not—heed her not! Speak of the child.” “J wrote again—I got others to write—but there was no answer; and then I thought to see “Varley, the valet, but they told me he had fled, and no one knew where to find him.” “ And then—and then?” cried the Dark Wo- man. ‘ What then ?” “ T deserted the child. I became desperate, and left it in the open street to starve, or to live as chance directed !” “ Wretch! fiend of a woman!” cried the Dark Woman, as she shook the dying Laura Adams to and fro violently. “ Where was that? when was that ?” ‘Years ago—years ago. You know when it was.” ‘¢ No, tell me all—tell me all.” “ J will—I will! There was a man who had promised to make me his wife; but he deceived me likewise; and I was mad and desperate, and cared not what I did. I dared not seek my mo- ther, for she would have asked me for the child, There was a handkerchief—a handkerchie-—-” “ You pause—you pause! Say on, if you have any hope of merecy—say on!” “The handkerchief belonged to him—to the man who promised that he would make me his wife. It was his, and I wrapped it round the neck of the child. I thought it might bring him into trouble, since he had deceived me—since it had his name upon it. I knowno more! There was a man who was a river pirate—l became his slave and victim! I know no more! Death is upon me!” “ Yet a moment—yet a moment!” cried the Dark Woman. “ Did you never hear—did you never strive to hear the fate of Linda de Cheve- naux’s child? You must know more—you do know more! This is all insufficient—a deserted child, and there an end! Speak, woman!” ‘‘ T know no more—I knowno more! There is a cold feel at my heart!” ‘Oh, mockery! mockery! This is mockery! Has it all but-come to this? All efforts—all dan- gers—all crimes—has it all come but to this, that the child was flung upon the world to perish ?. Woman, woman, you lie! It wasnotso! It was murder! You killed the child!” ‘“‘ No, no, no!” “ Tt‘ is known you did kill the child!” ‘‘ Ah, now I know that you are a fiend, for one of heaven’s angels would not say so! I am dying! There is a sea of mist about me!” “ And ail is lost!” cried the Dark Woman, as she held up her hands above her head. ‘ What is this information? Nothing—nothing—nothing ! Speak again, woman! How could you injure the man who had injured you, by deserting another’s child to perish ?” “ The boy might die, and he might be accused of the deed. His name was on that handker- chief.” “ What name?” “ Allan Fearon.” The shriek that the Dark Woman gave awakened the echoes of that dreary house. Binks, in a dreamy and half intoxicated sleep, heard it, and started to his feet. ‘The girl who enacted the part of the page Felix, clasped her hands to her ears to shut out the terrible sound; and with an awfully echoing cry at that moment Laura Adams breathed her last. CHAPTER LXXIII. SIXTEEN-STRINGED JACK PAYS A VISIT TO MARIAN, THE clocks of London in that dreary winter air struck the hour of twelve, as those two cries, the one of despair, the other of death, echoed through Astorath’s the astrologer’s house in Soho. At the same moment, too, that the last sounds of that midnight hour died away upon the night air, a horseman trotted slowly through the old market of Covent Garden; and passing down the short bit of Russell Street, he turned into Bow Street, and drew up at the narrow-arched entrance to Martlett’s Court. The streets were very silent and deserted—the thaw, which had succeeded the great frost, was 286 : THE DARK WOMAN. A LT LL I LL TO ID IAA EE SI EOE making rapid progress; but the air was wonder- fully chill and raw. The horseman dismounted, and drawing more closely around him the ample cloak in which he “was enveloped, he glanced around him for a few moments to see if he were observed, and then he led the horse after him up the narrow paved entrance to the court. This horseman was none other than our old ac- quaintance Sixteen-stringed Jack; and the cause of his appearance in London at such an hour on Sunday night, may be gathered from his short communings with himself, as he thus made his way, with the bridle of his horse thrown over his arm, towards the wider portion of old Martlett’s Court. ““T can hardly believe it true,” he said; “and yet there it was, as plain as print could make it, in the evening Cowrant, that Allan Fearon was tried, convicted, and condemned for a robbery, and was about to be hanged on Monday morning. Good heaven! it will kill that poor girl, Marian Gray! - How misfortune after misfortune has come upon her! First her sister, then Allan! From my heart I pity her!” Jack looked carefully around him when he ar- rived at the wide portion of the court, and seeing no one, he tied the bridle of the horse to the raillings of one of the houses; and then giving the creature a pat or two on the neck to signify to it that it was to be quiet and await his coming, he went up to the door of the house in which he knew Marian resided. We have before said that this house was so densely occupied in every room that no one took the trouble to fasten the outer door ; and the stair- case became like those attached to houses let out in suites of chambers—common to any one who chose to ascend it. It would be impossible to intrude into any apartment without finding an occupant. Sixteen-stringed Jack knew this well, and his object was to see Marian, and gather from her own lips the story of Allan’s persecution, with the hope that it might not be yet too late to do some- _ thing to save him. / Of course Jack could not forget the conversa- ~ tion he had overheard in the house of the Dark Woman in Soho; and from the moment that ac- cident at Hampstead had shown him the report in the newspaper of what had happened to Allan, he felt assured that he owed it all to the machina- tions of Sir Hinckton Moys. The house was perfectly quiet, and Sixteen- stringed Jack felt his way very carefully up the stairs, and as light as foot could fall, reached the attics. He knew well the door of those two which had been in the occupation of the two sisters, Marian and Annie; and tapping lightly, so as to give no idea of alarm, he hoped that Marian would hear, bai speak to him, if it were but through the key- ole. But in answer to the repeated tappings of Sixteen-stringed Jack at the door, there was no reply. The door, however, was fast, and Jack could only come to the conclusion that late as the hour was, and inclement the night, Marian was from home. This was perplexing. He had ridden in from Hampstead within one hour of being possessed of the intelligence of Allan’s danger. It was past twelve o’clock; and in less than eight hours the innocent Fearon would be brought out to die a public spectacle of the judicial murder of an innocent man. “What shall I do?” said Jack. ‘ Where can she be? I don’t seem as if I could try to do any- thing until I have seen her.” Jack slowly descended the staircase again, and issued out into the court. He stood by his horse irresolutely, and knew not how to act; but as he did so, he saw a flitting shivering figure make its appearance from the narrow entrance leading from Bow Street. There was a something in the outline of this figure which Jack thought he recognised, and he called out in a tone of inquiry, that was likewise not likely to be one of alarm. “Marian, Marian, is that you, who are abroad at such an hour ?” It was Marian. She uttered a cry, and flew towards him. It was the first hopeful sound that had passed her lips now for many an hour. She seemed to feel that she was not wholly deserted and hopeless, now that there was one near her whom she knew to be a friend, although his power of assisting her assumed no definite form. She burst into tears, and they relieved her over- charged heart. ‘They were the first she had shed since hope began to die away of Allan’s liberation. ‘Oh, save him, save him!” she cried, “ or tell me how to save him! You know—you must feel that he is innocent! It is of Allan Fearon I speak.” ‘Calm yourself,” said Jack. “It is of him I come to speak to you. What is allthis? I have read, by the merest accident in the world, about the condemnation of that young man, who, I am convinced, is as innocent of any crime as you are.” “ He is innocent—he is innocent! But his life is sought from motives of revenge. Oh, I felt that ill would come of it. It is that bad man, Sir Hinckton Moys, who has contrived all this.” ‘“‘ Whatever it is,” said Jack, ‘‘ I’ve not the least doubt about that ; but I want to know it all, andI see you are shivering with cold.” “T have been to Newgate.” fou then you have seen him? What says he ” ‘“‘ No, they would not let me; and yet you know, Jack, I am his wife.” ‘‘T did not know it,” said Jack; “but since you tell me go, and they will not let you into Newgate on this the last night, I am convinced there is something unusual about the whole transaction. Tell me all about it, then, as quickly as you can. I do not know, for a moment, if I can do anything ; but, in order that I may know if I can or not, tell me all.” ‘Come in, then—come in! You are the father of my old friend Lucy, so come into the house, and I will tell you all.” ” 4 “You are safe enough with me, my girl,” said Sixteen-stringed Jack. “I’ve ridden in from Hampstead to try arid serve you—not to add to your griefs.” oy : Jack was glad that Marian should propose to enter the house, for he saw that she was suffering intensely from the cold. She had the key of her rooms with her, and a small fire, which still smouldered on the hearth, had kept the chill atmosphere somewhat at bay. Marian then related to Sixteen-stringed Jack all that she knew of the case as against Allan, together with the exertions she had made to procure his release, and the promises she had received from Annie to that effect, ending by informing him of the letter she had sent to Annie only that morning, to let her know that Allan was still in prison, notwithstanding she had pledged herself to his release. Jack heard her out in silence, and then he shook his head. “There is some fearful villany on foot here,” he said, ‘‘and I hardly know what to do. It isa desperate chance to try and rescue a prisoner, but, were there any hope of it, I would gladly risk my own life to do so.” * “Then all hope is over!” said Marian. “JT don’t know—I don’t know! I have a strange thought about me that there is one who even yet has sufficient influence to save him. There is in London a most mysterious person, who comes and goes wherever it may piease her. She seems to have the entree of the Palace and the ear of the Regent—she seems to command the services and attention of my Lord Ilchester, the Secretary of State; and I am credibly informed that she goes in and out of Newgate at her good will and pleasure.” “ Ah! who is this person ?” “‘ She is called the Dark Woman; and I feel perfectly sure she is mixed up with the intrigues of Sir Hinckton Moys, and the pretended predic- tions of one Astorath, who is said to be an as- trologer, and who resides in Frith Street, Soho. I do not know why or how it is, but for the last hour, commencing very strangely at the very moment I heard the clock strike, I seemed to feel that this person would aid in the liberation of Allan Fearon.” “Oh, I will go to her—I will fly to her at once !” ‘No, let me do that. It may not be the safest thing in the world for any one to do; for sheis wild and revengeful, and full of strange plots, conni- } vances, and snares; butas I tell you, I feel an im- pulse to goto her. It is a desperate chance, but the danger is imminent, Rest here, Marian, and if I live I will be back to you in one hour and a half from this time.” *‘T cannot thank you as I ought,” said Marian ; “and Iam too selfish to ask you not to run any risks for me and for Allan—this is such a matter of life or death. His existence hangs on so few hours that I dare not—I cannot refuse any proffered aid at any sacrifice |” ** Heed that not—heed that not. I’m generally well able to take care of myself, and I dare say I shall succeed in doing so in this instance; only let me beg of you not to come out into the cold air of this early morning. It will go near to kill you. Rest in what peace you may till I come back to you; and be assured that you are doing, and I am doing, all we can.” “ Go then, dear friend, ; and if you should fail, | I will, despite all obstacles, seek my sister once again, and I will know if she really wish to save. him, or if those around her have deceived her.” “Be it so,” said Jack. ‘' Farewell for the present !” THE DARK ‘WOMAN. 987 Sixteen-stringed Jack hastily descended to the court, and when he reached it he saw the watch- man standing opposite his horse and holding up a lantern to the creature’s face as if it were the first time he had ever seen such an animal. “Well, my friend,” said Jack, “‘when you're satisfied with your examination of my horse, I have a desire to mount him and be off.” ‘Fem !” said the watchman in a very slow and prolix manner; “I’ve been considering it’s my duty when I sees a ’oss in a court as isn’t a thoroughfare for ’osses, to take him up.” | “Tn the meantime,” said Jack, “my good fellow, you'll get out of my way; and if you like to follow me as I lead the horse into Bow Street, I will give you some excellent advice as I go, for I have no time to stand here and give it to you.” “Eh?” said the watchman. “ What do you mean? It strikes me now——Stop, stop! Where are you going? Don’t be off in that kind of way, for I’ve nearly made up my mind to take you up, and the ’oss too.” Sixteen-stringed Jack had quickly untied the bridle of his horse from the iron railing, and was about to lead it down the narrow entry into Bow Street, when a thought struck him, why he hardly knew, that it would go out the other way by little Russell Street opposite Drury Lane Theatre. Acting upon this impulse, Jack turned his horse’s head abruptly in the other direction, to the great discomfiture of the watchman, who nearly got his toes trodden upon in the process. “Stop, stop! Hilloa! Hoy! Where are you going now? You said you were going into Bow Street, and you came that way !” ““My good fellow,” said Jack, “T will give you that good piece of advice I promised you.” “What may it be?” ‘To mind your own business, and let me go about mine.” Jack and his horse had both passed the watch- man, who then, at once, began to spring his rattle; but it would have been well for him had he waited a moment or two longer before creating {| — so sudden an uproar; for Jack’s horse was startled at the noise immediately behind him in that quiet place, and struck out his hind feet with a ve- hemence. that doubled the watchman up like a foot-rule, and sent him with an alarming bump against one of the street doors, that must have awakened most uneasy sensations in the inha- bitants of the house. “* Fool,” said Jack, “you have brought this mischief on yourself. Did you think that a man | like me was to be stopped by your folly ?” “Murder !” shouted the watchman. ‘“ Come on, come on, and you'll have him! He’s going out the other way! Murder! Help!” “Ah!” cried Jack; “my instincts, then, have not deceived me. There was some nice little ambuscade, if appears, in Bow Street.” Jack and his horse were in Little Russell Street in another moment, and without halting the creature for a moment, Jack sprung to his back. “Off, and away!” he said. ‘I don't think they'll catch us now.” Jack turned to the left, which brought him into Drury Lane. The route he meant to take then was to the left again; but he thought it prudent 288 not to do so at present, for he had no wish to reach the house in Soho, where he hoped to find or to hear something of the Dark Woman, with a hue and cry at his heels. Turning then abruptly to the right, instead of the left, the highwayman passed another watch- man, who flung his bludgeon at him. Jack checked his horse for a moment, and struck down this man with the handle of the heavy riding- whip, which he had hanging by one of the holsters of his saddle. This was the work of a moment; and although the horse fell back on his haunches nearly, by the sudden check, it soon darted forward again in fuller career. There were loud shouts now from persons in Little Swallow Street, and clatter of horses’ hoofs. “Stop him! Stop him! A highwayman! Watch! Watch! Stop him! A large reward! A highwayman! A highwayman!” A sudden thought came to Jack's mind. “T will foil them yet,” he said. Even as he spoke, he stopped his horse; and stooping low in the saddle, he crossed the pave- ment with it, and at a slow and steady walk entered the narrow-arched entrance of Russell Court. Jack knew perfectly well that there were two routes, either of which would lead him out of Russell Court into Bridges Street beyond; and he hoped that either of those would suffice to take him clear of his foes. Such was the case; for the officers, who con- gregated at the Bow Street entrance to Martlett’s Court, and whose presence there had been wholly caused by notice given by the watchman that there was a horse in the court, ran exactly after him, Jack, in the only route they thought he had taken. But they were not close enough to him to notice his departure from that route. The watchman, who had been knocked down by Jack in Drury -Lane, was confused by the blow; but he was loud in his vociferations that ‘There he goes !—there he goes down the lane!” Jack was safe from pursuit. The officers passed the end of Russell Court, just as he quietly emerged into Bridges Street. All was still in that street; but Jack would not gallop his horse, lest its footsteps should be heard. He quietly walked it right through old Covent Garden Market, which was at that time such a curious collection of ancient and dilapidated stails, The moment, however, that he had fairly placed the market between himself and his foes, Jack clapped spurs to his horse, and set off at a rapid trot towards Soho. It was now about two o'clock in the morning, and poor Allan Fearon was still in the condemned cell at Newgate; and believing, in good truth, that he had but six hours more to live. Oh, how terrible were the feelings of that in- nocent man, within the dreary walls of the cell! Not knowing anything of what was going on without—having no means of becoming aware of all that his Marian was doing for his safety, and of how cruelly she was foiled by the machinations of Sir Hinckton Moys—well might Allan Fearon believe, at times, that he was alike deserted by heaven and by man. The . exceptional order, too, of the Governor, incited thereto by Sir Hinckton Moys, that no one was to be allowed to see the condemned man, ag- THE DARK WOMAN. gravated his miseries ; for it seemed to him more terrible to die deprived even of the consolation of bidding farewell to her whom he loved so ten- derly. There came upon Allan’s ears a confused knock- ing noise, about two o’clock on that Monday morn- ing. He was in a partial doze when he first heard it, and it startled him awake. It was the setting up, in front of Newgate, of the scaffold, on which it was intended he was to die. Oh, dreadful sound ! After that, what sleep could visit the eyes of that unfortunate ? Poor Allan was not a favourite, in one sense, with the prison officials, because he protested still his innocence. To be sure, the chaplain told him how wrong that was, because since he had been found guilty by the jury, why of course guilty he must be; but Allan did not see the force of the reasoning, and so was looked upon as rather a hardened male- factor. Hour after hour now passed away, and not the smallest ray of hope seemed to remain in the heart of the condemned. Alas! poor Allan ! : But had he never heard that the darkest hour of night is always that which precedes the dawn, and that when hope seems to be engulphed and swallowed up in the wild waves of despair, it is but that it may emerge with redoubled lustre? Even at that very time when Allan thought himself completely deserted, and that not the smallest expectation of his being saved from the fearful fate before him could exist, events were occurring which were to alter the whole current of his existence. CHAPTER LXXIV. : THE DARK WOMAN MAKES AN ALLIANCE WITH SIXTEEN-STRINGED JACK. FrirH STREET, Soho, was profoundly still when Jack rode up to the door of the astrologer’s house. That house, too, closely shut up as it was, with its grimy windows, and its cold desolate look, seemed to be so completely plunged in gloom and silence, as more to resemble some receptacle for the dead, than a mansion in which so many terrible scenes of human life and passion had been enacted. We must perforce leave Jack at the door for a brief space, while we once more conduct the reader to that chamber in which Laura Adams had breathed her last. The Dark Woman had heard a name uttered which had so completely appalled her—which had created so awful a revulsion of feeling in her heart and brain, that for the time she had lost all power of thought and action. That fearful cry which echoed through the house, and which spread so much alarm and con~ aternation among the dependants of the Dark Woman, sufficiently testified to the effect which the revelation of Laura Adams had had upon her. Allan Fearon! THE DARK WOMAN. PAT intr MIN See == Y * 7 \" Wg : WE hee a | { Batu at \\ \ i at M{N That was, then, the name which had been given to the deserted child! Oh, terrible disclosure! Like a flash of the most brilliant lightning amid the darkest gloom that the face of nature could exhibit, there came over the mind of the Dark Woman all the truth, The man she had persecuted—him whom she had sold to the destroyer; the life she had played with as though it were a thing of no account, except as an article of traffic,—that life, then, belonged to the very son whom she had sought, amid such toil, such peril, such suffering, and such crime. No wonder that the shock was too much for her at the moment. After, then, uttering that one terrible cry, the Dark Woman fell to the floor, by the side of the bed, on which lay the dead Laura Adams; and it seemed as if it would be a doubtful question which No. 837.—Dark Woman. a= <9 SS ——S |\\" Ws —— ee eS | ES a tah of those still forms had most of the remains of life | within it. It was the young girl who played the part of the page Felix who first made her way to that chamber of death. ‘Oh, lady !—ob, mistress!” she cried. ‘ What bas happened? What dreadful sight is this ?” She thought the Dark Woman was dead; and cold, and harsh, and sometimes cruel as she had been to her, this young girl had a certain affection for the Dark Woman, that prompted her to a~ feeling of great grief at the thought that she was no more; and she wrung her hands, and sobbed ‘aloud, as she called upon her to speak to her. “Oh, no, no!” she cried; “you cannot surely die in this way, and no one to kill you!” To all appearance the Dark Woman had indeed come to the end of that terrible career, which had been so relentless that it had neither spared youth nor innocence; and yet it was strange that she 290 THE DARK WOMAN, had secured the affections of even one human | being, who was prepared to shed tears for her de- cease. “No, no!” cried Felix. ‘You are not dead! Speak to me—speak to me! I will not believe that you are dead, for I seeno wound; and I have always thought that some one would kill you, but there is no one here who could do the deed.” The Dark Woman moved not--spoke not. It seemed as if the very ecko of that fearful cry within the chambers of her brain had beea more ‘than sufficient to submerge her intellect, and even life itself, Then, while the girl was wringing her hands, and scarcely daring to think of cafling for aid, the door, which had swung shut, was thrust open, and Binks appeared upon the threshold of the room. Never had he, in all his life, heard a cry which had alarmed him so much as that one which had come from the lips of the Dark Woman, when the dying Laura Adams had pronounced the name of Allan Fearon. “What now?” he cried. ‘ What is all this?” The girl sprang to her feet, and uttered an ex- clamation of alarm. “What is the matter, I say?” added Binks; “and what bas happened ?” “‘ Alas! alas! I know not—-I know not!” Binks glanced from the Dark Woman to the bed, on which lay the body of Laura Adams, and then back again to the apparently lifeless body of his imperious mistress, and it was evident that the whole transaction was beyond his power of reflec- tion. ‘*‘ What does it mean?” he said. it all mean? Who has killed her?” ~ “No one. No one could kill her,” cried the page. ‘She was alone with this woman, who you see is dead. Ch, what a terrible thing is a dead face! I never looked on it before, but I know and feel that that is one. She was here alone, and commanded that no one should ap- proach her’; but I heard a cry—oh, such a ery!” “Andso did I,” said Binks. “I don’t mind most things in a usual way, but I don’t want to hear that cry again. Who knows that she’s dead, though? Perhaps it’s a what do you call it ?” “What?” asked the page, eagerly. * A swound,” said Binks. The page uttered a cry of delight. There was | hope in Binks’s supposition that perhaps a swodn, that only looked like death, held in its grasp the faculties of the Dark Woman. Binks stepped right into the room, and as he | passed the bed on which lay Laura Adams, he gave his head a,jerk towards her, saying, ‘That's | a dead ‘un, and no mistake.” He then lifted the Dark Woman carefully from the floor, and with difficulty placed her in a chair, for her limbs were rigid; but there was alook , upon her face, which proclaimed that life still | remained. “ Oh, he more terriblé to look upon than the dead.” “Well,” said Binks, *shejdon’t look just right, but she isn’t dead, after all. Look at her eyes.” “Tt dare not!” “ Stuff—stuff! What is it you give to female women when they take to kicking in this here way ?” ‘¢ What does | nl” cried Felix. ‘ That taco is | "| | “* Ah, yes!” cried Felix—* in her dressing-room there is a stimulant which she takes at times, when cold shudders pass over ber. She has told | me, then, that people stand upon her grave. I will fetch it.” ** Do,” said Binks; “ but what you means by a stummilant, 1 don't know. Can-you carry it, little ‘un ?” ** Oh, yes—it’s in a small bottle.” “Why couldn’t you say, then, it was some- thing to drink, at once? 1 shouldn’t mind a drop of it myeelf, if it’s strong and good! Howdoyou feel now, my Jady, eh ?”’ The Dark Woman’s eyes were wide open, and fixed on vacancy. It was evident, though, that she was making powerful efforts to articulate; but they were of no avail, and she could only utter some vague and incoherent sounds, which made Binks shake his head, for he could make nothing of them, ‘*T wonder what language that is, now,” he said. “ I suppose it means something, if one was a foreigner, and happened to know it.” The Dark Woman, then, by a great effort, raised her right arm; and, with her outstretched finger, she made, what seemed to Binks, various eccentric movements in the air. She was trying to shape letters so as to express some meaning ; but as Binks’s education had not got the length of writing, they were all lost upon him, “Well, I never!” he said. ‘* What can she be at now? Hilloa, my lady! Cheer up! Never say die! And here comes the stummilant !” With fleet footsteps the page reappeared in the room. “ Here, here, Binks! Some few drops of this in water may restore her.” “Water?” said Binks, with an expression of intense disgust. ‘* What’s the use of water, I wonder, except abont once a month to give your face arinse? If it’s good for anything, it’s better without any more water. They always puts enough in liquor now-a-days! Now, my lady, here you are! It seems stiflish, by the smell of it!” Binks, without any further ceremony, decanted into the mouth of the Dark Woman a good third of the contents of the vial which the page had brought from her dressing-room. The stimulant was a strong one; and perhaps, after all, in the state to which the Dark Woman had been thrown by the fearful intelligence she had heard, some such powerful means of producing a physical re- | action was required. A strong spasm shook her frame, and for a few _moments she seemed to gasp for breath. Then a gush of tears came from her eyes—they were the first she had shed for many a year~and with them, the rigid, death-like swoon seemed to pass away; but with it, too, passed away a portion of the recollection of the events of that night and early morning. She clasped her hands together, and with sighs and tears, spoke in a low, moaning voice. “Oh, what a dream!—ob, what a dream! Was ever mortal brain tortured by suck a dream? Better to die—better to die, than have such terrors conjured up in sleep !” ‘« Sleep ?” cried the page. “‘ She thinks it’s sleep,” said Binks. *¢ Oh, mercy, mercy!” added the Dark Woman. THE DARK’ WOMAN. 291 Let me never close my eyes in sleep again, if fiends are to whisper such horrors tome! Where am 1? wheream I? What isall this?” ‘Madam, madam!” said the page; ‘look about you, and think. ‘Think for a moment, and you will remember that it is no dream.” ‘* Not a bit of it, my lady,” said Binks. ‘ Not but what I’ve had ugly dreams enough, myself, now and then. I’ve dreamt of being as dry as dust, and a river of brandy close at hand, and I couldn’t get at it!” The Dark Woman sprung to her feet. She clasped her hands over her eyes, and then above her head, and she screamed again, in the agony of returning recollection. “ She’s a comin’ it agin!” said Binks, “Oh, no, no! Mistress, dear mistress, do not give way to these strange terrors. You are at home—recollect you areathome. See! see!—you know the room—the fire—the window—that old cabinet! That bed do you not see? On it lies that wounded woman that was brought to the house this morning. Do you not remember, dear mistress? The doctor visited her blindfolded, too. And you watched by her, and said none should disturb you. Oh, be calm—be calm, and remem- ber all this, and that you are at home, with those who will love you, and serve you.” As the page spoke, the Dark Woman glanced at the different articles she enumerated; and then, with another cry, but not nearly so fierce or wild as those which had preceded it, she flew to the bedside, and gazed earnestly in the face of Laura Adams. ‘* Dead! dead!” she cried. “ Oh, there’s no doubt about that!” said Binks. “ Oh, what would I not give to hear you speak again, and yet too much have you already said! No, no! I must not say that—I will not say that; for if Allan Fearon be my son, I will yet save him or perish with him! Help, help! Speak to ma, some one! Ye: ff | S Cx i 4 if 4 L ie , / 4 | Hi] P= i Z|: Mi i] Wy y ; /, } HH J a My Wn i Li "hi NTH Ral ‘ mal UY J] ) MOTT | joes = - VE = i ry y 1 a“ i Wet He Vj | = Te 2 : ); : il N Hi) Ub = LT eA , at Hy U) y — thew TA Y fl 7 eat tf , = eae % i! le sen \} pat | ST Yi sh MY . | iz 4 4 z aE i tt uf {| .. y \ = , Y a OY) ea AGA! ge ZY Ml WZ | = = igomroyl Map | aia poe t} , he ee Way H ; | ~ | Le re|| | Chee TA N | "| b a) AANA Wl ae | RR A NAR Au | i } ers pfs} | — J 4 ty G i s dies tea so PD dt H A f { I I | Ih P =e = ‘ f Re) LA Mh ( \ t) ee yy i . Hi! ! | = — : — =A. 4 } \ l a 7 a y ' {4 HHH G ; 4 if ts ! mi i i Nw) Na al Mi fd 7 ERS MN one | | il Tl = i ah oe BUTT 1 | wi aa = mM NT ' . Sy NH | eag= j a Ire Ce a ne sll j | } f & Abe WAN » { y SS i i } }! | = C \ r AS) Oy We ) \ ) 4 7 Hi 1a HW |)" CSC RAN W Hi f : | SNE SAN l i if uw i No. 38 —DArkK Woman. 298 THE DARK WOMAN. ’ “You hear?” cried the Dark Woman, sharply. “ Yes,” said Willes. ‘* But who is this?” “Tt matters not—a friend of mine—that is enough. You hear his statement. Whatsay you to it ?” “ Only, madam, that I heard the Countess say when she returned, that she had been to Newgate, and Allan Fearon was free.” ‘‘ What mystery is all this? what jugglery? What fiend is intermingling with human affairs, to cause all these contradictions? I will see her—I will see her! I will see the Countess de Blonde, and know the truth.” “Oh, madam,” said Willes, “if I should be compromised here, to-night, I, too, might share the disgrace of Sir Hinckton Mvys, and then I should be all unable to render you the service you require. Think of that, madam! I am your humble servant here as ever, but the Countess de Blonde will speak freely— she is one who will keep nothing.” “ Do not fear,” saidthe Dark Woman. ‘ Leave that tome. ‘There are considerations which over- ride all caution, and this is one of them. Leave that to me.” Sixteen-stringed Jack stepped aside, and the Dark Woman gathered her cloak more completely about her, and pulled the hood nearly acrogs her face. «¢ Show me the apartments,” she said, “ of this Countess; and believe that I can and will hold you harmless for all that may happen in the Palace of old St. James’s this night. You well know who I am, and what are my powers.” “IT attend you, madam,” said Willes. “ It is but across the gallery; and after all, madam, as my ptesence will not be requisite, the Countess need not know but that your visit is one of those extraordinary ones which have been the talk of the Palace, as being made by the—the a) ‘The Dark Woman—that is my name; but I shall do a deed now that shall surely shine as a star amid the darkness of my life.” There was so strange a look, now, of exultation and hope about the face of the Dark Woman, that Sixteen-stringed Jack, as he had heard the Regent was as far off as Windsor, and therefore, could not possibly interfere to save the life of Allan Fearon, could not comprehend. Willes, too, stole occasional glances at Jack, as though he would be glad to gather some confir- mation from him of his own idea that the Dark Woman had become insane. She waved her hands to and fro, and muttered to herself, “‘ Yes, yes! It will come to that! It was fate, and it shall yet be! Yes, fate! fate! I shall save him, and the golden circlet will yet rest upon his brow! It is time! it is time, yet!” Across the gallery—past the old royal portraits— past the night lamps on the porphyry columas— past the deep old couches, with their crimson velvet covers, went Willes, followed closely by the Dark Woman. Sixteen-stringed Jack was but a few paces in the rear. Willes spoke in low tones. “Yonder door, madam, conducts to the apart- ments of the Countess. But—but——” ‘“¢ But what?” said the Dark Woman abruptly. “At this very early hour, madam—a little i — after six—it is not in the least likely that th Countess will be stirring.” “Tt matters not. Those are stirring who would take an innocent life.” Willes drew back. The Dark Woman had tried the handle of the door that had been poirited ont to her. It was fast. She took, then, from her pocket that master key that she had, and in a moment the lock, which was of a pattern common in the Palace, yielded. Willes was still more alarmed. “Madam, madam, you will be so good as not to mention me.” The Dark Woman made a gesture of impa- tience, The Palace clock chimed the quarter-past six. A flush of colour came over the face of the Dark Woman, and for a moment she seemed gasping for breath. Then she turned to Sixteen- stringed Jack, and said, hoarsely, “ Wait!” ‘ Jack signified his assent by an inclination of the ead. The Dark Woman crossed the threshold of -that outer room of Annie’s suite of apartments, and the door swung shut after her. ‘Do hide,” whispered Willes to Jack. “ Let me beg of you to hide. The night watch of the Palace, the two Yeomen of the Guard, you know, and the Deputy Constables will make their round soon.” ““T will hide where you please,” said Jack, “ provided I do not lose sight of that door.” ‘* Here, then—here !” . Willes hurried Jack into a recess behind a column, on which stood a statue of Bacchus. The sound of footsteps at the further end of the gallery became apparent. It was the duty of an officer of the Palace, ac- companied by two Yeomen of the Guard on night duty, to make what was called “the Palace rounds” once in every two hours of the night. At about half-past six at that time of the year it was still profoundly dark, but at that hour the last ‘‘ rounds” were taken. Willes did not attempt to conceal his own pre- sence in the gallery. ‘‘ Who goes there?” cried the officer who pre- ceded the Yeomen. “The Prince’s valet!” replied Willes, for it was a rule that whoever was met by the “ rounds” should state the name of the office he or she held in the Palace. The officer and the two Yeomen knew Willes well enough, and they passed on. Jack Singleton peeped out from behind the statue. The Palace clock struck the half-hour past six. It was just one hour and a half to the period fixed for the execution of Allan Fearon. When the Dark Woman crossed the threshold of that suite of apartments in St. James’s Palace which had now for a considerable time been in the occupation of the Countess de Blonde, there was an inscrutable expression upon her countenance, accompanied by a compression of the lips, and a strange, wild look, such as might be worn by one who had set life, happiness, and hope upon a cast, which, were it to turn out detrimental, would sub- merge the very intellect itself in a sea of ruin. The room was nearly dark. A pale flame alone arose from a silver lamp, which, whatever might THE DARK WOMAN, oS 299 have béen its refulgence early in the night, was now nearly expiring. The room was untenanted, for it was not a sleeping chamber-~indeed it was that same apart- ment with the armoire in it which had witnessed the agitating interview between Annie and Sir Hinckton Moys, with the complete defeat of the latter. There was a door at the other end of the room almost entirely composed of looking-glass. Gliding along in her dark cloak, and looking like some spectre seeking the bedside of some one to whom the memories of the past would make the apparition full of heart-shrinking fear, went Linda de Chevenaux towards that glittering door, which reflected in its mirror surface the faint light from the silver lamp. The door was not locked. The Dark Woman opened it noiselesely, and then she heard the low, regular breathing of some one sleeping; but a glance at the appoint- ments of the room, which were sufficiently re- vealed by the light of a single wax candle, which had burnt low down in the socket of a silver candlestick, assured the Dark Woman that that was not the chamber she sought. There was ancther door yet to be passed through. Withont casting a single glance at the sleeper in this ordinarily-furnished apartment, the Dark Woman opened the second door, and then a faint odour of perfumes met her senses. ? ET tS RR SOR A THE DARK WOMAN, A hundred throats echoed it. A thousand throats echoed it. “A reprieve! a reprieve! a reprieve!” Hats, caps, sticks, handkerchiefs, are waving in the air in wild confusion. ‘‘ A reprieve! a reprieve! a reprieve !” A wild-looking figure on a black horse appears in the middle of the crowd. The people crush themselves together, to make way for the terrified and snorting steed. It is a woman. In her hand she holds a folded paper. She is hoarse with the wild cry that she has kept up, even from the gate of old St. James's Palace. ‘“A pardon! a pardon! a pardon!” Her features are convulsed with passionate excitement. There is foam upon her lips. ‘* Parden! pardon! pardon!” The horse has blood about its nostrils—blood upon its reeking flanks. The mob swayed to and fro, and, amid the shrieks and cries of those who were trodden down by the multitude—of those, too, who were in the way of the horse, and were dashed aside by the goaded animal, there pressed forward the Dark Woman. Allan saw her. He heard the cries. The words “pardon” and “reprieve” rung in his ears, and life began for him anew. With one well-directed blow he struck the executioner in the throat, and he rolled off the scaffold. The mob raised such a cheer as had not been heard in that narrow thoroughfare for many a long day. T'be window above the Debtor’s Door was dashed open. Sir Hinckton Moys appeared at it, and uttered a yell of rage. No one heeded him. “Pardon! pardon!” cried the Dark Woman, as she neared the ecafiold. ‘‘ Pardon for Allan Fearon! * Dare ‘you are, of his jewels—purloiner of property # “Stop, stop, stop! Pll give you in charge to the watch, if you go oninthatmanner! Thieves! thieves !” “ Bo it so,” said Sir Hinckton, as he flung the corner of his cloak over his shoulder, and spoke bitterly between his clenched teeth. ‘! Be it so, Thomas Willes! The next time I walk into St. James’s Palace you shall walk out, and your drab of a Countess de Blonde shall die in a ditch !” “* Ah,” said Willes, “ people say such foolish things when they lose their temper!” * And Allan Fearon shall yet hang.” “ Oh, indeed !” ‘¢ And somebody else with him.” “Tm quite sure if the young man is hanged, he would rather it was on the Monday before or after you, Sir Hinckton Moys.” “ Rascal !” ““ Watch! watch! Thieves! thieves!” A watchman, with his lantern dangling before him, made what haste he could to the spot; and Sir Hinckton Moys, who did not wish actually to assail Willes, since he was known to him, and would have to abide a prosecution, was glad of somebody on whom to vent his rage. He knocked down the watchman at once, and, trampling over him, made the best of his way to Astorath’s house, in Frith Street. The watchman called loudly for help, and sprang his rattle, while Willes ran across the square, and made his way into Dean Street, laugh- ing to himself at the defeat of Sir Hinckton Moys, Sir Hinckton went at once, and rang the secret bell at Astorath’s house, which procured him instant admission. “ What seek you?” said a voice. ** | seek Astorath, and will see him!” cried Sir Hinckton Moys, in a yoice of anger. “ My name is Moys, and I must and will see him !” ‘ Follow!” said the voice. The star slowly crept up the staircase. Muttering imprecations to himself, and stamping heavily in the anger of his heart, Sir Hinckton Moys followed it into that large and gloomy apartment which had associated itself in his mind, up to that period, with the promised vengeance upon Allan Fearon, in which, at the last moment, he had been so signally disappointed. CHAPTER LXXX. SHOWS How SIR HINCKTON MOYS QUARRELLED WITH ASTORATH THE ASTROLOGER, _ Never was human being so little disposed to give way to the credulities of the visitors of the sup- posed astrologer’s house as Sir Hinckton Moys, on the occasion of his visit to Frith Street, after the complete defeat he had sustained at St. James’s Palace. Beneath his heavy grey cloak he was well armed ; and there was a bitter resolution at his heart to call the supposed Astorath to account for the failure that had taken place. THE DARK WOMAN, The cuts and bruises from the stones that had been hurled at him by the mob in the Old Bailey were paififul, but they were as nothing in com- parison to the rage that was swelling at his heart. Sir Hinckton bounded up the stairs in the hope of overtaking the little star-light which the visi- tors of the house generally followed so slowly and cautiously. But the faster he went, the quicker it flitted on | before him. He then called out, in a lond, defiant tone of voice, “The time has gone by when I could be amused by any of the mummeries of this place! I want to see the man who calls himself Astorath!” ‘“‘ Forbear !” said a voice. “T will not forbear! A truce to all tricks and supernatural shows, I do not believe in them! My business is of a practical nature.” Sir Hinckton Moys had reached the large dark apartment, and he was making rather a hasty rush over it, when suddenly, from immediately before him, there darted up a tall, bright, blue flame, and he saw a yawning chasm at his feet. “ Forbear!” said the voice again. Sir Hinckton Moys recoiled. ‘¢ Where are you, Astorath ?” he called out. “I will see you, and speak to you!” The flame suddenly expired, and the darkness seemed to be tenfold more intense than before. But Sir Hinckton Moys, with all his rage, was not quite reckless enough to rush forward, upon the chance of a serious fall down some opening in the floor. “Speak, Astorath!” he said. seek.” ‘TJ am here |” said a deep, hollow voice. “Oh, that is well!” “Well,” echoed the voice. “You are Astorath ?” “T am Astorath.” * Then I have to tell you that all your precious plans have failed.” “T know it.” “Of course you do; and my opinion is that you have played a treacherous part in the whole affair. Where, now, are all your promises ?— where, now, are all your prophecies ?” ‘‘T am but mortal,” said the deep-toned voice. “Yes; but you pretended to command spirits.” Tre; and you have but just announced your total disbelief in such pretensions.” Sir Hinckton Moys stamped with passion. ‘‘T care not whether you ‘have intercourse with the infernal regions, or only work by human means to the accomplishment of your ends. It is sufii- cient that you have failed.” “What then ?” ‘‘ What then, say you? You shall find what then, for I will make London—Frith Street—this house—too hot to hold Astorath the charlatan.” * Fool !” “Ah!” ‘‘ Weak fool. And do you think for one moment that I am moved by your threats ?” “‘T will find a means to move you. There was a specific bargain—a promise made on both sides, I fulfilled mine—you have failed in yours.” “ Listen.” “Bah! I have heard enough.” “Hear more.” “It is you I 311 “Say on. Some new jugglery, I fancy; but I am not the man to be twice deceived.” “ Listen.” “J listen.” fr “There are spirits which will obey the behests of mortal life, and fashion events so that they shall subserve mortal passions. Those spirits you bad with you. You purchased their services, and they did their duty. There are other and higher intelligences of the spirit world, who, if they will, without those who would have served you, have the power so to do.” ** Peace, peace, Astorath! listen to these mystical excuses, —utterly failed.” es No 1” “‘T say yes! Dare you say ‘no?’” “T dare say ‘no,’ because I have succeeded. And now, bold, sinful man, in whose heart there grows at this moment not one human feeling but the desire for vengeance, I defy you!” ‘That is well.” “Tt is well. But before you leave this honse you shall see that which shall haunt your dreams and appal you waking senses.” “Wa, ha! I laugh at your prediction.” A bright light, as if from some small centre, slowly spread itself over one end of the room, and then defined itself into a large circle, over which clouds of dim, grey vapour seemed to be sweep- ing. Sir Hinckton Moys was not so completely free from superstitious influences as he had boasted fo be, and he looked curiously and earnestly at the bright light. The clouds that swept over its surface gradually disappeared, and Sir Hinckton Moys saw what seemed to bea church, with a gtave-yard attached to it. A bell tolled dismaliy. “ Behold!” said a voice. A figure appeared to totter across the grave- yard, and then fall upon a mound of earth, which covered the mortal remains of one who had escaped from the conflict of existence. There was a deep red stain upon the breast of the figure, and it seemed to utter low moans of anguish. The light, then, that was over the centre circle in which this picture was exhibited, began to draw in from the edges, and to concentrate itself about this figure. The face, the clothing, the blood, and the hideous look of anguish that the figure wore, all became painfully distinct. Sir Hinckton Moys uttered a cry of surprise. The face was singularly like his own. “Behold!” said the voice again. “What does that pageant mean?” he gaid. “It is ‘a vision.” ‘Of what ?” ‘The future.” “You seek to terify me, by signifying that I see before me a vision of my death.” “ As surely,” said the deep voice, “‘as that the hugh oceans of earth will obey the moon, and wash with recurring tides the rocks and sands of many an island, will you die the death you see before you.” Sir Hinckton Moys was moved. For a few moments he was silent. I cannot, will not You have failed — Then, in a 312 THE DARK WOMAN. voice into which he tried to impress some tones of bravado, he said, ‘I despise you predictions, Astorath, and defy your threats. You waste, without a fee, you charlatanism upon one who believes not in it.” “ Be it so!” The vision vanished. “And now,” added Sir Hinckton Moys, ‘I have made up my mind that I will have an interview with you face to face.” ‘‘No!” said the voice. ‘‘My face has now the lustre of communion with the dead upon it, and you may not see it.” Sir Hinckton Moys was provided against a refusal on the part of Astorath to see him, as he thought, by providing himself with a means of breaking the darkness that was around him. By the aid of a chemical match he procured a light, and ignited the candle in a small hand lantern he had with him. Through its lens there showed a broad gleam of light. ‘‘ Now, Astorath,” said Sir Hinckton Moys, as he held the lantern in his left hand, and a drawn sword in his right, ‘I intend to seek you through this house !” “Are you so tired of life?” said a voice that Sir Hinckton Moys, found was behind him, and he turned at once to face it. He could see no one. ‘¢ Who spoke?” he cried. ‘ By heaven, I will make some of you tired of life!” The broad gleam of light from the lantern shewed him that the walls of the large apartment were hung with black cloth, but -he had hardly time to make the observation, when he observed, standing a few paces from him, a tall, dark figure, attired in a cloak very simular to his own. “ Astorath ?” he said. ** Ay, Astorath,” replied the deep-toned voice. “Then there will be a vacancy in the muster- roll of necromancers!” cried Sir Hinckton Moys; and springing forward, he passed his sword, as he thought, right through the body of the astrologer. There was no more opposition to the passage of the keen blade than there would be in passing it through the empty air. A cold fear began to find its way to the heart of Sir Hinckton Moys. Again he passed his sword through the figure, and again he felt nothing to oppose the progress of the blade. “Are you content?” said the voice. have seen Astorath. Are you content?” Sir Hinckton Moys placed himself carefully upon his guard. “T know not,” hesaid, ‘if I can say ‘content ;’ but I feel that I am practised upon by some jugglery.” “Go!” said the voice again,—‘ go, while yet you may with life. Intercourse with the finer natures of spirits deprive the human heart of some of its bitterness. You are forgiven—go!” “But——” *‘ Peace—oh, peace!” “ And am I to forego the vengeance for which I - have paid? Is that man to live who has thwarted me; and who has been my bitter foe ?” “He must live.” “ And you say so?” “Ido. The fiat has gone forth. “You You have seen a vision, Sir Hincktcn Moys. Now listen to a prophecy.” “* Say on.” “Tf, by word, act, or plot, either on your own part or on that of others, you seek the death or injury of Allan Fearon, there will wait upon your own head tenfold the misery, and tenfold the conse- quences. Already you find such has been the case.- Be warned in time. He is specially in the protection of those who will, and who can, bafile all his foes.” “This is madness !” “No. Ask yourself. What has already happened? You have sought his life. What has resulted? He is saved, and you are disgraced.” Sir Hinckton felt this to be but too true. “Be warned,” added the voice. ‘ Astorath now addresses to you words of better friendship than asif he promised you the heart’s blood of Allan Fearon. Abandon, for your own sake, your revenges, and be safe. Prosecute them, and your victim will escape you, while you yourself will perish.” ’ . Before Sir Hinckton Moys could say a word in reply to these words, which made a strong im- pression upon his imagination, his nerves were shaken by a loud shriek, which, for an instant, filled the air of the room. Sir Hinckton staggered towards the door. He dropped the lantern. But, in his agitation, he fenced with the sword he still held in his right hand, and, as he did so, he felt that in the dark it encountered another blade. There was the clashing sound of sword to sword for a few seconds, and then Sir Hinckton Moys felt his weapon torn from his grasp, and he could hear it fall, with a clanging sound, far away. Involuntarily he held up both his arms to shield his head and breast from the deadly thrust or slash that he expected. But none came. All was still around him, and, as he looked into the darkness, he saw the little star-light hovering in the air, at some distance from him. } ‘‘ Remember!” said a deep, sad voice. Sir Hinckton Moys became anxious to leave the house. He walked slowly after the star, and it conducted him down the staircase. *‘ Remember!” said the voice again. Sir Hinckton did not speak, but he felt that he knew perfectly well what it was that he was thus called upon to remember. It was, that any further attempts to be avenged upon Allan Fearon would only recoil upon his own head. Had not all the attempts as yet so recoiled? Most certainly they had. How, then, could he banish the prediction from his mind? How could he refuse to give credence to it, when so substantiated by facts? He reached the dim and dusky passage of the house. At the moment he did so, there came a heavy knock at the door, as though some one had struck on its panels with some massive, blunt instru- ment. f Sir Hinckton Moys paused. The little star disappeared. — : “Open! open!” cried a voice from without. THE DARK WOMAN. é } “ Mac NY he ww, K/ ) @: OO i > tle LL XX WN \ —— VB \ Qe = ey SS 7 Fe i SD LS ELE SD SC SLOSS ATL A 313 THE DARK WOMAN AS COUNTESS D’UMBRA., “Come, now, Mr. Conjuror—open locks, whoever knocks! We want to make trial of your skill.” The knocking continued. Then it was evident to Sir Hinckton Moys that several persons were outside the door, for he heard laughing and talking. The knocking was renewed with vigonr. Then the door suddenly swung open. Sir Hinckton Moys would have darted out, but three persons filled up the doorway, and made their way into the passage, . on!” said one of these three persons. “ @ome on!. We shall be certain to have some sport.” “ Ah!” said Sir Hinckton Moys to himself. “That is the rascal, Colonel Hanger!” “Call the conjuror down,” said another voice, ‘Sand let us have a look at him.” No. 40.—Dark Woman. “And that,” said Sir Hinckton Moys to himself, as he hid behind the door, ‘“‘is the Regent.” The third person only laughed, and Sir Hinck- ton Moys could not, from the laugh, exactly decide who it was. The idea, however, that Colonel Hanger had, in so short a time after his disgrace, been sent for to the Palace, was gall and wormwood to Sir Hinckton Moys. ‘‘Come down, Mr. Conjuror,” said Colonel Hanger. ‘*Come down—we want to see you!” At this moment a loud explosion in the passage of the house, but without anything in the shape of fire, or sparks, or smoke, took place. The Regent ran out into the middle of the road, and so did the third person of the trio, who was unrecognisable by Sir Hinckton Moys. Colonel Hanger had come fairly into the passage. 33 5 THE DARK WOMAN, The Colonel was by no means famous for courage, and when the lond explosion tock place he was quite as anxious as the Regent could be to place himself out of danger. But situated as he was, Colonel Hanger had to turn round to get quickly out of the house. Sir Hinckton Moys hated him with a hatred that went past the bounds of discretion, and the opportunity that that moment presented itself to him of inflicting some injury upon Colonel Hanger was to him irresistible. The moment Hanger turned his back upon the dark passage of the astrologer’s house, Sir Hinck- ton Moys made a rush at him with such violence, that the Colonel fell heavily upon the door-step. Sir Hinckton Moys then rushed over him, and fled in the darkness towards Soho Square. “‘ Murder !” cried Colonel Hanger. “ Murder!” No sooner did the Regent hear the cry of murder, than he took to his heels at once, and placed, in the next five minutes, as large a space between himself and Frith Street, Soho, as he possibly could. ~~ Sir Hinckton Moys made his way to Bury Street, St. James’s, where he had lodgings. The Prinee Regent finding himself alone, thought that he would go home, and upon reaching the private door in the wall of Carlton House gardens, he was met by Willes, who bowed as low, and looked as mild, and meek, and obsequious as it was possible for any valet to look. “Go to the Countess,” said the Regent, ‘and say that I will come and sup with.her.” “ Yes, your Royal Highness.” The secret mode of communication between Carlton House and St. James's Palace was of great convenience to the Regent, and after making some change in his apparel he sought the rooms which Annie Gray called her own, “Well, George,” said Annie; ‘is he dis- missed ?” “Who?” “The Governor of Newgate!” ‘Now, really 7 **Do you mean to tell me that he still holds his situation after I had distinctly asked you to dis- miss him ?” “ Listen to reason.” “TT won't!” “But . “ You know that is the last thing I should ever think of doing !” “ What?” ‘Listening to reason—lI hate it !” The Regent laughed. “Look you here, my dear Annie.” * Countess | Countess !” ‘Well, Countess. I will take good care that the Governor of Newgate shall not be governor a week longer. Will that suit?” “Yes, I will give you a week; and now for the other affair!” ‘¢ What other affair?” * About Willes!” “Why, you surely don’t want to get Willes discharged, do you, Countess ?’ “No. But, the other day, there was a tal- Jow chandler, who came with an address from Dublin.” “Oh, the Mayor!” “T suppose so—you knighted him!” ‘CT am forced to knight all sorts of people.” “Who don’t deserve it ?” * Just so!” “ And who are in all positions of life?” ‘Yes. Tinkers, tailors, and candlestick- makers !” ** Hal ha! “No doubt.” “ Very well!” “Why do you say ‘very well!’ in that deter- mined mannér, My dear Countess ?” “Because you will knight Willes!” “Knight Willes ?” “ Yes |” +e Oh {7 “You will!” “ My own valet ?” “Just so. It would be a different thing if he were some one else’s valet.” - “‘But-—” Stop!” Annie clapped her pretty hand over the mouth of the Regent. RS: ‘Listen tome. In order to induce Willes to join him against me, and to deceive you, Sir Hinckton Moys promised Willes that he would get him knighted. Now Willes was honest, and would not go against me, notwithstanding that promise; but as, if Moys had succeeded, and turned you against me, and I had left the Palace instead of him, he would have worried yon into knighting Willes, I think he ought not to lose by his fidelity.” . “My dear Countess!” “ Well!” **T cannot !” “Very good! I see in a moment what you mean—you don’t want me any longer!” ‘‘Y do, indeed !” “No, you don’t !” “My dear Annie—Countess, I mean. Don’t you kaow that, if I were to knight Willes, it would be a public scandal, and I should have to discharge him ?” “No!” “Yes, I assure you; and he would rather keep his place, I am certain.” “Jt shall be kept secret until be leaves you of his own accord. Then there will be no scandal, you see, George; and he will still be your valet as long as le can be useful to you.” The Regent looked irresolute. ‘‘Come, now,” added Annie; ‘it is the only favour I have ever asked of you.” (74 Gh {?? ‘* What do you mean by ‘oh!’” “JT was going to say that you forget, you have asked me some favours!” * Not one!” ““Why, there was the pardon of thaf young man, Allan something!” ‘And do you call that a favour, George? No; I was your best friend there. I was consulting your interests, and your popularity, and ur peace of mind. The young man was perfeetly innocent of the crime imputed to him, and I would not have it said that George, Prince of Wales and Regent of England, did not interfere to save an innocent man from death. Such things shall not happen while Iam Prime Minis- ter |” And valets?” Surely ——— I OE Ee nee a nr rer Ne ee eee ae REC er en en ee a ee) en TT TT ro, ena a he nT ae x ae ee ee Ane THE DARK WOMAN. 316 “ Prime Minister, Countess ?” “Yes, to be sure, George; and the best you will ever have. Now call in ’Willes, and knight him at once.” ‘“‘ Are you serious, Countess ?” ‘*I’'m always serious !” The Regent laughed, and Annie touched a small hand-bell. The tinkle must very easily have reached the ears of Willes, for he appeared in an incredibly short space of time, and made a particularly low bow to the Countess, and as par- ticularly a respectful one to the Regent. CHAPTER LXXXI. SHOWS HOW WILLES WAS KNIGHTED, AND HOW THE DARK WOMAN HAD AN INTERVIEW WITH THH PRINCESS OF WALES. Tue Regent looked rather confused for a few seconds, and then a smile stole over his countenance as he looked at Willes, and said, “‘The Countess de Blonde, Willes, wants to have you kaighted, but as I cannot have a gentleman for a valet, you will have along with your dignity to take your discharge.” ‘* Unless your Highness,” said Willes, with a low bow, ‘* would please to call me the first gen- tleman of your toilet ?” “ Virst gentleman of the toilet,” said the Regent, laughing; ‘that’s a new title inthe Palace.” “I hope I shall not disgrace it, your Royal Highness, by being its first possessor.” “You're au ingenious fellow, Willes.” The valet bowed almost to the very floor. “Here,” said the Countess de Blonde,—** here, George, you can do it with this.” “What, Countess, you keep swords in your chamber ?” “Ym forced to do so. Who knows but you may take Sir Hinckton Moys into your favour again, and then some day I might see him, and how could I put an end to him at once without some sort of weapon?” “That is one of my swords,” said the Regent. * But how came it here?” “You left it.” Willes coughed slightly, for well he knew he had brought it to the Countess only a few hours previously. “Well,” said the Regent, as he drew the sword, “if it must be, I will make no further objection; but I would strongly advise you, Willes, while you remain in my service, to keep your knight- hood a secret.” “T was going to ask your Royal Highness’s gracious permission to that effect,” said Willes. “Very well.” Willes knelt, and the magic touch was given to his shoulder, which converted him from _ plain Thomas Willes into a gentleman. ‘Rise up, Sir Thomas Willes,” said the Regent. The valet looked very pale, but he kissed the Regent’s hand, and then rose to his feet. ‘There, you see,” said Annie; “I don’t think Sir Hinckton Moys could have done that for you.” ** Countess,” said Willes, “you see before you to my life, is ever at your command, and likewise at the command of your Royal Highness,” Willes backed out of the apartment, and it was with a very different step indeed that he passed down the picture gallery from which those suite of rooms in the occupation of Annie opened, The night was far advanced, but while this little episode was taking placs in St. James’s Palace, and while the Regent was partaking of a recherche supper in the society of the fair Countess ce Blonde, a very different scene was enacting at Buckingham Honse. There the Princess Caroline of Wales had taken up her abode after a second furious quarrel with the Regent. There it was, too, that the Opposition, as those political persons were called who placed themselves in antagonism to the Regency, thronged about her, making up a distinct Court, in opposition to that of St. James’s and Carlton House. The Princess of Wales mistook setarolgs the motives of these persons. The extraordinary idea took possession of her that they sympathised with her, and that all their sycophancy towards her was of a personal character. She had yet to find ont that she was merely made for atime the tool of a political party, to be cast aside, when no longer of use to them, with rudeness: and contempt. This was the beginning of the varie when the Princess of Wales began, as it was called, to throw herself upon the nation, and the consequence was that adventurers and charlatans of all kinds and descriptions thronged to Buckingham House, The greater the crowd the more pleased was the Princess, for she had no personal means of distinguishing those who could be of the slightest use in befriending her from those who merely wanted to use her name as a stepping-stone to fortune and power, From morning till night Buckingham House was thronged with briefless barristers, unattached captains, insolvent members of parliament, and men who had disgraced themselves, or been dis- graced, in various public positions. Mixed with these were a few warm-hearted, but weak-headed, enthusiasts, who honestly believed the Princess of Wales to be an injured woman, Some ladies of the aristocracy, too, lent a grace and respectability to Queen Caroline’s Court, simply because they disapproved of the profligate career of the Regent. No one, under these circumstances, was more accessible than Caroline, Princess of Wales, who fully believed she was collecting a large party in the State—a delusion which scarcely left her until she was turned aside by a single constable from the portal of Westminster Hall, on the ocea- sion of the coronation of George the Fourth. The Princess Charlotte had espoused the party of the Regent, who, since he had given his consent to ber marriage with the Prince Leopold, had succeeded in effectually estranging her from her mother. The Court of England presented a sad spectacle. A mad King, howling and shrieking his life away in the padded chambers of Windsor Castle —a Regent, immersed in all the vices and follies of metropolitan life, and paid a certain subsidy for a weekly visit to his deranged father—the your most devoted slave. My utmost service, even | Princess, his wife, branded with infamy by his 316 ee a ea ae THE DARK WOMAN, friends, and appealing to a nation for justifica- tion. Such was the condition of the Court of England at that period when Parliament was but just be- ginning to declare its omnipotence, and to engage in a new struggle for privilege with the Crown. It was past eleven o'clock at night, but. still the lights in the windows of Buckingham House were not extingnished, for the Princess of Wales had held an evening reception. Most of the guests had departed, and the Prin- cess herself, fatigued by a long day of visits, had retired to her private apartments. A magnificent carriage, the panels of which were emblazoned with arms, in which the royal lion of England stood prominent, dashed up to Buckingham House. The equipage was faultless, and the porters and servants at once gave it admission to the quadrangle in front of the old palatial residence. The carriage contained but one person, and that was a lady, most magnificently attired, and sparkling from head to waist with diamonds of great value. One delicately-gloved hand she stretched from the window of the carriage, and handed a card to one of the Grooms of the Chamber, who approached to receive it. On the card were the following words :— ‘¢ The Countess d’Umbra presents her respectful homage to the Princess of Wales, and requests the honour of an interview, on matters of vital im- portance.” To the wife of the Regent, and, under ordinary circumstances, such a card as that, and presented at such an hour, would never have reached its destination ; but the circumstances were altogether exceptional, and among the extraordinary persons who found their way to the royal presence there were many as doubtful and mysterious as the Countess d’Umbra. The card was accordingly taken to the Princess, whose curiosity being at once awakened, gave orders for the introduction of the visitor. . The reader will have concluded that this visitor was none other than the Dark Woman, who had determined to have an interview with the Princess, who, in her own mind, she stigmatized as the second and spurious wife of the Regent. The object of the Dark Woman was to ascertain what view the Princess of Wales would take of | Linda de Chevenaux. “Who can this Countess d’Umbra be?” said the Princess Caroline to the young Duchess of Gordon, who was staying with her at Buckingham House. “A shadow, evidently,” said the Duchess, ‘as her name signifies. I dare say it is to ask your Royal Highness’s patronage in some shape or way.” “T will see her. Heaven knows I want friends, and I must not disregard any proffered informa- tion !” A couple of narrow folding-doors were gently opened, and, in alow voice, a servant announced, “The Countess d’Umbra.” The Dark Woman, in all her blaze of magnifi- cence, and with her own natural hair, which had not been permitted to appear since she had enacted the character of the fashionable Countess de Launy, entered the apartment with a respectful curtsey to the Princess. ; There was always something sufficiently re- markable about the countenance of Linda de Chevenaux to fix the regards of those who first saw her, ; The contrast between her profusion of fair silken hair and her eyes, which were decidedly dark, im- parted an expression to her, which attracted curiosity as often as it did admiration. The Princess made a courteous salutation, and the Dark Woman commenced the conversation in her gentlest accents. ‘This would be an intrusion,” she said; ‘* but I have that to say, which it is proper your High- ness should hear, whether it move you to pity or disdain. The communication, too, is of so private a nature that, if I were not fearful of offending this lady who is with you, I would fain ask that it should be breathed to your ears alone!” This was far too direct a hint for the Duchess of Gordon to disregard. She rose at once. “‘T will leave your Royal Highness.” The Princess of Wales looked irresolute; but curiosity was a foible of her nature, as she gave the Duchess a look as much as to say that she could easily reward her for her complaisance by making her a confidante on another occasion, The Duchess gracefully retired. The Dark Woman, for the first time in her life, was alone with the Princess of Wales. ‘‘ Madam,” she said, ‘ you have a daughter.” At this extraordinary introduction to the com- munication, whatever it might be, the Princess sighed. “Alas!” she said, “I have a daughter; but I fear that her mother’s enemies have entire posses- sion of her mind! Is it of her you come to speak ?” ; ‘“‘ Not directly ; only the words came to my lips, because I come to tell you the story of one whose first words to me were ‘I have a son!’” “Indeed!” “Yes, madam; and as your heart is never free from anxieties, and hopes, and wishes, and fears concerning that daughter, you will feel some sympathy for another mother whose heart is equally possessed by the image of her son.” “TY really do not understand you,” said the Princess. “T will speak plainer. Regent.” ‘Most certainly.” ‘“‘ Would it surprise you, madam, to hear that the Regent had been married previous to your nuptials ?” 7 “IT should say it was impossible.” ** And why impossible, madam ?” ‘‘ Because persons of such rank cannot be mar- ried without so much publicity, that I should hardly have had to wait for a communication of the fact from the Countess d’Umbra!” The Dark Woman looked her surprise, for she found more acuteness in the Princess of Wales than she had expected. ‘‘But, madam,” she said, “if that marriage were strictly private?” ‘Then, I apprehend, it will be cf no account.” ‘“‘That depends on circumstances.” You are the wife of the / TO ee ee ——. A cold look came over the face of the Princess, and she said, somewhat tartly, ‘‘Countess, has the Regent sent you to alarm me by such a tale as this?” ‘On the contrary, the Regent has several times sought to take the life of the person most inte- rested in telling the tale.” “Then you came——” * As a friend !” “To whom ?” “To you, madam, because you have been de- ceived, and to the first wife of the Regent, be- cause a more cruelly persecuted woman never breathed the breath of life.” “Then, you say, she lives ?” ‘* She does.” “ But you know there is a law, quite recent in this country, which requires the royal assent to marriages of the royal family, without which they are not legal, and that was in consequence of a mesalliance of the Duke of Cumberland.” “The royal assent was given.” “ You surprise me.” “And yet, madam, it is necessary that this communication should be made to you. The validity of your union with the Prince of Wales stands at issue with this first marriage.” _ “ Yes, if true!” ‘“‘ Tt will be proved.” “ And till then———” said the Princess of Wales, rising. ‘‘Till then,” said the Dark flashing, ‘‘ you dispute it ?” *‘ Should I not be mad to do otherwise, Countess d’Umbra?” “The question!” cried the Dark Woman, as she struck her hand forcibly upon the table before the Princess—“‘ the question, madam !” ‘‘ Countess, you are rude!” “No, I do not mean to be so, but I am earnest. We are two women, talking upon a sub- ject of such vitality that forms and ceremonies, and modulations and inflexions of voice, sink into insignificance. Tell me, madam, what view would you take of this affair if this first marriage I speak of were proved beyond a doubt?” “T do not think myself called upon to answer that question.” “Then I will answer it for you.” “6 Indeed, Countess!” “Yes. Ican see the answer in your eyes—I can read it in your voice. You will make common cause with the betrayer, and Linda de Chevenaux might shriek in vain for justice and sympathy from Caroline of Wales! Madam, we meet no more at present, but you will hear much of one who has a prior title to the diadem which soon should rest upon the brow of the Regent’s wife. You might have made a friend—you have made a foe. Cold, passionless——” The Dark Woman paused, for she heard a slight noise in an adjoining chamber. A faint tinge of colour came over the face of the Princess of Wales. “‘ Countess,” she said, “I bid you good even- ing, and shall not trouble you to visit Buckingham House again !” A scornful smile played about the lips of the Dark Woman, and she turned to leave the apart- ment. The folding doors by which she had entered Woman, her eyes THE DARK WOMAN, 317 were exactly behind her, but at her right hand was a door with plate glass in its panels. The Princess of Wales uttered a sharp expos- tulation as the Dark Woman, either designedly or accidentally, laid her hand upon the handle of this door. But the expostulation came too late. The door was flung open. A tall man, with very dark hair and moustache, and so remarkable a fresh colour upon his faca that it could only be the product of art, stood with a bewildered look just within the doorway. “ Ah!” cried the Dark Woman; “I have had the unexpected honour of an interview with the Signor Berghami!” “No!” cried the Princess of Wales. but if so tora The man with the fresh colour and moustache muttered some words in German. “Tt is necessary,” said the Princess, ‘ that I should be enabled to confute the scandal of my enemies by witnesses in my behalf.” The Dark Woman turned and looked the Princess full in the eyes. “The Prince Regent,” she said, ‘‘has two wives —one whom he has long repudiated, and tried to hunt to death, because satiety opened his eyes to a mesalliance of which he was sufiiciently warned to avoid it; the other places her head upon the block if it should please him to raise the axe.” “‘Insolent!” cried the Princess; ‘‘ your bravado shall not sustain you! I will have you ar- rested !” *¢'You dare not !” Berghami spoke a few words more in German. The Dark Woman smiled scornfully, and left the apartment. In two minutes more the magnificent carriage was rolling out of the quadrangle of Buckingham House. The face of the Dark Woman was a map of evil passions. “* Be it so,” she said—" be itso! Let it be war! I set my life upon the issue! I have discovered him, my own aon! A prince, although he knows it not! To-morrow I shall see him, and he shall know all! I will trouble this realm with the story of my wrongs, and Europe shall yet ring with the name of Linda de Chevenaux!” But the excitement wore away, and the Dark Woman leant her head upon her hands and sobbed. It was so strange to her that she had now abundance of tears, which seemed to have started into existence from the moment that she had discovered in Allan Fearon her long lost son. But those tears had subsided by the time she had reached Frith Street; and when there, and the carriage dismissed, she held a consultation with Binks. “I can trust you,” she said; ‘although you are not quite fit for the mission on which I am about to send you.” “* All right,” said Binks; ‘I'll do it!” “There are bank notes for a thousand pounds, By the earliest hour in the morning at which business commences in London, you will go to St. James’s Street, where you will find a land and estate agent of the name of Wright.” “TI know it!” growled Binks. ‘Shall I knock him on the head ?” | Sama mm ca er ne SR ee ne Sesegeead eeiiacianisctiee a = - tre | 318 “No, no! You mistake me. You must go on a mission of peace. You must be civil, courteous, and obliging!” f “Ehe” said Binks, with a vacant look. ‘‘ Well, weil, those terms are not very clear to you; but understand my orders, and you will be able to obey them, for you carry with you the talisman that opens ali hearts.” “Eh?” said Binks again, ‘ The what, mum ?” ‘Money! Everybody understands money !” _ “T believe you, they do!” “Then take this thousand pounds, and this paper, on which is written what I will read to you now.” “All right, my lady!” said Binks. ‘“‘ Reading wasn’t a part of my edication: it would have took me away from family affairs, such as cracking cribs, and them sort of capers !” “Peace! Listen to me!” The Dark Woman read to Binks slowly what was on the paper :— “The Countess d’Umbra, an Italian lady, pur- poses settling for a time in London; and. she places in Mr. Wright's hands a thousand pounds, requiring by twelve o'clock this day a handsomely furnished house fit for alady of quality. A small but complete retinue of servants, in dark crim son ligery. Mr. Wright will see the lady, who will call upon bim at one o'clock, expecting everything to be in readiness.’’ Binks understood perfectly, when this paper was read to him, what his imperious mistress desired. It is evident that the Dark Woman had arrived -at this epoch in her history, that she intended again to make her appearance in the fashionable world of London. She was yet in possession of enormous wealth, which, in truth, had belonged to those brigands of the City, of whom she had been the mistress for so long. Every act of her career had been subservient to the one great object of discovering her son; and now that she had so discovered him in the obscure Allan Fearon, she had no wish that he should discover in her the celebrated Dark Woman of ominous reputation. To him she wished to blaze forth as a meteor of quite another description. Hence was it that she determined again to emerge from the obscurity in which she had been living in the astrologer’s house in Frith Street; and well she knew that in London, with gold any-~ thing could be accomplished, and in any period of time. She had no doubt whatever but that, by one o'clock the next day, she would be settled in a new and magnificent home in London. It was to that home she wished to welcome Allan Fearon, or THE DARK WOMAN, red Martlett’s Court, on the Tuesday morning after _ that exciting scene in front of Newgate, when he ought, according to the calculations of Sir Hinck- ton Moys, to have been for twenty-four hours numbered with the dead. To be sure, to all appearance, Allan was desti- tute; for after what had occurred, he could hardly dare to think of making his appearance again at Mr. Webber's, the lace-merchant. The anxieties and excitements which Marian had gone through, had had the effect of nearly. putting a stop to her ordinary industry, so that two more loving and apparently helpless hearts than those of Allan Fearon and his young wife could scarcely have been found in all London. And did they despair? Ah, no! Youth is the season of hope. The world before them seemed but as an untrodden garden, in which they might wander hand in hand, to enjoy the delights which bountiful Nature would present to them. How few would be their wants—how little would satisfy them! Some humble home, with but the ordinary necessaries of life, would be to. them a world of weath. ‘The artificialities of existence they neither sought for nor envied, and little did Allan Fearon dream that one busy brain was plotting to place him on a throne. “ We shall be very happy, Marian,” said Allan, “ but not in this place. ‘There are painful recol- lections attached to these rooms, and I would fain remove from them.” ‘* And I too,” replied Marian; ‘for after all that you have told me, I cannot forget you have a fearful foe in Sir Hinckton Moys, and I would fain disarm him of his power to ivjure you, by baffling his knowledge of where to fiad you.” “ Be it so, Marian. We will remove; but you will recollect, from what I have informed yon, that I have to fulfil the promise I made to that singular person who brought the Regent’s pardon so opportunely to Newgate. I have to call upon her to-day, at a house in Frith Street, Soho.” “IT tremble when I think of her, Allan.” “ She is a being of mystery ; and there were many in the crowd who called her the ‘Dark Woman.’ Our friend, Jack Singleton, too, seems to know her by that name; but still, beshe whom she may, she is entitled to my gratitude, and I must not be slow in obeying her wish to call upon her.” “ Go to her, Allan, and say all that you would say to one who has stirred in the preservation of your life. There is another, too, whom I would fain thank, although it breaks my heart to see her.” ‘“¢ Your sister Annie ?” ‘Yes, Allan. With all her faults, and with all her failings, Annie was most solicifous to save you; and it must be to her we at length owe the Regent’s pardon.” “ A strange perversion of terms, Marian, to pardon a man for an act he aever committed !” ‘‘T am happy—far too happy to quarrel with -| the mere words which haye restored you to me. CHAPTER LXXXII. ALLAN FEARON KEEPS HIS APPOINTMENT AT ASTORATHS HOUSE, Ir was a very happy breakfast indeed that Allan and Marian partook of, in that humble attic in Oh, Allan! how can I deseribe to you the agony of that fearful hour between seven and eight, yes- | terday morning ?” ‘““ Let it pass away, like the remembrance of a dream,” said Allan. ‘I am anxious to pay this visit at Frith Street, in order that I may return to you more quickly; and, in truth, I hope the THA DARK WOMAN. a I a i ma nt a ee a a acne A ER A day will yet come when I shall meet this Sir Hinckton Moys face to face and foot to foot.” “ Speak not thus—oh, speak not thus, Allan! Leave revenge to heaven! In truth, we have many other things to think of. Remember that we have to commence a struggle.” “A struggle, Marian 2” “Yes, Allan, for life—with the cold, hard world about us. We are neither of us favourites of fortune. Shall we see, my Allan, what our riches amount to on this Tuesday morning ?” Allan smiled faintly. The riches, as Marian called them, were summed up, and asum of seventeen shillings, with some few battered half-pence, made up the worldly sub- stance of those young hearts, now that they were united, after the world of suffering they had en- dured. The few articles of scanty furniture in the attics certainly belonged to Marian, but they were neces- sary to their existence, let them reside where they might. “* How poor we are!” said Allan. “ And yet how rich !” said Marian. They smiled at each other. How could they want while they had youth and health ? , The future presented not itself to them as a vexed sea of troubles, but as some mine, from which, by honest labour, they were to dig the rich ore of competence. It was eleven o'clock when Allan Fearon started to keep his appointment with the Dark Woman. She had given him no number to the house in Soho, but she had named it as that of Astorath the astrologer, and he doubted not but that he would be easily directed to it. There was a springy, balmy brightness in the air; and, full of joy and hope, Allan made his way on this errand of gratitude, with the fall intention of just saying what his heart dictated, and of then returning, to commence the battle of life with Marian by his side. Frith Street, Soho, is but a gloomy place; the houses are tall, and the way narrow. The bright sun must climb high in the heavens before it can peep down on tothe dull pavement and uneven roadway. But on this morning the melancholy thoroughfare seemed to be frighted from its pro- priety, by the appearance in it of an equipage, which seemed in itself to bring all the concentrated gaieties and glories of the Court into that gloomy thoroughfare. A splendid carriage, drawn by two magnificent grey horses, the caparisons of which were heavy with silver ornamentation, had dashed into the street at eleven o'clock, halting so suddenly at the door of Astorath’s house a3 almost to bring the high-mettled steeds upon their haunches. Two footmen, in dark crimson livery, occupied the perch behind. The coachman, with his fall wig, gold-laced hat, and crimson overcoat, looked like a Lord Chancellor in the eyes of the inhabitants of Frith Street. The two footmen alighted from behind the catriage, and were gazing about with restless eyes to find some knocker on the door of Astorath’s house, on which to execute one of those tremendous peals so much the delight of the fraternity, But the door was flung open, and from the dark re and gloomy passage emerged the young girl who played the part of a page in the establishment of the Dark Woman. ** fer ladyship the Countess d’Umbra will be here immediately,” said the page, who was so gorgeously attired in a semi-oriental costume, that the fooctmen involuntarily touched their hats. Then there issued from the astrologer’s house a lady in a rich morning dress of figured taffetas, Dark brown hair passed across her forehead in plain bands; and it would have been impossible for any one to recognise in this quiet, graceful- looking female, either the brilliantly beautiful Countess de Launy, who had been once such a star of the fashionable world, or the Dark Woman, whose unenviable reputation had been the town’s talk. The disguise was perfect, Once more Linda de Chevenaux emerged from her retirement, to amaze and mystify London society, as the Countess d’Umbra. She stepped into the carriage. The two footmen held the door obsequiously, and both inclined their heads forward to listen to the commands of their new mistress, whom they looked upon for the first time. “JT wait here,” she said, “for the Chevalier d’Umbra, who will soon appear.” The Dark Woman sunk slowly back in the carriage, looking calm, lady-like, and patient, and yet with a certain touch of imperiousness about her, which made the footmen feel that they had in reality a mistress. The page had stepped into the carriage likewise, on a sign from the Dark Woman to do so; and then she spoke to the young girl in a low, earnest voice, which could reach no other ears than those to whom it was addressed. “You will have a new name now, and it shall be Carlos, You sse, lam going into the world again. Ge faithful to me as you have been, and you will not find the Countess d’Umbra a worse mistress than Lady de Launy.” “Tam your servant ever,” said the young girl gently. “And my friend,” said the Dark Woman. “You are my friend, madam.” “J will be, for you are faithful, and love me!” * Ah, lady! Who have I to love but you? I am alone—aione !” The young girl made a movement as if to clasp her hands over her eyes, but the Dark Woman prevented her, and spoke with more emotion than the page had ever seen her exhibit. “Do not, do not !” she said, I pray you do not give me the impulse of tears ! My heart is full, and it would fain unburden itself; but I must not weep yet. I wait here for one who I hope and trust will be for ever with me. He will be called the Chevalier d'Umbra; and, for my sake, you will look upon him as my second self. It is time—time that he should come. Oh, that I could still this beating of the heart!” “Madam, you are ill!” “No, no! If this were grief, it might kill me; but joy startles the spirits and quickens life’s cur- rent. It may be painful for a time, but it is the ecstacy of a new existence!” “J do not understand you, madam.” “No, you cannot—you cannot! Who can understand me? What havel planned, plotted, 319 A A A A NN NN } ' o-oo + THE DARK WOMAN. dreamt of, prayed for, but this morning? And now the perturbation of my heart tells me I am human!” The Dark Woman pressed her hands upon her breast, and sighed deeply. “Look, Carlos!” she said. ‘‘Look! Glance from the carriage window! You may do so, though I may not! Let your young eyes search the street, and tell me whom you see!” ‘No one,” said the page. “No one yet?” gasped the Dark Woman. * Look again !” “T am looking, dear madam.” ‘* No one, still ?” “Not a soul!” “He will come—he must come! I feel his presence! There is a something in the air! A thousand subtle spirits hover round my _ heart to tell me he is coming! Look—oh, look again!” ‘There is a man !” The Dark Woman uttered a stifled cry. ‘* Hush!” she cried; and it was herself that she admonished. “There is aman,” added the page: ‘he seems uncertain where to go.” “He is young ?” “Oh, yes, lady—he is young.” “Noble as a king, and graceful as Apollo? He spurns the earth, and looks with lustrous eyes to heaven ?” “ He is young and—and—handsome!” The Dark Woman drew her breath with diffi- culty. ‘tHe looks at every door,” added the page, ‘‘and lingers on his way.” “Tis he!—'tis he!” ‘The gentleman you spoke of, lady ?” The Dark Woman for a moment could only make a gesture of assent, and then, by a violent effort, she recovered some composure. “Beckon him hither,” she said. Chevalier d’U mbra.” “Tt is the “Sir—sir!” cried the page, leaning from the carriage. ‘* This way, sir, if it please you!” Allan Fearon, light of step, was by the carriage door in a moment. The Dark Woman’s hands were clasped so tightly together that they looked as rigid as a statue’s. She had shaken down before her face a deep lace veil, and now she spoke from behind it, enunciating her words with difficulty, for each one consumed a whole breath in the utterance. “Sir, you come here to Astorath’s house, on an errand of gratitude. You will step into this car- riage, and I will convey you to her who is en- titled to your thanks for delivering you from your great danger of yesterday.” “Those thanks, madam,” said Allan, ‘lie so uppermost in my heart, that I would fain be re- lieved of them. My gratitude will ever remain.” ‘‘Yes; that is well. You will come?” Allan stepped into the carriage. The door was closed by the footmen. “Home!” she said; and the vehicle dashed down Frith Street at a rapid pace. The Dark Woman lost the mastery of herself for a moment. She uttered one sob, and made a motion as though to clasp Allan by the hands; and then, as if repenting, she touched him lightly on the breast, and, after a faint cry, she burst into a passion of tears. ae ee RN RET Ge eR Allan was astonished and alarmed. ‘‘ Whence this grief, dear madam ?” he said. “‘Ts there aught that I can say or do to calm it ?” ‘No, no, it will calm itself. The human heart has its own storms, which pass like a summer's cloud, and leave serenity behind. I shall be happier.” The young girl who played the part of the page, looked wistfully at Fearon. She knew not the mystery of all these proceedings, but even her young spirit could not but see some tragedy of the affections was enacting. The carriage took its way to the West End of London, and before Allan Fearon could make up his mind in regard to what he should do or say— for he feared a protracted absence from Marian— the vehicle drew up at a house in Hanover Square. The moment it did so, the hall doors were flung open, and several servants in the dark crimson livery presented themselves. The thousand pounds of Linda de Chevenaux were doing their work. Another and another thousand might soon be demanded, but she cared not how prodigal was her expenditure, now that she had accomplished the first wish of her heart. She had found her son! Her son, and the son of the Regent — the Prince, in her estimation ! And was he not all that her most liberal fancy would have suggested ? Young, handsome, noble, and ingenuous—a sparkling frankness of manner that carried with it an irresistible charm;—ah! could Linda de Chevenaux ever have supposed that the sunshine of joy which now shone into her sad heart would ever warm its pulses. ‘We are at home,” she said gently. Allan made a half bow. She seemed to wish to hold him by the arm, lest he should fly from her. Her eyes were greedy of his presence. Was he not life, hope, joy, all the world to her? Allan alighted first. The Dark Woman leant upon his arm as she stepped from the carriage—the arm of her own son —that son who, as far as she was concerned, seemed to have started, even as he was, on to the surface of the bright earth to bless her by his presence. She clung to him. She could not Jet him go now. He felt her hand tremble as it rested upon his arm. A strange mystery seemed to be thickening around him, and his thoughts flew back with a yearning earnestness to that humble attic in Martlett’s Court, where his Marian was awaiting him. The:house in Hanover Square was magnificent. Gilding, mirrors, choice statuary, paintings, and natural floral decorations, made up a maze of images before the eyes of Allan Fearon, none of which he stopped to particularise, as a servant in a plain suit of black preceded him and the Dark Woman to a handsome apartment where breakfast was laid with prodigal magnificence. The door closed upon them. The Dark Woman raised her veil, and taking from her head her bonnet, Allan for the first time saw those features and those eyes which gazed upon him with such unutterable affection. The eyelashes were heavy with tears, and there | were traces of them upon her cheeks. There was THE DARK WOMAN, 821 Laat AN NAIA 1 \ lit nt) } \ NRTA oF \ Wt \ i} H IN \) Whi As ) ah \ a quivering agitation about her lips, and more than once she tried to speak, but her voice died away in indistinct murmurs. ‘‘ Madam, you are agitated,” said Allan; ‘and I® am impelled to believe that it is from some kind offices of yours I owe my rescue of yesterday from the most terrible of deaths.” ‘¢ Yes!” she half shrieked, “it was I who saved you! Would I abandon that privilege to any human being? Yes, it was I who saved you!” ‘“‘My heartfelt thanks—my gratitude!” “ Cold—cold; ob, all too cold!” “Madam !” “You thank me. You speak calmly. There is no emotion in your words. You look upon me as you would look upon a picture.” Allan was at once puzzled ané confounded. He knew not what to say. A terrible suspicion came across him that something more than grati- tude was asked of him by this still young and No. 41.—Darx Woman. ere en eo handsome woman who had brought him to t..-. magnificent abode. Her tears—her agitation—her tremblings—her gaspings for speech—and the bright sparkling flashes that came from her eyes, all pointed to that conclusion. How devoutly Allan wished himself in the poor atiic in Martlett’s Court ! ‘*You have not breakfasted?” said the Dark Woman, faintly. ‘In truth, I have, madam.” “T have not.” Allan felt so evidently that he was called upon to help the unknown and agitated lady to some of the costly viands upon the table, that he accepted the condition at once, The rich aroma of some exquisite coffee quickly pervaded the apartment, and he was compelled to sit down still in the full gaze of one whose com- panionship was a perplexity and an alarm. oe ‘signs of impatience, §22 ~ THE DARK’ WOMAN. The Dark Woman, then, fixing her eyes upon his face, commenced speaking in low, tremulous tones, which, however, gathered strength as she proceeded. * You will be surprised, Mr. Allan Fearon,” she said, “to hear from me that I have brought you here to ask your opinion of a romance.” “A romance, madam ?” “t Ay, sir, the romance of a life. It is known but to few; yet, strange to say, all take different views of its subject matter. In some it only awakens the most evil of human passions; and they would heap further indignity upon the help- less, and further suffering upon the innocent.” “J fear, madam, that I shall be but an in- different judge of your romance.” ** Nay, not so; for you will have sympathies with its characters and incidents.” Allan bowed slightly. A clock of Sevres china and gilding struck the hour of twelve. “If you will permit me, madam,” said Allan, ‘to return again oa some more favourable oppor- tunity ‘‘And is it possible you would leave me? Have you met with so much human sympathy, that when you see it in my eyes, and hear it in my voice, you would disregard it ?” “Really, madam, 1 cannot take upon myself to say that I comprehend you.” ““You will know me better when Fhaye told you the plot of the romance; and you must not think of stirring frem me until you know it. It was. but awhile ago you spoke of eternal gratitude. Can you not bear with the capricious garrulity of a woman who would wish to gather from your young, fresh mind your opinion of an Eastern tale?” “Madam, I blame myself much for exhibiting Believe me, I am grateful, and will wait your pleasure.” cme CHAPTER LXXXIII BHOWS HOW THE DARK WOMAN TRIES TO MAKE ALLAN FEARON FALSE TO HIS BEST AFFECTIONS. ALLAN FEARON might blame himself, or not, for exhibiting signs of impatience, but yet it was out. of his power to control them. The hour at which Marian—his own dear, blessed Marian—would expect his return, had al- ready passed away. Would she not be a prey to a thousand fears and anxieties on his account? But there was about Allan a natural politeness or kindness of heart, which forbade him to give pain to any human being; so he stayed and listened to the romance which the mysterious lady chose to tell him. After a few moments’ pause, she commenced. ‘There was a King, old and infirm. He had many children, and many subjects;. but his sub- jects revolted from him, and his children, in their pursuit of pleasure, neglected him. He became deranged, and for him the world was no more.” ““That, madam,” said Allan, “has, I fear, been the case with George the Third, of Eng- land,” eee ‘Ay, but this is an Eastern story.” Allan bowed “The old King had one son, who was his here- ditary successor, and he was more neglectful, more dissolute, and more heartless than all the rest. His love of pleasure led him into many scenes of humiliation to one so highly born; and his love of beauty, or what he considered to be beauty, was the destruction of many a pure heart.” “That,” said Allan, ‘somewhat resembles the character of the Regent.” ff Yes; but you forget that this is but a ro- mance.’ ; “ True, madam,” “ And a romance should be a reflex of human nature—a transcript, so to speak, of human feel- ings and human passions.” Allan bowed again. “This Prince,” added the Dark Woman, “ cast his eyes upon a very young girl, who. was named Linda.” “Not an Eastern name, madam.” “True; but she was Christian—that is to say, until she knew the Prince.” 4 The Seyres clock chimed the half-hour past — twelve. Allan Fearon could not control a deep-drawn sigh. ‘The romance is short,” said the Dark Weman, ‘“‘but the denouement of so startling a character, that you will not wish to be gone when you have heard it.” “Pardon me, madam, that in my opinion I must differ from you.” ‘You shall judge. The Pring became ena- moured of the young girl named Linda, and he Strove, by every art in hi3 power, to win her to his love without making her his wife. But she was firm in her purity; and although it ceuld not - be said she did not love the Prince, she repulsed all his advances, and would not speak to him of love but in connexion with marriage. You under- stand me?” “7 do. I honour the lady!” “ Ah, that is well! I wish you,*from my heart, to honour the lady! The Prince, then, finding all his efforts fruitless, and still unable to conquer his passion, at length proposed marriage. - But there was a law in the kingdom which prohibited the marriage of the Prince, or any of his brothers or sisters, without the consent of the King.” “There is a similar law in England, I believe,” said Allan. “There is. The young girl, Linda, was firm, although her firmness cost her many tears and much unhappiness; but one day. the , Prince brought to her the written consent of the King, his father, to their marriage, coupled, however, by a verbal condition that the marriage should be a private one, and that it should not be de- clared for some tie? ‘Phat was suspicious,” said Allan. “Tt was; but Linda was young, and the Prince had an advocate in her heart, which silenced many scruples. She consented, ‘and the marriage took place.” “Was she happy é et “Yes, for a time.” “The Prince, then, was fickle a ‘Alas! alas! he soon tired of her fond affec- tion. Other beauties won his changeful regard, eee aa THE DARK WOMAN. and the young wife, about to become a mother, was left to desolation and despair.” “Tbe villain !” “Oh, no—no, do not—oh, pray do not!” “Do not call him villain ?” “No, no! A thousand times, no! There isa reason.” “Tf it displease you, madam, that I should call the Prince by such a name, I will not do 80,” “You must hear all. -The young mother was not even permitted to look upon the face of her babe. It was tora from her by the myrmidons of the false Prince—for he had a fear that the in- fant’s wrongs might one day be proclaimed, trumpet-tongued, in his own capital, when per- haps the old King should be no more, and he, the Prince, should be seated on a throne.” “Did he kill the child?” “Qh, no, no! But it was torn from its mother’s eyes, and brought up, or rather aban- doned, to obscurity.” ‘“« And the mother ?” “ Alas for that poor mother! She was con- signed for years to the cell of a madhouse, in order to stifle for ever the story of her wrongs.” “Tt was very base.” “It was—oh, it was! The Prince, then, by the advice and at the instigation of the coun- cillors of his nation, contracted a marriage with the Princess of another State. But he did not love her.” “Then, along with that second marriage, came some retribution for his conduct to Linda,” said Allan. “‘ Tt did—it did. He was unhappy.” * And what is the sequel of all this?” ‘It is brief. The unhappy Linda remained for sixteen long years of hapless agony in her prison- house. Then by a lucky Chance, in consequence of the carelessness of one of her keepers, she es- caped.” ‘* T rejoice to hear it.” : ‘‘ Yes, she escaped, and went out into the world again, but it was to find herself alone. Her father and mother both were dead, and her youth: ful home was a wilderness and aruin. For a time she felt herself more desolate amid the throngs of the world, who knew her not, and who had no sympathies with her, than she had been even in her cell at the madhouse.” “‘ Tt is a pitiable story.” “Tt is, in truth. You do pity this poor, be- trayed Linda?” “ With all my heart I do!” For a moment, now, the Dark Woman paused, for she felt that she could not command her voice until she had obtained a new mastery oyer her feelings. It was but for a few brief seconds, though, that the tears welled up from her heart, -and choked her utterance. She then continued. “ Linda was without a home—without friends —without means even of subsistence; and can you wonder, then, that rendered all but desperate by her wrongs, she should for a time associate herself with men who set human laws at defiance, and through whose help she found the means of carrying out the one wish and hope for which sho lived ?” Allan was silent. \ 823 “* You think,” added the Dark Woman, ‘ that she ought to have fallen, faint with hunger, in the public streets, or have once more surrendered her- self to her enemies, that they might consummate their vengeance by her death ?” ‘t No—oh, no!” * Then—then you do not think that she was wholly without excuse ?” Ay “*T cannot think so. There may be circum- stances in which society so casts off one of its members, that resistance in any shape becomes a virtue.” : “ Ah, I thank you for those words!” “ You, madam ?” * Yes, for my romance.” ** Ay, for the romance.” “ But are you interested ?” “JT know not how or why it is, but a strange interest in the story you have told has grown over me.” The Dark Woman uttered an exclamation of joy. “Then you would. gladly know if this poor Linda found her child ?” tr “¢ In truth, I would.” “It was the effort of her life to doso. She sought an interview with the Prince who had be- trayed her; but he, although terrified at her threats, would not aid her by the information she sought of him. He would not, or he could not, tell her of her child; and more than once he made ,an effort to quench,in death, the claims and the persevutions of the poor heart that he had wrecked. At length, one of the courtiers about the Palace had a revenge to gratify, and he sold to Linda the information she required, for her help in that revenge.” “‘ Had she sunk so low ?” said Allan. “ Sunk? «Low ?” “Yes. Did she dream that information or success so procured would bring heaven’s blessing with it?” ‘‘ The revenge failed, but the courtier could not withdraw the information he had given.” “« And she found her child?” ‘“‘ She did. She found her son.” “Tn the romance ?” “‘In the romance.” . ‘‘And then the story ended?” said Allan, rising. “No, no! Not quite, In her son she found all the qualities that she could love. In him she saw not only the rightful Prince of the nation, inasmuch as he was the son of the son of the King, but the prince of her best affections. She had lived but for him, and she was ever ready to die for him! He had been cast upon the charity of the, world, a nameless, homeless infant, and yet the son of Linda and the Prince; and when his mother, through great suffering and much danger, was at last so blessed by heaven that she was permitted to look into his eyes, she felt that but for his sake and his future fortunes, she had no other favour to ask but death, amid that glow of happiness.” ‘And then ?” “Then she prosecuted the claim that her Prince had to royal descent, and a nation rang with the story of her wrongs, until the cry for justice penetrated to the inmost recesses of the Court,” “ Was justice done 2?” ~ $$ rr TE * 324 think you of it?” “Tt is a strange tale.” “Does it sound like truth ?” “Strangely so.” — the story of her life ?” ** Ah, he should love her!” ““Yes—oh, yes!” ‘Honour her!” “‘ Heaven, yes! Y wounded heart!” the tears gushed from her eyes. one! Have you a heart? Does it not cry out aloud to you? Look at me—look into my eyes —look upon these quivering lips and flushed cheeks! See the tears that fall like rain! I who have not wept for solong! My tears, that seemed soul! Allan! Allan! I am Linda!” “ You, madam ?” “‘T am the heroine of the life-romance! Iam the living Linda—the persecuted by the Prince; -and that Prince now, in England, wears the circlet of delegated sovereignty.” “The Regent ?” “ Ay, George, the Regent!” ‘Good heaven !” A cold feeling came over the heart of Allan Fearon. He turned deathly pale. The Dark Woman, with a shriek, darted for- ward, and dropped at his feet. She caught his hands in hers—she covered them with kisses— kisses mingled with tears. ““My son!” she sobbed—“ my son! boy! You are my son!” A gush of emotion prevented Allan from speak- ing for 2 moment or two, but he clasped his arms over the head of the Dark Woman, and found relief in tears. ‘‘ Speak! oh, speak!” she screamed. hear one word from your lips !” Allan’s heart dictated the word. ‘* Mother !—:mother !” The Dark Woman uttered short shrieks of oy. 3 “ Mother! He calls me mother! My own son! I hear his voice, and yet I live! I hear my own child call me mother! Oh, God! for- My own “T must and thanks of the mother’s heart! my son—my own—my beautiful!” She sobbed as if her heart would break. Allan was deeply affected. “And I have found, at last, a mother!” he said gently —“ a dear, dear mother !” “You have—you have, my son!” “Oh, how you must have suffered!” “ Such agonies!” “ Alas! alas! But now ?” ‘*T am too, too happy !” Allan felt bewildered. He had the sort of sensation as if some more than ordinarily vivid dream had possession of his senses—and yet, My boy— / ““T have not yet completed the story. What “Now tell me, what think you I ought to make the conduct of the son, when after so many years he meets his mother, and hears from her “And seek, in the time to come, to pour the sweet balm of comfort and affection upon her The Dark Woman trembled with emotion, and “Allan Fearon—Allan Fearon, they call you by that name, but you shall have a nobler, higher to be for ever quenched in agony and bitterness of give me for all the past, and accept the gratitude | THE DARK WOMAN. surely it must be reality? No dream could pre- sent him with so many congruous images. There was the richly-furnished room; there was the lady who had brought him to that house; and he had heard a tale which was quite consistent with possible truth; and, moreover, it chimed in well with the mystery that had enve- loped his own birth. It was, surely, all real! How-could he doubt it ? “* And so,” he. said, “I am the son of the Prince Regent ?” ‘You are, dear.” * And you?” “T am his wife, although unacknowledged.” ‘* But there is the Princess Caroline of Bruns- wick ?” ‘His second wife—but that marriage is. ‘illegal, myson. J call myself now the Countess d’ Umbra, because I live. under a shadow until I can secure my rights; and I wish to name you the Chevalier d’Umbra, until you are called the Prince George of Wales.” Allan felt stunned and bewildered. ‘‘The Chevalier ad’ Umbra!” he repeated. “Yes, my son. I have ample wealth at com- mand. This house we will ocenpy; and, by de- grees, I propose that we get up a party in the State, who will contest for us our claims,” “Mother !” “My son!” e “You do not know.” OW hate tir as ‘That I am married !” “Tt matters not. Being what you are, your marriage is a nullity!” “Ah!” ““ Because, as one of the royal family, you required what I insisted upon—the consent of the Crown.” Allan’s paleness left him, and a bright tint of colour took its place upon his cheek. “Mother,” he said, ‘‘ were the thrones of Europe consolidated into one vast empire, and . the crown that would enable me to govern them all with despotic power, oflered to my acceptance, on the condition of deserting the fond, true heart that has confided itself to my keeping, I would spurn the glittering bauble.” The Dark Woman recoiled a step. “My son—my son! You know not what you say !” “T do know well, mother.” “A higher destiny awaits you. The. mesal- liance which you have fallen into, before you knew the ‘secret of your birth, must not be thought of seriously.” ‘“ Mother !” “Nay, hear me out. I know well the young person: ‘“‘ My wife, mother!” ‘Poor and obscure, whom you meant to wed.” ‘¢ Whom I have wedded.” ‘But not before the proper authorities.” ‘“‘ Yes—before the highest.” ‘* Indeed !” ; “‘ Before God!” The Dark Woman made a gesture of impatience. She spoke hurriedly. “George, my son, for that shall be your name, a kingdom awaits you. Marian Grey remains as THE DARK WOMAN. Marian Grey. You become a Prince. Her for- tunes shall be well looked after.” “ Her fortunes, mother, are my fortunes.” “* Never !” “Ever |” ‘One moment, my son. Do you know tnat the sister of the person whom you so cling fe is the shameless mistress of the Regent 2” “T do know it.” “ Of your father!” ‘‘My heart bleeds to know it, but I cannot help it. Marian is my wife.” “My son—my son! This obstinacy will ruin all!” She clung to his breast. “Oh, think again—think again! You will stay here with me, and, in the midst of all the refinements and luxuries that wealth can give you, you will forget that ever you cast a pass- ing glance upon the poor work-girl, to whom you gave your name in your poverty and ignorance of who you really were.” ‘‘No, mother, indeed, and in truth, I shall not forget. Marian loved me when I was the homeless orphan child, abandoned of all but heaven, and may heaven now abandon me if I cling not to her.” “You are mad—mad!” “Then heaven preserve me from such society as should pervert my heart to villany.” The Dark Woman flung herself upon a couch, and uttered a cry of despair and anger. She clasped her hands together convulsively, as she said, ‘Oh! canit be that I have only found a son for one short hour, and then to lose him? My heart will break !—my heart will break!” 4 CHAPTER LXXXIV. THE DARK WOMAN CALLS UPON LORD ILCHESTER. ALLAN FEARON was deeply aflected at this scene between himself and that newly found mother whose affection seemed to be an insanity—whose Jong pent-up love a despair. ‘Hear me!” he cried. ‘Oh, hear me, mother, but let it be with your heart more than with your mind! Let the wild dreams of ambition, to compass which you would wreck the best and dearest affec- tions, pass away! Hear me, mother, but hear me with human affections!” “ Lost! lost!” sobbed the Dark Woman. “My life has been a delusion! All is lost !” ‘“ Not so—not so, mother. Oh, how I love to repeat the word—I who never had till now the right or opportunity to say it !” . “And now,” cried the Dark Woman, passion- ately,—“ now that you have the right, you will cast it from you!” “No, no!—a thousand times, no!” “My son—my Prince—once more I speak to you of wealth, of rank, and of power! Cast from you all thoughts and all associations of the lowly condition into which evil fortune flung you, and be yourself.” “T will be myself.” “Ah! you will?” “Tn truth, I will. True—ever true to myself.” “My son!” CoCo eo SS SS ee ‘6 Mother !” 3 “You will stay with me. You will work with me, and for yourself, to accomplish your high destiny. You will let the world know and feel that you are a Prince.” a “T will be true.” The Dark Woman sprung to her feet. There was a something in the tone of Allan that she did not like. She clasped him by the hands. ‘Speak again!” she said. ‘Oh, speak again, or I shall fear that ‘se “You palter with me in a double sense.’ "’ “No, mother. I speak as my heart dictates, and as my reason justifies. Ihave married one who loves me dearly and fondly—one who took me to her heart in my low estate, and heeded not if I were prince or peasant.” The Dark Woman stamped on the floor with impatience. ‘“* And I loved her,” added Allan, “ with all my heart. I love her more than tongue can tell, or any other human soul could credit. She is mine, and Iam hers—for better, for worse—for richer, for poorer; and if I desert that dear love which heaven, in its goodness, has given- me, may heaven ‘“‘No, no!” screamed the Dark Woman. not say the words!” “Desert me,” added Allan solemnly. The Dark Woman dropped his hands, and staggered back with a deep sigh. - “Tt is over !—it is over!” ‘“ What, my mother?” ‘‘ The dream.” “What dream ?” “That my Prince son would wed a Princess.” Allan smiled sadly. The Dark Woman covered her face with her hands, and was profoundly still for more than five minutes. The clock struck two. Allan started. “‘ Mother, I am going home,” he said. “Home? home? This is home.” ‘““No. Ihave a home, poor, and what you no doubt would despise. To that I go; but I would fain think that you would take better counsel of your heart in this matter. You love me—I am sure you love me.” ‘Oh, heaven, yes!” “Then love her, who, from the moment that I looked into her eyes, has been the better part of me.” “ Peace—oh, peace!” “T am going,” said Allan after a pause,—‘'I am going, mother.” He approached her gently, and strove to take her hands from before her face. The hot tears were trickling through her figures, and when he could see her eyes, they weve inflamed with weeping. With a convulsive sob, she clung to him. ‘‘ Allan—no, I will not call you by that plebeian name—George you shall be called, for it is the name of your father. I have thought of— of a plan.” . “A plan?” “Yes, my son. You will listen to me?” “J will,” replied Allan sadly. * You love this young person ?” “My wife!” 3 Do 326 THE DARK WOMANe pA lee RE IRN el a LSA SAR NN ah At RE Ne RAS “ Well, well, you can continue to love her. She can be the—the love; another can be the wife.” ** Mother !” Allan recoiled from the Dark Woman, and a look of despair came over his face. ‘* Mother !” , “ Speak to me, my son.” The look of despair had changed to one of scorn —almost to one of loathing. “Speak to me—oh, speak to me; but do not look at me with that expression.” ‘‘ Mother, if I were so base—so utterly lost to all sense of justice and of honour as you would suppose by such a proposition, I should find but one parallel.” “ Parallel ?” “Yes. In the romance you related to me, when the false Prince “AhI” “Married with the plebeian girl, and then set her aside for fresh nuptials with a Princess. Are the cases not alike, my mother ?” The Dark Woman cast her eyes down to the floor, and looked pale as death. “That,” added Allan, “ was the treatment that the poor betrayed Linda experienced.” She gasped for utterance. ‘“‘ But—but—she—she knew that her suitor was a Prince.” “Is that the sequel, then, of the romance, mother, that the betrayed wife sought at last to excuse the false Prince ?” “No, no!” “Then think again, and believe and know that in being your son, 1 am worthy of the name, because J am no traitor to my affections!” The Dark Woman trembled. ‘‘My son—my dear son! Tell me that you will come to me again! Say that to-day, again, - or to-morrow, I shall see you! Oh, come to me, soon! Let me think over all this! My heart is full of wild and new emotions! My poor brain throbs! My son, say that you will soon come to me again !” “J will.” “This day ?” *‘ To-morrow.” ‘It is long to wait.” ‘**T have one now. at home who thinks it is long te wait—one whose tears are now, perhaps, flow- _ing, in dread cf what detains me.” - *T too, have tears. See, my son; your mother likewise has tears !” “But the tears of that one who awaits me at my home I am especially bound to sympathise with. My wife sheds them!” “Be it so. Let me think! morrow, at the hour of noon.” Allan hesitated for a few moments; and then he said gently, but sadly, ‘* Yes, I will come— once more I will come; and then, mother, you will tell me that you are prepared to receive with affection your son’s wife before I can come again.” “T understand you. You mean that that is to be the condition?” Allan bowed his head. “J will think—I will think, my son.” ‘Then farewell; and may heaven direct you and bless you, mother!” Allan folded her in his arms: The Dark Woman uttered a cry of j joy. -It ~ Come to me to- was such ecstacy to feel that her own long-lost son held her to his heart. Then Allan moved towards the door of the magnificent apartment, but the Dark Woman staid his progress. ““Stay—oh, stay yet a moment! gotten !” She took a pocket-book from her pocket, and handed it to Allan. “* What is it, mother ?” “This small book contains a thousand pounds. A Prince wants money.” The thought of that seventeen shillings which he and Marian had so carefully counted over at the poor house in Martlett’s Court, Bow Street, came at this moment vividly to the mind of Allan Fearon. Here was offered to him a thousand pounds—such a sum as in his dreams he. had never dared to think of possessing. He put aside the hand of the Dark Woman that held the treasure. “No, no! Oh, no!” “No? Why do you say no? You are my son! Itis your mother that offers you assist- ance !” * Yes; but The Dark Woman compressed her lips firmly, and listened to him. ‘“* But if you should still speak of my wife, and think of my wife, as you have done, mother, I shall have still to struggle with the world as best I may.” ** No—oh, no!” “Yes, mother. We shall stand apart, you and I. A dreary sea shall flow between our hearts, and it may not be bridged over with gold!” The pocket- book dropped to the floor. “Take it—oh, take it, my son!” “No! Welcome poverty—welcome want! If calamity will come to me, I will meet it bravely ; but I will not betray, in the smallest sense, the heart that has trusted me! Mother, farewell until to-morrow !” The Dark Woman fell half fainting to the floor. \ The door closed upon the retreating form of Allan Fearon. For more than half an hour any one who could have seen that splendidly attired female lying on the flocr of that magnificent apartment in the house in Hanover Square, would have fancied that death had interrupted the current of some noble and wealthy existence. But she still breathed. Shuddering, and with short, gasping sighs, she | slowly struggled to her feet. “He is gone! He has left me! I am alone again! Alone with my seared heart! Alone! alone !” The Dark Woman staggered, rather than walked, to a couch. She seemed to feel, for a third time, that dread- ful access of weakness and terror which had come over her once in the chamber in which Laura Adams had died, in the house in Frith Street, Soho. Once more, in the bed-room of Annie, Countess de Blonde, at St. James’s Palace. — On the first occasion, it was the assurance that she had wrung the secret of the identity of -her son from the livs of the dying woman. I had for- x THE DARK WOMAN, « On the second occasion, it was when she held in her hand the written authority from the Regent to save that son from the terrible death that awaited him. Now it was after the agitating interview she had had, and which seemed to her disordered imagina- tion as if it at once struck a death-blow to all her plans and projects. But this third occasion was not in truth so agi- tating as the others. Now, the Dark Woman only struggled with an idea. Then it had been with facts. It was her pride, now, that wrung her heart. Then it was her fears. She therefore recovered more quickly, and was sooner able to be mistress of herself. She felt weak and faint, though, as she made _her way to the breakfast-table, and partook list- lessly of some coffee and other refreshments. _ Then there came a light tap at the door of the room, and the page entered. _ & Well, Carlos ?” “ My lady, there is a man desires to see you,” © What name did he ask for ?” “ The Countess d Umbra.” “That is well. You will say that I see no one whom I do not know.” “* His name is Wright, my lady.” “ T do not know him.” ‘I think it is the man who owns this house.” ** Ah, yes! I recollect now. I will see him.” In a few moments, Mr. Wright was in the pre- sence of ‘the best customer he had ever had or heard of. The agent bowed low. ‘’ May I hope, my lady, that everything is to your ladyship’s satisfaction ?” “ Yes, What will it cost to maintain this house, with a proper establishment, per month ?” ** One thousand pounds, my lady, including a suite of carriages.” ‘You will take all trouble off my hands, for that sum ?” With pleasure, my lady !” Come to-me, this evening, at eight o’clock ; and from me, or my page, you will receive six “months in advance!” ‘* Oh, my lady, there is no occasion!” ‘There is. I am a stranger to you, and al- most a stranger in England. My close connexion with the royal family of Portugal is not generally known; and you must be made perfectly sure that you are not in the hands of some scheming adven- turer.” . ** Oh, my lady, I am quite—quite satisfied !” ‘‘ But you shall have the money. Good day, sir!” Mr. Wright bowed himself out; and as he did so, he exclaimed, ‘‘ What a splendid woman of business, to be sure!” The Dark Woman then turned to the page, who had remained in the room. “ Order my carriage,” she said. “ You will say that when I order the carriage, I will always specify which one I want, and that I give one quarter of an hour for it to be ready.” “Yes, my lady.” *t The chariot, at present, I require.” “ Yes, my lady. ? In the quarter of an hour, the handsome town chariot, that Mr. Wright had taken good care should be at the disposal of the Countess d’Umbra, was at the door. c The Dark Woman, with a mantle of sables wrapped about her, stepped into the vehicle. “ Where to, my lady ?” “ Lord Ilchester’s, the Secretary of State.” The two footmen touched their hats, and the cariage rolled@off to the residence of my Lord I- chester, that old acquaintance of the Dark Woman. The Secretary was not at home, He was sup- posed to be at the Home Office. Thither, then, the Dark Woman made her way. He was there. She sent in a card, on which was a foreign cdronet, and the name of ‘ The Countess d’Umbra. fe The Secretary of State, Lord Tchester, was, as the reader is well aware, a gallant man. But it was possible that the unknown Countess d’Umbra might be old and plain. He sent one of his private secretaries to reconnoitre. The report was favourable. ‘¢ A most beautiful woman, my lord, and every- thing about the equipage comme il “faut. ts $ Admit her instantly.” The Dark Woman was conducted to that same - cabinet in which she had already had some interesting interviews with my Lord Ichester. She kept her thick veil over her face until they were quite alone. When the door was closed, Lord Ilchester made a gallant bow. ‘*Madam, I feel much honoured by this call, and am only anxious to know in what way I can oblige you?” “T thank you, my Lord Ilchester.” “Eh? That voice?” “Do you recognise it, my lord ?” “No, not exactly, but there is a tone—a cadence about it, which comes with familiarity upon my ears,” “And yet you do not recognise it ?” ** Good heavens!” © ‘Ah, my lord, you do recognise it !” “T fancy—I—do.” The Dark Woman lifted her veil. ** No, no !” The Dark Woman smiled. “Yes, it is the smile; but the hair, it is not the colour “ Of the Countess de Launy’s; but it suits the Countess d’Umbra to have darker hair than the fair lady who was known to your family. Yet, in order to convince you of my identity, behold, my lord |” The Dark Woman put her hand to her brow, and released a long dazzling curl of the beautiful fair hair which was really her own. “IT am astonished,” said the Secretary. ‘And displeased ?” “Oh, no, no, no! “Go on, my lord.” “ After all that has happened, I hardly expected that I should again have the pleasure—the—the extreme gratification to see you again.’ “T return to my old friends, my lord, But yet——” I come ‘to make a confidence with you.’ age | “T am all attention.” Tn the first place, I have still those letters.” * Ah, those letters!” 327 ~ 328 THE DARK WOMAN. LLL LLL LL LOL ‘Which no eye shall see but mine, unless——” | for his sincerity, in those treasonable letters she “Unless what ?” ‘* Unless you play me false.” “Who? 1?” “Yes, my lord. Be my friend—be truly and sincerely my friend, without reservation or guile, and I will submit to death rather than allow those letters ever to be seen to your detriment.” “‘ Countess, I know not what to say to you. You are coming to some point.” 66 I am.” * T listen.” ‘“‘ When, as Countess de Launy, I was recognised as the Dark Woman, I felt compelled to retire for a time from public life.” “‘ Just so.” “But I do not like solitude, my lord. I have therefore resolved to show myself once more in the great world, and I look to you to make the process, easy.” “To me?” “Even so, my lord. You will have nodifficulty in making the Countess d’Umbra popular.” Lord Ilchester looked confused. ““ What say you, my lord?” ‘‘T know not what to say.” “Then I will tell you.” ‘tT shall be infinitely obliged.” “You will invite me to your house, and you will come to mine. There will be no danger, for I am most effectually disguised. Even you, my lord, with all your good-will and—shall I say it? —affection for me, did not know me.” “Not well.” “And would not at all, if I had cared to dis- guise my voice.” ; ‘‘ Perhaps not.” “Then you will do what I require ?” “Tam afraid you will run into danger, and get me into it likewise; but if you really wish it, I will consent.” “That, then, is settled. You know, my lord, that the Ministry totters?” “No, no!” “Tsay yes! Any scandal about one so high in office as yourself, would pull down the whole administration at once. An impeachment of your- self-——” ‘Impeachment ?” “Yes; if the letters I have possession of are only once placed in the hands of your political foes.” : “ But, Countess, you have no intention of so injuring me?” “Certainly not, so long as your lordship keeps faith with me; but on the first proof of treachery, you are a ruined man.” -“T comprehend.” “T think you do, my lord.” “And, it appears, I must obey _your wishes. When I say that, Countess, you may depend I shall do so, clearly and without evasion. I must accustom myself to your new title of Countess d’'Umbra. To-night there is a reception at my house, on account of the birthday of the Princess Amelia; allow me to beg the acceptance on the part of the Countess of a card.” Lord Ilchester bowed, and there was a sarcastic manner about him, as he handed the card, which the Dark Woman did not like exactly. Well she knew, however, that she had a pledge possessed, which he dared not pretend to look over. “That is well, then,” she said. trude upon you no longer.” She rose to leave him. ‘‘ Ah, Countess,” said the Secretary, ‘‘in what- ever disguise you may choose to appear, and by whatever name you may please to call yourself, you are still beautiful!” . - “ Ah, my Lord Ilchester,” said the Dark Woman, “T will in- “however terrified you may be, and however you - may detest the sight of me, and wish for my de- struction, you are still gallant!” The Dark Woman left the apartment with a mocking bow. Lord Ilchester ground his teeth together. “Confusion seize her!” he said. “I do hate her now as much as I at one time admired her and was fascinated by her! But I admit her abilities, and must not endanger my own safety. ' What a rare secret envoy she would make af some foreign Court! I wish I could get her out of England, but I suppose that is impossible; for I feel convinced she has some intricate schemes on foot, which attract her to the Court of Eng- land. I will try, too, to find out what they are, and see if I cannot achieve a little of the power over her she boasts of possessing over me.” CHAPTER LXXXYV. r DETAILS A STRANGE SCENE WHICH OCCURRED AFTER MIDNIGHT AT ST, JAMESS PALACE. Tue Dark Woman was not at all unmindful of the arrangement she had made with Willes in tegard to that mysterious meeting which was to be arranged between herself and the Princess of Wales. The interview she had already had with that Princess, at Buckingham House, had by no means changed her intentions. Perhaps, if that interview had taken a different complexion, the Dark Woman might have fore- gone the proceeding she had planned along with Willes; but, as it was, she looked upon it but as a second scene in the dramatic terrors with which she wished to surround the Princess of Wales. By one of those great efforts of mind of which- she waz capable, the Dark Woman cast off from her mind, for the present, all consideration regard- ing poor Marian. : She hoped, in her second interview with her son, to be able to achieve greater success than at the first; and now that more calm reason had come back to her, and that the whirl of excite- ment in her mind bad passed away, she began to see that she had given undue importate to the fact of Allan’s marriage. A mysterious note was therefore written to the Princess of Wales, which led her fully to believe that it came from the Prince, her husband; and in it she was told that, if she would be alone at midnight by the garden wall of Carlton — House, she would meet with one who would lead her into the Palace, where, as the note said, ‘‘ an illustrious personage hoped that a private inter- a ee ee a THE DARK. WOMAN. ery nS E) oe) alee mee NS SL x WANA I, VS) a= a Se. ps E (Ct mc Ogee os TRAST] «= Ra ra Ss Sig Uy (TELS TAGS \W\ 330 THE DARK WOMAN. view, without listeners or advisers, would lead to . the re-establishment of a good understanding.” Anxiously and uncomfortably situated as was the Princess of Wales, this note, which was in an accurate handwriting of the Prince, came to her like @ mouthful of air to some drowning wretch. She did not permit herself to doubt its authen- ticity for a single moment, although a better ac- quaintance with the habits and manners of an En- glish Court would have infused many doubts into her mind regarding its genuineness. She could not but feel, likewise, that if she took advice regarding the note, the character of the secret meeting would be entirely destroyed. Hence it was that a little before twelve o'clock on that night, the Princess of Wales left Buck- ingham House by one of its most private means of exit, and with a common grey shawl folded closely about her, made her way under the trees of the Grand Mall of St. James’s Park to Carlton House. About that same moment, Willes, with silent footsteps, and crouching along in the shadow of the bushes, took up his station inside a small door which was in the garden wall, and which it was supposed the Regent alone had a key to. After twelve o'clock all the minor gates of the park were closed, and it was only through the Horse Guards that any one could obtain admit- tance in one direction, and in the other by the entrance close by Buckingham House, from the out-lying district of Pimlico. About one minute, however, before the gate of Spring Gardens was closed, a woman, attired in a cloak, the hood of which was drawn closely over her face, walked hurriedly into the Park, Keeping to the right, she was quickly enveloped in the shadow of the tall trees; and passing the park wall of Marlborough House, she: quickened her pace, as twelve sounded by the Palace clock, and soon reached the door, on the other side of which, Willes, according’ to appointment, was to be in waiting. The park was rather in unusual darkness con- sidering the age of the moon, for some very black clouds from the south-west nad slowly floated up after sunset, and imparted to the sky a murky obscurity, which enveloped all things in a dull, heavy gloom. The Dark Woman, however, had not waited many minutes when she became conscious that some one was walkirg slowly towards her, close to the garden wall. aty This might or might not be the Princess of Wales, and the Dark Woman shrunk back right - into the doorway, while she kept her eyes upon the advancing figure. ~ She could only ascertain if it were the Princess by a question, and that she put in ambiguous language. “The wife of the Regent is abroad to-night?” she said, as the figure passed her. It was the Princess of Wales, and she came to a sudden stop, saying hurriedly, ‘* Were you the person to wait forme, and is it true?” ‘*T am to conduct: a tary of rank to St. James’s Palace.” is “Ah, then you are the person I was to meet. I trust you entirely, and will follow you.” The Dark Woman tapped on one of the panels _of the door, making a sharp sound with a ring she wore. | The door slowly opened, and Willes put his face anxiously forward. “All is well?” said the Dark Woman. “Yes, madam,” replied Willes, and he opened the door wide. + The Dark Woman laid her hand upon the arm of the Princess of Wales, and taking a slight hold of the shawl in which she was enveloped, led her gently forward. Willes closed the door, and they were alone in the garden of Carlton House. “ There is a sentinel,” whispered Willes. “ Ah, that is new,” said the Dark Woman, “Yes, madam, since——” “Since when ?” “Since his Royal Highness the Regent found that the person made her way into the Palace by the garden. And now, madam, no one can pass without a watch-word, which is given each night by the Regent himself, at ten o'clock.” | “What is it?” said the Dark Woman i in alow whisper to Willes. : “Crown!” he replied. “ ‘That is well. Lead on.” “Nay, madam, let me go. If I am seen with you, i am ruined, and shall be no longer of use to you.’ “ 'W hat is all this whispering ?” said the Princess of Wales. ‘You fill me with fears. I hope no wrong or treachery is intended ?” “None whatever,’ said the Dark Woman. “Go!” she then added to Willes; “ but keep on the alert, in case I require your assistance. I am going te the Green Saloon. Take that paper, and do as it directs you.” The Dark Woman put a small piece of paper in the hands of ‘Willes, and then resuming her hold of the shawl which was about the Princess of Wales, she led-her slowly up one of the ‘garden paths, but without any attempt at concealment. “T must confess,” said’ the pring of Piales, “that I am getting ‘distrustfal.” ’ & ‘‘ There is nod cause.” © “Who was the man with whom you held such a whispered conference, and who are you your- self ?” “TJ am a lady, and the man is a man.” * Are you both in confidence with the Hegent 2” “'We should be, madam.” ‘Who goes there ?” cried the sentinel at this moment. “ Friends!” said the Dark Woman. “The pass-word?” — * Crown!” They heard the rattle of the musket, as the sentinel ordered arms, and anh his musket. “ Pass on, ‘Crown!’” The Dask Woman led the Princess of Wales past the soldier, and a dozen more paces brought them to “a low doorway in that wing of the Palace. “‘T have more confidence now in you,” said the Princess; ‘and you must belong to the establish- ment, since you know the pass--word, which satis- fies the sentinel. What ity of the Palace is this ?” “Tt is a wing of Carlton’ House.” There was a slight alteration in the voice of the Princess of Wales, as she eaid, ‘‘ They tell me the Princess Charlotte is residing here at present. Is it so?” THE DARK WOMAN, 331 “Yes, This is the wing which is in the occu- pation of the Princess.” * Ah! Shall I—can I see her?” “It is better not. If affairs can be arranged otherwise, this night. will put an end to many troubles. Follow me, and be content.” ‘T will follow you; and I do hope——Well, I will not say what I hope, for Ihave so many fears as well as hopes.” “Hush! It is impossible to say who may be up and about in Carlton House or St. James's. You are aware that they have been made to com- municate, through a series of apartments closed to all but the Regent ?” “ T have heard so.” “This, then, is the first of them. and fear nothing.” While the Princess of Wales, under the suspi- cious guidance of the Dark Woman, was thus making her way to what she considered would be an interview with her husband, Willes presented a strange spectacle, as he stood by himself in a small room, which was lighted by a hand-lamp which he had brought with him. The valet was trenibling excessively, for he had read some words upon the piece of paper .which had been handed to him by the Dark Woman, which had taken every bit of courage from his heart, and brought on such an accession of fright and alarm, that he was almost too weak to ‘support himself upon his feet. By the light of the little lamp he had with him, he had thrice read the words that were upon the slip of paper, and he was in that room in conse- quence of those words. They were few, and as. follows :— Follow me, * You will go to the Bulk Room, and draw the ceiling-bolts. No one will be hurt.” This room, which was well known to Willes, and probably to two or three more persons in the Palace, as the Bulk Room,—why so named, no one could tell—was immediately beneath the Green Saloon, in which the Dark Woman had expressed her intention of holding the interview with the Princess of Wales. The Bulk Room was twelve feet square exactly, and it wag somewhat below the basement of the Palace. It communicated with one of the outer couris, through a couple of rooms, long since disused ; but the most curious arrangement connected with the Bulk Room was, that its roof consisted entirely of a hinged door, secured by a couple of massive bolts and a spring. When the bolts were fast, it would have required the. most extraordinary force to open this trap from above; and, in fact, it made part and portion of the solid flooring. ‘ If the bolts were withdrawn, the spring had just power sufficient to keep the trap firmly in its place, although a few pounds’ weight above would quickly overcome their resistance. The trap would then fall, and whatever weight was above would be precipitated into the Bulk Room. Now Willes knew all this very well, and it terrified him exceedingly. What could the Dark Woman want by the bolts being withdrawn of the trap, while she was holding an interview above with the Princess of _ Wales? ; Was it possible that she intended to get rid of an obstacle to her own designs and projects, by precipitating the Princess down the trap, to her almost certain destruction ? The cold perspiration stood upon the brow of Willes, as he shuddered at the idea of what might be the result of so murderous an action. And yet, there he was, the bond-slave of the Dark Woman. He had taken her wages; “and she knew things of him, which, if communicated to the Regent, even indirectly, would ensure his GesenneHon: What could he do? There was a small pair of ret in the Bulk Room, by the aid of which the bolts might onely, be reached, Willes read the little note again, and then he ascended the steps. He tried to gather some con- solation from the last few words, and then he drew the bolts. Self-preservation was Willes’s first law of nature, indeed, and he felt he must obey the Dark Woman, let her behests be what they might. The spring did its duty, and the trap remained in its place. Willes thought he heard the murmur of voices above, but that was only fancy, for the floori was much too thick for any such sounds to reach him. , The Green Saloon was rather a peculiar apart- ment. .The floor was of marquetterie, inlaid with curious woods in square panels over its whole extent. In a state of great excitement upon the secrecy and mystery which had characterised the whole proceeding, the Princess of Wales reached this apartment, accompanied by the Dark Woman. There was a tall, panelled door, so accurately concealed in one of the walls, which, when closed, might well escape the observation of any ordinary observer. The Dark Woman had a key which opened this panelled door; but she drew back suddenly, with some appearance of alarm, at seeing that the room was brilliantly illuminated. It was, however, perfectly empty ; although, by some open books which were upon a table, and the position of the chairs, it was evident some persons had recently occupied it. The Dark Woman knew the room well, but she was not aware that the Regent was in the habit of occupying it. The residence, however, of the Countess de Blonde, in St. James's Palace, and of the Princess Charlotte at Carlton House, had necessitated many changes in the domestic arrange- ments of both establishments. It was evident, then, that this Green Saloon had been in the recent occupation, either of the Regent himself, or of some high official of the Palace. The Dark Woman cast an. anxious glance around her, and she moved a chair in such a manner that it -kept open the panel in the wall, so that any one might pass through it with rapidity. The Dark Woman knew well what portion of the flooring formed the ceiling of the Bulk Room beneath. There was a slight variation in the in- laying of the floor, which sufficiently pointed it out to those who knew of its existence; and now, by the brilliant light which pervaded the whole apartment, it was to her eyes perfectly visible, * a being © 332 The probability is, that that trap-door had not been constructed for any sinister purposes. It was, no doubt, an easy meaus by which bulky articles of furniture could be brought in or taken out of the Palace. It had, however, a treacherous aspect, and was sinister enough to those who chose to use it for base purposes. The Princess of Wales looked around her, and sighed deeply. “Once only,” she said, “have I been in this room before; and I regret that the Regent should have chosen’ it for our interview, since it is not the scene of any pleasant remembrances.” The Dark Woman smiled slightly. “This was theroom,” she said, “in which you first saw the Regent.” “It was. You know that ?” “I know much; and now, Princess of Wales, as you call yourself ““AsI call myself? I am, insolent!” “Peace, madam! You come here to see the Regent, and it may be that you will see him; but I, too, have something to say to you, which com- mends itself to your best attention.” “ Indeed !” “Yes. I havé some promises to make to you, which, as surely as to-morrow’s sun will shine, shall be kept. You have many enemies; and at the instigation of the Regent, who hates you ” “Ah! Alas!” ‘Waste not your time in idle lamentation. The Regent seeks from you a divorce, and even now, day by day, the evidences and the witnesses which he thinks would substantiate his case, and enable him to procure one, and loading you with infamy, are collecting in London. You best know, madam, whether those witnesses will be the witnesses of truth, or not. If they are,—and there is good presumption that they are,—one of two courses only are open to'you.” 2 “You terrify me,” ’ **T mean to do so; but, at the same time, I would save you.” ‘Save me from what?” “From contempt—from degradation, perhaps from 0. “What ?—oh, what ?” “The headsman’s axe!” ** Horror !—horror !” “That is the doom of Queens of England who forget their husbands and their faith. The Regent will bring you to trial—you will be condemned— the voice of an indignant people will rise against you. He himself dare not save you; and the long disused axe and block from the Tower will be dragged forth again, to be stained by the blood of a sovereign Princess!” “No, no! I am innocent!—I am innocent!” **Tnnocent ?” “Yes. You cannot pfove me guilty.” “And yet they say there is a man—a man of low and base origin—a very plebeian, vulgar fellow —a fit companion for your grooms and horse boys——” “No, no!” They say this man is even now in London, and that the precious leisure of the Princess of - Wales is wasted on a valet.” “‘Tt is false! He is not.” “Not in London ?” THE DARK WOMAN. “No, I swear it!” . ‘Of whom speak you ?” ‘Of him you mentioned.” ‘‘T named no one. Perhaps conscience framed the sound, and uttered the name of Berghami to your own heart.” The Princess of Wales uttered a faint shriek, and cowered down before the Dark Woman, who, clutching her by the shawl, whispered hurriedly to her, in hissing, earnest accents, ‘The Regent wanted but one piece of evidence to complete his case; and that was, that you had ever seen or spoken to Berghami since you left Dresden.” “ T have not. I know not where he is.” ‘‘ That is false! The piece of evidence is forth- coming. Berghami has been seen at Buckingham House.” ‘* Impossible !” “By the Countess d’Umbra!” “Oh, unhappy wretch that I am, all is Jost!” cried the Princess of Wales, as she sunk to the floor at the feet of the Dark Wonaan. CHAPTER LXXXVI. DETAILS THE PRINCE OF WALESS CONFUSION AND SURPRISE AT HIS STRANGE VISITORS IN SAINT JAMESS PALACE. THE Princess of Wales felt utterly lost and abandoned, as the Dark Woman so cruelly and so artistically painted to her all the terrors of her situation. Everything that had been before vague and un- certain, now took the startling aspect of reality. ‘‘Unhappy me — unhappy me!” she cried. ** What shall I do—what will become of me?” “‘T will tell you,” said the Dark Woman, with an air of pitiless composure. ‘* You have told me. It is trial—condemnation —the axe and the block! But I will fly from all - these terrors, and seek refuge in my own land, where such severe censors of human conduct are scarcely to befound! 1 will fly at once!” “You forget.” “ What do I forget ?” “Did you not come here to see the Regent ?” “T did. But I donot want tosee him. Let him condemn mie, without adding reproaches and bitter words to that conderhnation! I will leave England to-morrow!” “Not so,” said the Dark Woman: “that would be a false step. You would still be condemned in your absence, and your shame would be trumpeted forth in every Court in Europe. It might be that in those Courts such proceedings as are threatened you in England would never have been taken; but when once instituted by the Regent of Eug- land, they could not be overlooked. Be content that flight would not save you.” “What will save me? ‘You speak as one as- sured upon your subject, and with ample infor- mation !” ‘‘T have painted to your imagination one picture. Do you forget that I told you there was another alternative ?” “Ah, no, no! so!” Listen!” You look hopeful, and I feel ee SE ELISE SES EER Sb aE Ba ek ee a ee THE DARK WOMAN. “ With all my heart and mind!” “You have a rare opportunity of turning the tide of popular and legal accusation against the Regent. He wou'd destroy you; but you havea power which you can wield to his destruction, if you but take the initiative Do you understand me?” “ But slightly.” “T mean if you will be the accuser—if you will .put him upon a moral trial, before he can arrange his evidences against you. All that he can say or do will then be set down to anger and rage, and the desire to damage his accuser.” “ Have I such power? What can I do ?” “ How strangely you forget! You have hada visitor lately, whose name has already been mentioned between us.” ‘“‘ Yes!” cried the Princess of Wales, clasping her hands. “I had a visitor; and I remember now, that if I thought proper to believe her words, I could make an accusation against the Regent; but alas! it would be self-destructive!” ‘Tt would save you.” ‘Save me, by proclaiming another as the real wife of the Prince? Save me, to set up a legal claimant to his name and title? Say rather that it would leave me nameless and hopeless !” “Yes; but with sympathy, instead of execra- tion; with life, instead of a terrible death; a fair name, instead of the derision of half a world; and you would likewise gain that which should be dearer to you than this name of Princess of Wales, which has been but a delusion and a shadow!” “What should I gain?” ** Revenge! “ Revenge against the Regent—against the man who has injured you as much as man can do! What are you, let me ask you? Have you no feeling—no passions?—are you more or less than woman? JI tell you that, here in this very Palace, beneath the roof which now covers us—al- most within sound of the murmured echo of our voices, resides one upon whom is lavished all the affection and tenderness that belong to you. A fair-haired girl, with the mind and manners of a peasant, but living in the regal state of a queen, mocks you by her luxury and hold of the fickle Regent’s heart, and triumphs over your despair !” ‘¢ Oh, no, no!” * Yes, I say! Are you a thing so base and mean, that your blood stirs not in your inmost heart at these tidings? Will you quietly wait, half a State prisoner, and wholly the neglected wife, to whom is preferred the butterfly minion of an hour, until the plans for your destruction are all matured, and you are led to death ?” ‘““ No, no! He dare not kill me!” “ Worse—left to scorn!” The countenance of the Princess of Wales underwent a remarkable change; but a latent fire seemed to flash from her eyes. Her breast rose and fell in an agitated fashion. -“T have heard,” she said, “ that revenge is costly, and there may be bitter drops at the bottom of the cup.” ‘© Yes,” interrupted the Dark Woman; “ but the first deep draught is one of maddening delight. You may suffer by depriving yourself of the title of Princess of Wales; but you will brand with infamy, George, the Regent of England, wherever a knowledge of his existence has penetrated.” 2S eee aye husband of Linda de Chevenaux. ‘* And my daughter ?” “ What daughter ?” The Princess of Wales looked with a surprised air into the face of the Dark Woman. “‘ My daughter, the Princess Charlotte.” “Tory you mercy! Thereis a young lady who goes by that name, but I was not aware that she accorded to you the duty or affection of a child. I have heard of such a person, as treating you with contempt and indignity ; as never even cross- ing the threshold of your home, but with the full knowledge of all that an iniquitous father is about to do or dare against you; residing with him, and being cognizant, bit by bit, of the fabric of accusation which is being raised to crush her mother. Is that your daughter ?” ‘Spare me—oh, spare me!” “Ts that the child for whose sake you would pause ?” | “ No, no!” ‘*T3 that the dutiful and affectionate being who has made an unholy compact with the Regent, that he may lead you to the scaffold, provided he no longer opposes her union with the penniless adventurer who has attracted her passionate eyes and wandering fancy ?” ‘JT will crush them all!” cried the Princess, vehemently. ‘‘ Tell me how to do this thiug, and it shall be done! I will turn upon them, and sting, and sting !” “You are right. The Countess d’U nbra told you truly. The Princess Linda of Wales is the true wife of the Regent. Aid her in the substan- tiation of her claims, and you not only escape all accusations yourself, but you will be hailed by the united voice of Europe as a champion, though something of a martyr.” “TI will do it—I will do it! You are quite sure that these accusations you speak of are pre- paring for me?” * Quite!” “And their result ?” ‘Would be death, or a kind of clemency that would be worse than death!” “Hush! I hear sounds.” The Dark Woman heard them likewise—foot- steps, and the sound of voices, far off at first, but evidently approaching nearer and nearer each moment to the Green Saloon. A pair of magniticent folding doors shut the apartment from a long gallery, which immediately adjoined it; and to those doors the Dark Woman now darted, with the speed of light, and placing her ear to one of the panels, listened. “It is the Regent!” she said. ““My husband!” cried the Princess of Wales. “No!” said the Dark Woman sharply. ‘“ The He comes !—he comes !” “Shall I see him? Ought I to see him ?” “No! Ah! stir not! Another step, and you are in danger.” The Princess of Wales had shrunk back, and was within six inches of the trap in the floor, which the Dark Woman felt assured was now only held up by its spring, for she had no doubt but Willes would obey ber instructions to the letter. The Princess of Wales looked terrified. She clutched nervously at the back of a chair, but it slid from her on the highly polished marquetterie floor, and fell over on to the trap. Be egeaamaaaaa dared sire ag ae aor a 334 There was a slight creaking noise, but the weight was not sufficient to overcome entirely the spring beneath. The Dark Woman darted towards her, and held her fiercely by the arm. “You said you would follow my directions!” she cried, in a hissing whisper. ‘‘ You are pledged to doso! Will you follow them now ?” *‘T will—oh, yes, I will!” + ‘Remain here, then; but do not, for your life’s sake, stir from the spot on which you stand.” “You terrify me.” ‘*T mean to do so.” “There is some dreadful mystery.” “The mystery of mysteries—death, if you disobey me; death, not at my hands, but from which I cannot save you. I will leave you for a few moments. The Regent is approaching. I know there are doubts lingering in your heart. Dispel them at once; and, in order that you may be firm for the future, ask him in what relation Linda de Chevenaux stands to him ?” There was a feeling of intense curiosity in the mind of the Princess of Wales, to ask this question. She had come to the Palace with the full expectation of seeing the Regent; and although, in the agitating conversation which had taken place between her and the Dark Woman, she had scarcely noticed that it seemed more for her purposes than those of the Regent that she was brought to the Palace, she felt still an earnest desire to see him. “You will be near me?” she said. “J shall be on the other side of yon panelled door, by which we entered this apartment. There is one thing I must leave to your own dexterity. You must; on some. pretext or another, induce the Regent to leave the room for a moment or two.” “T can easily do so. He has some trinkets belonging to me, which an insolent note desired me to fetch or send for.” ““ Way for the Regent!” cried a voice. That voice was just without the folding-doors ; and they were flung wide open at the moment that _the Dark Woman passed out of the Green Saloon by the narrow panel in the wall. The Princess of Wales was alone for an instant. The glittering halberts and poleaxes of the Yeomen of the Guard gleamed in the stream of light that came from the wax-candles; and then the Prince of Wales, with his hands behind his back, and in a musing, thoughtful manner, walked slowly into the saloon. A brocade dressing-gown, of very rich material indeed, and a great amplitude of shape and make, was folded about him. There was a look of care upon his brow, and he’ was paler than usual. The folding-doors were closed behind him with a clang, and he had walked one-third of the dis- tance across the floor, before, with an exclamation of surprise, he saw that he was not alone in that apartment. But could he recognise, in that common grey shawl and ordinary bonnet, the Princess of Wales, who had been so long, according to his own ex- pres-ion, the bane of his existence; and whose wrongs, crimes, or frivolities were beginning to fill. up so large a space of public attention. The Regent recoiled a step or two, and seemed THE DARK WOMAN. upon the point of calling for assistance ; but the Princess of Wales flung her bonnet back from her head, and it fell on to the trap-door, adding a few ounces more weight to the chair which already rested on it. Phe Princess was exceedingly agitated ; and, as is commonly the case with persons so situated, the last idea that had been instilled into her mind was the most prominent one, f That was, that she was to ask the Regent for the trinkets that belonged to her. “Tam here!” she said. ‘' You know me, base and cruel as you are! I amhere! You have sent for me, and now you affect surprise! My ornaments—the trinkets in the casket—I will take them! George, George, can you look into my face?” sae There was a mutual deception ‘here. The Princess of Wales, when she said she had been sent for, alluded to the note which had been so cleverly sent to her by the Dark Woman. The Regent thought she had in her mind a heartless and insolent message he had returned to a request of hers, that he would send to Buckingham House a casket of jewels that re- mained at St. James’s, and was her property. But he was so astonished to see her, that he absolutely reeled back until he came to a table, which brought him to a standstill. ‘*You here, madam? You in St. James’s ?” “Yes; Iam here! I, your neglected, insulted wife! It may well surprise you, for it surprises me!” The Regent rallied. “The surprise, madam, is as mutual as the pleasure. But how, in the name of all the-—— Well, well, how you came here surprises me more than all!” ~ “T came to ask you a question.” ‘“‘T accept the fact; but to-morrow some one will have to answer for the presence of un- authorized visitors at St. James's Palace !” “T am your wife!” “Ay, madam, and something more * And you—and you But I will confound you by one question! I will see if shame cannot bring a blush to your cheek! I want to know in what relation Linda de Chevenaux stands to 1” you?” ‘6 Ah, indeed!” “Yes! Libertine! Man without honour — ”? without feeling——affection—or—or “Madam, I wait your leisure. The night is still young. I do not know by what surreptitious means you have obtained admittance to this room ; but you shall not say that pending certain ex- aminations you have had a secret interview with the Regent! It shall be publicenough! There’s not a scullion in the Palace but shall know of it : and that I compelled your absence by force if necessary !” ; “Linda de Chevenaux!” screamed the Prin- cess. “ What of Linda de Chevenaux?” ‘Excuse me, I had forgotten. You wish to know what Linda de Chevenaux has to do with me—and what she is, or was, to me?” “T do, base——” - ‘‘Forbear your epithets, and I will tell you, with some slight difterences of detail. Linda de Chevenaux and I, the Regent of England, have had the same sort of acquaintance that Caroline, é LE CC LC A A A ER SE AN eae ee ee ae A THE DARK WOMAN. Princess of Wales, has had with Berghami, her | now slowly to resume its position, as the travelling courier. Are you answered, madam?” » The Princess shook in every limb. “And now,” added the Regent, with a courtly bow and a smile of triumph,—‘‘now I will do myself the honour of fetching you the casket of jewels you claim, and, with it-in your hands, let you have entered St. James’s Palace how you may, the Yeomen of the Guard shall turn you from its main entrance with contempt!” “‘- You dare not!” “J am daring; but I leave you, madam, to your reflections for 2 moment.” The Regent turned, and walked the whole length of the room. He passed the folding-doors and opened a much smaller door, which was richly gilt, and beyond which there was a short passage, which led him to a dressing-room he sometimes occupied. The Princess of Wales was alone but for a moment. The Dark Woman darted into the room from behind the narrow panelled door. “‘ Save yourself, madam,” she said, * while you may, or you will not leave St. James’s Palace alive!” “ Alas, I fear him!” j ‘‘ Pass behind the panel, and there wait until I come to you. You will be in darkness, but you: will likewise be in safety.” “JT will—I will! I can send for the jewels.” “You can, at any time. But lend me your shawl quick! and your bonnet! ‘There is not a moment to lose!” As weaker spirits obey the stronger, the Prin- cess of Wales did all that the Dark Woman re- quired of her. She surrendered the shawl aud the bonnet willingly, and, full of fear, she made her way through the long panel in the wall into the darkness beyond. The Dark Woman heard, or fancied she heard, the returning steps of the Regent. : Alert and agile in her movements, the Dark Womzn made her way to the very edge of the trap-door, on which Jay the overturned chair. She cast across it, with artistic skill, the large shawl which the Princess of Wales had worn; and, to one casting but a rapid observation in that direction, it might seem that a recumbent human figure was upon the trap. A small footstool, with-heavily gilt feet, was close at hand, and as the Regent returned to the room with the casket in his hand, it was to his surprise and consternation that he heard the voice of the Dark Woman, instead of the Princess of Wales. “So perish,” she cried, ‘‘the enemies of Linda de Chevenaux!” She thrust the footstool with her foot on to the trap-door; its weight was sufficient to overcome the tension of the spring, and with a crash the enveloped chair descended the huge chasm in the floor. » There came a shriek of pain from below, which materially heightened the illusion, for both chair and footstool came upon the head of Willes with a force that extorted the cry from him. ‘» The Regent uttered a shout of dismay. * By heaven and. earth,” he said, ‘‘she has killed the Princess !” + The trap-door, lightened of its load, began 335 spring had no resistance in acting upon it but its own weight. “ Help! help!” cried the Regent. He flew to a table on which lay a sword, and dashing it from its scabbard, which he held in his left hand, he stood in an attitude of defence before the Dark Woman. . : “It is in vain!” she cried. ‘' George, Prince of Wales, I tell you it is in vain! You may struggle, ‘writhe, do what you may, but you will never escape the ‘just claims of Linda de Chevenaux! I will trample-on a thousand hearts, should they stand in my way! Ihave power, and I use it! Tremble—sybarite, seducer—tremble |” “Help! help! Guard! guard! murder here !” The folding-doors were dashed open, and se- veral of the Yeomen of the Guard appeared at the entrance. “Seize the murderess !” cried the Regent. ‘Back, if you value life!” shouted the Dark Woman. ‘‘’Tis well, George, Prince of Wales, that you have called your guards! TJ, too, would call them—and wish them to look at me!” “Seize her! She is mad!” ‘*T am not mad—but let all who look upon me remember that my name is Linda, and that I am the first wife of the Regent, and Princess of Wales!” The Yeomen of the Guard made a rush into the apartment. “Secure her,” cried the Regent, “but harm her not! She is a mad-woman, escaped from an asylum, but has committed to-night a fearful murder!” ** Hold yet a moment!” said the Dark Woman. **T have escaped from the miscalled asylum in which your cruelty and treachery immured me! I haunt you, and will haunt you still; and the events of this night shall seem to you a confusion, a dream, anda despair! Farewell until we meet again !” The Yeomen of the Guard made a spring for- ward to seize her, The Dark Woman turned, and made but one leap on to the trap-door. It instantly yielded beneath her weight, and she disappeared before the eyes of the astonished guard and the terrified Regent. There is CHAPTER LXXXVII. SIR HINCKTON.MOYS TAKES COUNSEL OF AN ENEMY OF THE FAIR COUNTESS DE BLONDE. WE must for a brief space leave the Dark Woman in the Bulk Room beneath the Green Saloon of St. James’s Palace, and the Princess of Wales behind the panel door of that saloon, while we detail some important proceedings of Sir Hinck- ton Moys. He was the Jast person in the world to put up quietiy with a defeat. ' ‘The scene in the Palace, where he had been so completely conquered by Annie, the Countess de Blonde, rankJed at his heart. ashy ial The unsatisfied vengeance that he felt at Allan Fearon became a passion. oh | Ma ee a ine rr EE LI TS pera nr EY enn 336 THE DARK WOMAN, Sir Hinckton felt that his position could not possibly be worse, so he set himself seriously to think what he could do to make it better. The whole Court, the whole Parliament, and, we might almost say, the whole kingdom, at that juncture were gradually dividing into two par- ties. The party of the Princess of Wales and the party of the Regent. Sir Hinckton Moys was in such bad odour with the latter party, that he instinctively turned his attention to the former But he was a politic man, was Sir Hinckton Moys; and where his own passions were not concerned, he was far-sighted and cool in judg- menf. These qualities enabled him to make a shrewd guess that the party of the Princess of Wales would in the end be defeated as a party, and so far as she was concerned. The partisans might gain all that they desired, and they did. _ That was notoriety. The Princess of Wales was merely made use of ‘as the means to the selfish and purely personal ends of those who pretended to advocate her cause. None knew this better than Sir Hinckton. And yet what choice had he ? He was dismissed by the Regent with dis- grace. So long as Annie, Countess de Blonde, main- tained her present power, that disgrace would be certain to continue. It might possibly continue even beyond that point, But—and Sir Hinckton Moys felt that there arose a very serious ‘‘ but” in the case—but so long as he actually did not join the party of the Princess of Wales, there was a hope of reconciling himself some day with the Regent. If once he openly joined that party, all such hope would be at an end. Oh, how bitterly he cursed the passion that had led him astray, and for once in his life had so clouded his judgment, that he had sought re- venge against Allan Fearon at the risk of placing himself in antagonism with the Countess de Blonde. That was a terrible mistake for such a man as Sir Hinckton Moys to make. How he mourned that England was not a country like Spain or Italy, where for a few pounds a man may hire an assassin, or a couple of bravos, if need were, who would pounce upon an enemy of their employer and put him out of the way with the stroke of a poniard in his back. But regrets were vain. Sir Hinckton Moys had but to try to recover lost ground. He took a solitary walk in the Park, and with his hands behind him, the disgraced courtier gave himself up to thought. What should he do? Who should he endeavour now to make into an ally? A carriage came rolling past him at speed. A fair, flaxen, Saxon-looking female lolled back in it. There was a look of stolid self-satis- faction about the common-place countenance, and indolence seemed to have enlarged her form be- — yond its due proportions, for she was still very young. By her side was a remarkably tall, inane- looking youth, with a vacant, silly expression of countenance, mingled with such an amount of vulgar self-conceit, that it was at once laughable and aggravating to look upon. Sir Hinckton Moys knew these people at once. The stout, fair female was the well-known Mar- chioness of Sunningham. The inane looking youth was her son, after- wards Lord Bondsboro. The Marchioness had occupied the same situa- tion with the Regent that the more youthful and decidediy more charming Annie Gray now pos- sessed. The idea at once darted into the mind of Sir Hinckton Moys that he could not have a better ally against the present mistress of the Regent than the discarded one. Besides, he recollected a French proverb, which states that people have a tendency to return to their first loves. To be sure, the Marchioness of Sunningham could scarcely be called the first love of the Regent; but then, as it was doubtful if the Prince had ever really had a first love, or any real love at all, the proverb might hold sufficiently good in relation to the fair and portly Marchioness of Sun- ningham. Now Moys and the Marchioness had never ex- changed a word since, about two years previously, the latter had left Carlton House with bag and baggage. The Marchioness had abandoned the field, but she carried off all the plunder. Now, however, Sir Hinckton made an elaborate bow as the carriage approached him. Thg park was nearly deserted at that time of ‘the day—the first hour of the afternoon ;—and it was impossible for the Marchioness to overlook him, She checked the driver. The carriage stopped. ~“ Sir Hinckton Moys, as I live!” said the fair Marchioness. “Yes, Marchioness; and your humble ser- vant!” “Since when ?” The Marchioness smiled. Sir Hinckton Moys saw that the smile was a friendly one; and he replied frankly, but in alow tone, so that the servants should not hear him, “ Since I have quarrelled with a lady who names herself Countess de Blonde i The Marchioness nodded. ‘‘T have heard of it.” “Indeed!” . “Oh, yes! You are in disgrace!” ‘‘ For the moment.” “Only the moment ?” : “ Certainly, to speak figuratively, for no longer a space of time; but when I return to St. James's, I want to see a real Marchioness in the Palace, instead of a mock Countess.” “You say so!” “And I think so, and mean so. With your assistance, and with my information, I think that may be done.” “Come to me this evening at eight o’clock, Sir OS Hinckton Moys, and I shall be very glad to receive you as a friend.” Sir Hinckton bowed. ; The Marchioness smiled, and the carriage drove on. Sir Hinckton Moys had made an alliance against Annie Gray. In the evening he was punctual to his engage- ment with the Marchioness of Sunningham. The Marquis of Sunningham was in the recep- tion-room to which Sir Hinckton Moys. was shown. : The Continental -habit of taking some strong coff e after dinner prevailed in the Marchioness’s establishment, and the whole room was full of tke pleasant odour of the finest Mocha. “Ah, Sir Hinckton Moys!” cried the Mar- _ chioness, “ I am delighted to see you!” “The delight of all who approach you, Mar- chioness, is an established fact.” | \ No. 43—Dark Woaan, © THE DARK WOMAN, 337 ~ ‘*' Marquis,” added Lady Sunningbham to her husband, ‘leave the room.” ‘ “Yes, my dear. I—l—only—that is-——” _‘*Leave the room!” : * Well—well % * Am I to speak thrice, Marquis? When a gentleman comes to see me, with whom I wish to hold private conversation, and I tell you to leave the room, have you the assurance to remain—to parley with me ?” ““No—no. I was only going to say that I should like another cup of coffee; but since you wish it, my dear, 1 am off! Good bye, Sir Hinckton Moys!” “* Good bye, Marquis!” The obedient Marquis of Sunningham left the apartment. ‘‘T have no end of trouble with him at times,” said the Marchioness; “‘and my son is getting troublesome.” 338 THE DARK WOMAN. “The young gentleman I saw this morning in” the barouche ?” “Yes. Is not he a love?” “Oh, very. Hem!—very!” “ Well, Sir Hinckton, I know, in common with everybody who knows anything, of your disgrace. What was it all about ?” “‘T was sacrificed !” *€ Indeed !” “Yes, The Countess de Blonde, as she calls herself, but who is a little dressmaker of the name of Gray, had a lover.” ‘* Of course—some low fellow!” * Decidedly—a thief !” “ Ah!” ‘‘ Well, he was deservedly about to be hanged.” ‘* A good job, too!” “Very. But she, that is the little dressmaker- Countess, heard of it, and sought a pardon from the Regent, who, being jealous, was as anxious to have the fellow hanged as possible. But the Prince wanted to seem to please the little dress- maker at the same time that he let her lover be quietly hanged, and I was made the medium of carrying on the affair between the two.” **T see.” ‘With your usual ability, you see it all clearly, Marchioness. The Regent failed in doing what he always tries to do—holding with the hare and running with the hounds.” “Proverbs are vulgar, Sir Hinckton.” ‘“‘T know it, but at times they are wonderfully expressive; and it was the recollection of one this morning, when I had the pleasure to see you in the park, that inspired me with the idea of being useful to you.” ‘*¢‘ What was it?” ‘‘ That people have a tendency to return to their former loves.” . “Then you think that—that “ “You may, with very little trouble, reinstate yourself in the confidence of the Prince,” * And you will help me?” ‘With all my heart.” “And if I am so reinstated, there will be a new Lord Chamberlain appointed.” Sir Hinckton bowed. *‘ And his name will be Moys.” These two inveterate intriguers understood each other perfectly. ‘“‘ There is one thing, however, that I ought to tell you,” said the Marchioness, “aad that is, that Ihave made acquaintance with the Princess of Wales.” “It is fatal !” * Surely not.” “Tt is, indeed. No, no—I have an idea!” ‘A good one, I will be bound.” ““T hope so—you shall judge of it. Continue your acquaintance with the Princess of Wales, but write to the Regent, stating that you cannot forget that he once had an affection for you, and that yours for him is inextinguishable; and that, knowing how many enemies he had about the little mock Court of the Princess of Wales, you had affected to join it from inclination, but in reality for the purpose of sending to him, the Prince, in writing, from time to time, full parti- culars of their machinations.” “ Capital!” said the Marchioness,—“ capital!” “You agree with me?” — = & — “With all my heart ; and I cannot help think- ing that there will soon be a new Lord Chamber- lain !” Sir Hinckton Moys bowed and smiled. “The next thing, then,” said the Marchioness of Sunningham, ‘that we have to do is to think of some mode of inflaming the resentment of the Regent against this shop-girl, to whom he so un- worthily pays attention.” “Thatis a difficulty.” “Why, and how ?” “She is Well, Iam sure you are not like folks say most women are.” “* What is that ?” ‘Wild, ungovernable maniacs, if they hear another praised for beauty.” “Not at all. You would tell me that the girl is pretty ?” ‘* She is.” “T supposed as much. You have already tried to make the Prince jealous of her ?” “ Unsuccessfully. Yes.” “Tt is one of his passions, and not the most in- significant.” “T know it—I know it well, Marchioness. I cavnot help now making a’réemark, that, however true it may be, you will faney is flattery.” The Marchioness looked gracious. .“Tt is,” added Sir Hinckton Moys, ‘‘that your presence acts upon me as an inspiration. Up to the time when the little confidential consultation began, I was without ideas. I am now full of them.” “Then you have a plan?” “T have. It is founded on a great fact.” “ And that is < ‘That when once in any human heart the seeds of jealousy are sown, they never lose their vitality or cease to germinate.” “ Good!” : ; ‘“‘The Prince has been told to ve jealous of the Countess de Bionde.” “The little work-girl ?” ; “Just so. Everything was done that could be done to make him jealous of her in connexion with this man who was about to be hanged, but to appearance it failed, and she got the better of me. She persuaded him that the interest she took in him was brotherly.” “ Stuff!” ““So say I. He pretended to cast off the feel- ing of jealousy, but it remained, for all that. It remains still. It only wants crowning. Repeated blows on one spot soon producs an effect. The accurate water-drop drills a hole through ada- mant.” eee ‘You are tremendously proverbial, Sir Hinek- ton Moys, to-day.” “Tam. I cannot account for the phenomenon, but lam. What I advise, then, is that the jea- lousy which now slumbers should be aroused again. JI think that the little work-girl, Annie Gray, could be induced to make a secret visit to a poor and wretched lodging which her sister occupies in a court near Covent Garden, and I think it might be managed that the young 9 mak ‘‘ The thief who should have been hanged?” “Just so. I think it might be managed that he should be there.” ‘“ Excellent.” ce ag so he oo eee A NR aa AP = omen pre THE DARK WOMAN, 4 é *¢ And then, ifthe Regent could only be per- suaded to test the evidence of his own eyes, and see that they meet, all would turn out as we wish.” “ But what part, Sir Hinckton, can I play in this affair?” “A most important one. Let your first secret despatch from the camp and Court of the enemy at Buckingham House contain a paragraph which I will dictate to you.” ‘‘ Dictate it now.” ‘‘T will, with pleasure.” “Tt will enlighten me, Sir Hinckton. Come, now, I am ready. The pen is in my hand. What shall I write?” aes ~ CHAPTER LXXXVIII. SIR HINCKTON MOYS AND THE MARCHIONESS CONCOCT. A DIABOLICAL PLOT. Str Hinceton Moys was silent for a few mo- ments, and then in a clear, although rather low, tone of yvoice—for he dreaded the possibility of listeners—he dictated these words to the Mar- chioness :-— ‘“‘ Entre nous. There is, I find, a young man who is paid by either the Princess of Wales or those about her, as a spy upon your Royal High- ness and the Court of St. James's, His name is Fearon; and by some extraordinary means he does bring strangely minute information about your Royal Highness’s most private proceedings. I cannot help thinking that some one who is very close to your Royal Highness, and in your confi- dence, must betray you to him. I understand that he pretends to be married, and a poor, honest man, but he is a paid spy of the Princess of Wales and her party.” The Marchioness wrote these words, and at their conclusion she looked up in the face of Sir Hinckton Moys. If ever there was on human countenance the smiling aspect of a demon, it was apparent at that moment on. the face of the disgraced and unscrupulous courtier. - “That will do,” he said. ‘Leave the rest to me. In your second despatch, Marchioness, we shall have something else to add abont, this Allan Fearon; and by his means we shall yet ruin the Countess de Blonde.” “ The shop-girl !” | “T beg your pardon—the shop-girl.” Sir Hinckton Moys and the Marchioness of Sunningham soon after this brought their inter- view to a close; and Sir Hinckton, as he made his way to his chambers—clubs were not then thought of—had all the look and air of a man who was on the point of achieving some great success. There was nothing of the look of the disgraced courtier about him now. Little did poor Allan Fearon, after escaping from the ordeal that had been prepared for him by his imperious mother, imagine how serious a scheme for his destruction was in the brain of his worst enemy. Little did Annie, Countess de Blonde, imagine that all she had as yet gone through in her con- test with Sir Hinckton Moys was mere child’s 539 - ER Rn A sn an play ‘in comparison with that which was ‘yet to happen. When Allan Fearon left that magnificent man- sion in Hanover Square, in which he had found a mother, and in which be had passed through so strange and agitating an interview with her, he felt like a man walking in his sleep. For atime he could not persuade himself that all he had heard and seen had not been a fevered dream. “’ Allan Fearon,” he cried, “ awake! awake! Shake off this nightmare of the soul! Awake! awake!” He uttered these words aloud; and it was only by the manner in which the chance passengers of the street struck aside to let him pass, that he became aware that he had spoken such strange words in, the public streets. He hurried onwards, then, with a flush of shame, that he should so exhibit his intense preoccupation of mind, and he was glad to dive down the narrow entrance to Martlett’s:Court. Marian received him with a cry of joy, but the traces of tears were on her cheeks. ‘‘ My Marian—my own dear Marian!” “Allan, dearest !” “What will you say to me?” ~ “That I welcome you, and joy to see you.” ‘But I have been so long from you.” “And are with me once again. God bless you, Allan !” ' “You do not’ask me what kept me so long absent, dear.” “No, Allan—no! You will tell me, if you please; and if not, I am, as ever, your own grateful, loving Marian.” ** God has blessed moe!” said Allan, as he held her to his heart. ‘“ Listen, dearest! I have as strange a tale to tell you as ever if is possible to hear out of the pages of some life romance.” Without the slightest reserve, Allan now related to Marian his adventures of that most eventful morning, Marian listened to him like one entranced. ** Your mother, Allan?—a mother rich and so full of strange tales? «Oh, heaven! what will become of us! You the son of the Prince of Wales ?—you, Allan?” ‘So she stated, dear.” “ Alas! alas! What does all this portend ?.— what will it lead to ?—what will it end in?” “Nothing, my Marian, that will cause you an hour’s, a minute’s anxiety. Be I what else I may, there is one thing I am which I shall never cease from being—your own dear and loving husband.” ‘iver, ever mine, Allan.” Marian placed her head confidingly upon the breast of Allan Fearon, and over again she heard him relate—for she wished to hear it twice—all that had happened, and all that the haughty, strange lady had said to him. “And do you believe it all, Allan?” “Yes, Marian.. There was a something, as there always is about the truth, which stamps it with an air of credibility falsehood can never pretend to.” ‘‘ There is—there is!” “Tt is all true, dear Marian.” “ And you will visit her again; and again she will tell you that you are a Prince, and that the poor friendless girl whom you have loved is no fit wife for one so high.” SRS -—— SO | | ! Pe nS Co ———. Ae, 340 THE DARK WOMAN. Allan smiled. “‘She may tell me all that,” he said, “and I shall pity her.” “Pity her, Allan?” “Yes—that she prefers the empty shadow of rank and title to the pure substance of such a loving heart as my Marian’s.” How happy were Allan and Marian in their dear affection ! . They had previously resolved upon seeking some other home than that one in Martlett’s Court, which was so full of sad associations; and they went out, arm-in-arm, in search of as humble ‘a lodging, but one that would remove them from the immediate scene which suggested sad thoughts. It was down one of the narrow streets leading from the Strand to the Thames that Allan and Marian found the home they wanted. An ancient house that faced the river afforded them a humble, but clean and pleasant-looking, lodging, in accordance with their means. The house was kept by an elderly dame and her daughter, and had much more the appearance of a house in some provincial town, than a poor London house. Allan was pleased with the place, and so was Marian, That night saw them fairly away from Mart- lett’s Court, and installed in their new lodging. On the following morning Allan, meant to sally out to seek for employment. But there were several persons who both Allan and Marian would be glad to see. There was Six- teen-striaged Jack—there was his daughter Lucy; and Marian was desirous that her sister Annie should always know where to find her. They therefore left their new address with the landlady of the house in Martlett’s Court; and then, by the time they retired to rest on that evening, the seventeen shillings, with one expense and another, had become reduced to eight. Eight shillings! That was the sum of the means of Allan Fearon and Marian. But they slept soundly and happily for all that. Much more soundly and much more happily than the Dark Woman. Infinitely more soundly and more happily than the Prince Regent. A world more serenely than Sir Hinckton Moys or the Marchioness of Sunningham. Perhaps Annie, the fair Countess de Blonde, slept nearly as well as her sister Marian. But then what a thoughtless, heedless creature was Annie Gray! Let us now return to St. James’s Palace, in which such extraordinary events had taken place in reference to the Princess Caroline of Wales and the Dark Woman. When the Dark Woman sprung on to the trap- door which led from the Green Saloon to the Bulk Room beneath she knew there was little danger. The trap-door would descend not too quickly, and by cliuging to it, she would have every chance of alighting in safety on her feet. It was only very dangerous if any one, who knew not of its existence or where it led to, should step on to it, and be precipitated into the room beneath. This not being the case with the Dark Woman, it became merely a little effort of dexterity to descend in safety by it to the reom below. es ee, Seas Willes was waiting there in a perfect agony of terror and bewilderment. The descent of the chair—the footstool—the shawl and the bonnet of the Princess of Wales— had filled him with astonishment, as no human form came down with all those objects. The edge of the platform, too, had struck him a blow upon the forehead, which threatened to be very prominently visible on the next day. It was that blow that had extorted a-cry from him, which, to the Regent, had seemed to be the death-cry of the Princess of Wales. When, however, the trap-door came down again with the Dark Woman, descending by it, Willes, although he took care to get out of the way, and shrunk up into one corner of the Bulk Room, was as terrified as before. The Dark Woman partially fell, but she con- trived to get to her feet, and was not hurt. y The descent was not great, and it was not difficult for her to act. Then Willes uttered another sound of dismay ; but the Dark Woman did uot wish to attract further attention at that moment to the Bulk Room, and she cried “‘ Hush!” in atone which effectually silenced Willes. : The platform, relieved from all pressure from above, began slowly to ascend into its place again. Then there was heard the rustling of feet above and the loud sound of voices, among which the Regent’s was pre-eminent. The precise words that were uttered could not be caught by the Dark Woman nor by Willes, but it was evident there was a general alarm through- out the Palace. “‘Madam! madam! my lady!” said Willes, in tones of terror, ‘‘ what isto be done now? I do not understand all this! For heaven’s sake tell me is all over, and what has-become of the Princess of Wales?” “ Silence !” Willes was silent again, and the Dark Woman listened intently. cents. “If your Highness wishes it,” said a voice, ‘I will leap down at once.” “The bolts—the bolts!” whispered the Dark Woman. ‘ Quick !—quick!” Willes was willing to obey her, and he made the bolts fast which would keep the platform securely in its place; but he was slow in his movements to her apprehension, and seizing upon the little flight of steps which were leaning against the wall, she rapidly mounted them, and by using both hands, shot one of the ponderous bolts into its socket. - At the moment that she did so there was a heavy, lumbering sound from above. Some one had thrown himself upon the trap, with the hope and expectation of descending into the room below. “That is over,” said the Dark Woman, with an imperious gesture. ‘‘Secure the other bolt, Willes, although one would be amply sufficient ” The trembling valet obeyed her. “Now take your lantern and follow me.” Willes had been in the Bulk Room a gocd hour, and he was exceedingly well disposed to leave it, for to him it had been a place of great terror and anxiety. © There came a voice from above in louder ac- gn ean THE DARK WOMAN. “Stop one moment,” said the Dark Woman. “Bring that shawl and bonnet with you. The Princess of Wales will want them.” “Then she is not killed?” said Willes. ‘‘ Killed 2? What should put so foolish an idea into your brain? Follow me quickly, and you will soon have proof from your own eyesight tha she is alive and well.” Willes felt greatly relieved at this assurance, and he held up the small lantern he had with him in such @ way as to cast as much light as possible upon the intricate path of the Dark Woman amid the secret passages and disused corridors of old St. James’s Palace. “Madam,” said Willes, “there is one thing which surprises me greatly.” “What is that ?” “You never seem to lose your way in the Palace.” ‘‘No; aad I never should. I have accurate plans of every one of its floors, and I have looked over them and studied them until my brain has ached. There is nothing in those plans that I do not carry in my memory; although, no doubt, they are defective, for this building, as you probably know, was not always a palace.” ‘“‘ T have heard as much, madam.” “It was once a convent, and once an for lepers. Alas! what is it now?” Willes made no answer; but he was getting deeply intérested in the route which the Dark Woman was taking him, and asking himself if it were possible he should ever remember it again. She had some half-dozen keys with her, one or other of which seemed to fit the lock of every door which opposed their progress; and, finally, to the great surprise of Willes, they emerged from a narrow passage through the back of a cupboard, which turned out to be a door into one of the continuous suite of apartments which connected Carlton House with St. James’s Palace. ‘‘ Now,” said Willes, “ I know where I am.” At that moment, the sound of a drum beating in one of the court-yards of the Palace, came upon their ears. “They are mustering the. guards,” said the Dark Woman, “ and we have no time to lose,” Willes began to get frightened and agitated again, but the Dark Woman, with firm step, took her way to the small, narrow apartment, from which opened the long, narrow, secret panel into the Green Saloon. ‘ Princess! Princess!” cried the Dark Woman, and yet in suppressed tones. ‘“ Princess Caroline of Brunswick, where are you? Follow me, and I will conduct you in safety to the park, and, if you wish it, even to the gates of Buckingham House. The adventures of this night are over.” The Dark Woman was mistaken. The adventures of that night, in St. James's, were not over, as regarded the Princess of Wales, for, to the surprise of the Dark Woman, she was nowhere to be seen. Willes began to shake like one in an ague, ‘6 She is gone,” said the Dark Woman. “TY thought it would end in marder!” said Willes. ‘* Peace, cowafd! Torment me not with your foolish suppositions! She should have been here alive and well, for not the slightest harm was done her or intended her.” hospital a ee 341 The drum sounded again. ‘* Madam,” said Willes, ‘if you wish to leave the Palace or Carlton House, you must do so at once, or every possible avenue will be guarded.” ““T will do so. Let her take her chance. Whatever mischief befalls her, she brings upon her own head. Her own folly alone shall bear the blame.” In ‘less than five minutes more, the Dark Woman was in the garden of Carlton House; and it was with a feeling of intense thankfulness that Willes saw her pass out into the park, through the little door in the wall of which hs had the key. oma CHAPTER LXXXIX, THE PRINCESS OF WALES HAS AN INTERVIEW WITH HER DAUGHTER, AND WITH THE COUN- TESS DE BLONDE. CAROLINE, Princess of Wales, was a wilful person. She was terrified and enfeebled both in mind and body, while in actual contact with the Dark Woman ; but she quickly recovered her usual con- dition of mind when left to herself. Certainly, for a few moments after passing through the narrow, panelled door, in the wall of the Green Saloon, alarm was her most predomi- nant feeling; but curiosity got the better of that, and kneeling down, she placed her ear close to the panel, in order not to lose a word of what might pass between the Regent and the mysterious per- sonage who had conducted her to the Palace, and who appeared to be in the possession of secrets of the first importance. We are aware that the interview which suc- ceeded between the Prince and Linda de Cheve- naux was brief; then followed the alarm, con- sequent upon her plunge down the trap door, —the rushing of feet-—the loud cries and commands of the Regent, and then all was still. The Princess of Wales felt certain that no one remained in the Green Saloon. Then two ideas, which during the early part of the evening had suggested themselves to her, reourred to her mind; and now that she was be- neath the roof of St. James’s Palace, and might, by retracing the suite of connecting apartments, easily place herself beneath the roof of Carlton House, she felt an uncontrollable desire to carry those ideas into execution. One of them was to have an interview with her daughter, the Princess Charlotte. The other was to look, if it were but for an instant, at the much talked of beauty of the Countess de Blonde. These wishes were both natural. The Princess Charlotte had estranged herself from her mother, and that mother burned with a desire to tell her what she thought of her conduct. The Countess de Blonde was the mistress of the Regent, while the Princess of Wales was his neglected and discarded wife. No doubt it was a fascinating idea to think that she might have an opportunity of telling the Countess de Blonde what she thought of her conduct, The long secret panel was easily opened from the side at which the Princess of Wales was wait_ — oe 842 ing. It required but a touch—a moment more, and that touch was given. The panel opened, and the Princess of Wales stepped again into the Green Saloon. It was certainly empty. Then she heard the drum—that same drum summoning the guard,—which had come upon the ears of the Dark Woman, and so alarmed Willes. Now the Princess of Wales was not at all familiar with the interior of the Palace—beyond a few of the state rooms, she knew nothing of it; but the events of the evening had produced an excited state of mind, which imparted to her a ' rapidity of action she did not usually possess. Opening one of the folding-doors, she walked with a firm step into the corridor beyond. Still no one was visible. There was a door with plate-glass in its panels exactly opposite to her. The Princess of Wales was on a voyage of dis- covery, so to speak, and she opened this door at once, and entered.a room in which was a good fire blazing in the grate, and various. articles of apparel flung about carelessly upon chairs and sofas. But the Princess took but casual notice of these inanimate objects. She wanted to find some one who would conduct her at once to the apartments of the Countess de Blonde. Fate interposed signally in favour of her designs; for a door which she had not observed, but which was immediately opposite to the one at which she had entered, suddenly opened, and Willes entered the room with hurried steps. Any one would have supposed, at the moment, that the Regent's valet and the Princess of Wales had agreed upon executing some eccentric chorus together, for they each raised a cry at the sight of the other. The Princess’s was treble. Willes’s was bass. “The Princess |” exclaimed Willes. _ “The valet!” said the Princess. Willes executed a low bow, The Princess of Wales spoke in a tone of scorn- ful excitement. i “‘T desire to know,” she said, ‘‘if the person calling herself the Countess de Blonde is in St. James's Palace ?”’ “Your Highness ought to excuse me. But I thought your, Highness was aware, by what happened on a former occasion, that such a person might be here.” “Ts it the same ?” “Quite the same, your Royal Highness.” “T will not believe it.” Willes bowed with an air as much as to say that he little cared whether she believed it or not. “You know me,” added the Princess, ‘‘and I command your obedience.” ‘Yes, your Royal Highness, on one condition.” “Name it ?” “Tt is that under no circumstances will your Royal Highness compromise me in the matter, or in any of this night’s proceedings,” | “‘T promise. Now lead the way.” Willes bowed, and reopened the door at which he had entered. “Tf your Royal Highness will condescend to follow me into the Titian Gallery, I will conduct you to the door of the Countess’s apartments.” THE DARK WOMAN. \ “T will follow you.” ‘This way, your Royal Highness —this way.” ‘If I do take her there,” said Willes to himself, “T will give my head to Sir Hinckton Moys for a football.” Willes led the Princess of Wales to the opposite end of the Titian Gallery to that from which the apartments in the occupation of the Coumes de Blonde opened. ‘Tf your Royal Highness will descend thods stairs, and then proceed straight on, you will come into the Colour Court, which is by far the nearest way—out of the Palace,” added Willes to himself. The Princess was about to descend, when a broad flash of light came up the staircase, and the clatter of the halberts of the Yeomen of the Guard could be plainly heard. There was an intense stillness for a moment, and then the voice of the Regent was distinctly beard. “Annie! Annie! I beg of you to return to your rooms, I can scarcely tell you myself what has occurred in the Palace to-night.” “Drums beating,” cried Annie, ‘‘and everybody running about asif they were mad! I want to know what it is.” \ ‘“‘That’s the hussy!’ said the Princess of Wales. “The Regent!” said Willes. As he spoke, he darted from the side cf the Princess of Wales, and disappeared in the heavy gloom of the Titian Gallery. Some sort of feeling that it would be too much for her nerves, or temper, or her strength, to meet the Countess de Blonde actually in the company of the Regent, came over the mind of the Princess of Wales. Ske turned, and fled down the gallery. The glare of light seemed to pursue her, and she fancied both the Regent and the Countess de Blonde must be closely behind her There was a door at her left hand—she instinctively tried the lock—it opened readily, and the Princess of Wales darted into an apartment lit by a candelabrum carrying six wax candles. A door was swinging open on the opposite side of this room, and the Princess of Wales still went on. She found herself in a small sitting-room, which was a perfect blaze of magnificence This room was entirely fitted in crimson and gold. A solid silver lamp hung from the ceiling, and a fire of scented woods smouldered and shot up little flames on the hearth. A small table, on which was a profusion of gold plate, was drawn near the fire, and two chairs were placed by it. A screen, which was a complete mass of golden fretwork, shut off a portion of the room, where there hung some looped-up curtains instead of a doorway, beyond which was a most exquisite bet~ chamber. The reader knows that bed-chamber. It has been adorned for that child of luxury, Annie Gray. It was the same room in which the Dark Woman had held that interview with her which had pro~ duced the pardon of Allan Fearon. The apartment in crimson and gold was Annie’s own particular sitting room. That night the Regent’ had- invited himself to supper, which was actually at the moment laid upon the table, . THE DARK WOMAN, : i ee There was a sound of voices, and a trampling of feet. The Princess of Wales had just time to dart behind the gilt screen, when the Regent and Annie Gray entered the apartment. Perhaps at that moment Caroline, Princess of Brunswick—as the Dark Woman felt a malicious pleasure in naming her—would have given any- thing in reason to be elsewhere than in the private apartments of Annie, Countess de Blonde. But there she was: apparently unable to extri- cate herself from ‘the dilemma in which she was placed—compelled to be a listener to words which probably would leave behind them in her heart an indelible sting. The Princess of Wales might have little or no affection for her husband, George, the Regent. She might fix her regards upon others, but she could not forget that he was her husband. Gall and wormwood, then, would be sweet and welcome, in comparison to what she was likely to hear from her station behind the beautiful gilt screen in Annie’s gorgeous sitting room, “ T won't have it, George!” Annie was saying as they entered the room. ‘‘ Once for all, I won't have it! The Princess of Wales shall not be hunted and persecuted !” ‘Tt is she, my pet,” said the Regent, ‘who is the hunter, or rather the huntress, and the per- secutor.” ** How do you make that out ?” “Why, what could she want here—here, in the Palace, when it had been quite agreed that she was not to intrude upon me?” ‘“‘T don’t know,” replied Annie; ‘ but since you say she ought to have been found dead at the bottom of a well " ‘‘ Nay, nay |” ‘Well, it was something like it. had gone down a trap-door.” it'Yes.” “ And when your servants looked for her there, she was not to be found.” * All of which, my dear Annie, tends to prove that I am duped in some way.” * You always are.” “ Always ?” . “T said always.” ‘Except in your love ?” “My love? Do you think I care anything about you?” “TY hope—a little.” “Go along with you! little about me, to be sure, thenI might. But you don’t—yon don’t, George! You only care for yourself. yourself {” Oh, oh!” *‘ And you never will!” * Annie, Annie!” “Come to supper, and don’t be foolish! if you really loved me, you—you ss “What? Say what will prove to you that I do love you!” *t Answer me first.” * Well, go on.” “You go on with yeur supper.” “JT will. How beautifully these new hot-water dishes keep the supper warm! Well, Annie, ask your questions.” “Who is the Dark Woman?’ You said she Now, If you cared ever so | fact ?” You never did care for any one but | “* The—the——” “Dark Woman ?” “T thought you knew.” “*T want to know again.” “Then, Annie, my dear, I advise you to know nothing about her. There was a period, an un- happy period—just the same, you know, as a kind of winter before the summer comes—a period, my dear Annie, when I did not know you——” “ Well 2” “Well, in that period I became acquainted | with the—the—a—individual who calls herself the Dark Woman; but now that the winter has - passed away—now that the sweet spring-time of my pet Annie’s charms has dawned upon me “ Stuff!” “¢ Eh?” : ‘ “Don’t go on in that way, George! Is this Dark Woman your wife ?” ‘* My wife?” “ Yes, your wife—w-i-f-e ?” ** Certainly not !” “Very well. It appears, from all I can hear, that she comes here worrying about her wrongs. Now, I don’t want anybody to say that they have wrongs of your making. You must get some one to make her a handsome offer. Say a few thou- sands a-year, on condition, of course, that she ceases to annoy you.” The Prince had his attention very much en- grossed at that moment by a delicions ragout, and he only shook his head. ‘*Why not ?” said Annie, | ‘t She is so obstinate.” “ But what, then, does she want ?” “* She has a ridiculous idea.” “© What is it?” ; “She thinks I keep from her, in some way or another, a son she fancies may be still alive.” “Your son?” ' “ Well—a—I don’t know ” “Are you aware, George, that you are a witch ?” “Ta witch ?” “Yes, and ugly !” “Oh, oh! Ugly! Ha, ha!” ‘Come, now, tell memore. How do you know, provided there was a child at al], that it is dead ?” ‘““For the best of all possible reasons, I have not been called upon to maintain it. Do you fancy, Annie, fora moment, that if such a child existed, I should not be soon made aware of the “ Perhaps.” “Oh, certain—certain! But there is no such thing as convincing Linda of that.” “ Linda is, then, her name?” * Whose name ?” “The Dark Woman’s.” “Did I say Linda ?” “You know you did. I suppose, then, that is all you can tell me? But I adhere to my former proposition. Let me see her—let me offer her, in your name, a good sum as an annuity, and then you will have the satisfaction of feeling that you have done something that you ought.” “ Annie !” “Well 2” : ‘‘ Hand me that sauce in the blue bottle. Now, don’t be angry! Dont lcok_as if you were ~ a nr ee errs ee or a a enn ea ———__________. 344 THE DARK WOMAN. going to throw it at me! You want to know ] crimson light that there illuminated all objects fall about the Princess of Wales, do you not?’ ‘14d0.7 “‘Then, if, after the strange events of to-night in this Palace, she is still alive, I will tell you that I have already ample evidence that her con- duct abroad was not what it should be.” “Your conduct, whether abroad or at home, George, has not been what it should be.” “That is not the question; but if you don’t want to hear anything more about the Princess of Wales, I don’t mind.” ‘Yes, I want toknow. Goon!” “Then I am resolved to put an end to all the “abuse and all the false feeling and resentment that exists in the country concerning her, by proving such facts against her as shall silence her pre- tended friends for ever.” “* How will you do that?” ‘¢T will bring her to trial.” “And then? What then ?” “I don’t know. But, my dear Annie, why talk on such matters? They are ‘not fit subjects be- tween you and me. I am so puzzled and con- founded by the events of this night, that I feel incapable of coming to any conclusion concerning them. By some mysterious means both the Prin- cess of Wales and Linda de Chevenaux were in the Palace to-night.” “De Chevenaux! full?” 66 It is.” s “Then, George, to-morrow I shall endeavour to find her out.” The Prince shrugged his shoulders. ‘You are wilful, Annie,” he said. ‘But if you would take my advice, you would have nothing to do with the Dark Woman, who can bring to you nothing but ill-will and injury.” _ “We shall see,” said Annie. There was a movement of a chair at this mo- ment, which startled the Princess of Wales, and made her believe that either Annie or the Regent would come past the gilt screen into the bed- chamber. On the impulse of the moment, the Princess rushed into the beautifully adorned bed-room of the Countess de Blonde, but no place of con- That is the name, then, in _ cealment presented itself there. She knew not what to do. It was in the despair of the moment that she seized upon a silk cloak, with a large hood to it, which Annie was accustomed to wear when, in strict incognita, she visited any of the theatres. The Princess of Wales cast over her dress this cloak, and pulled the hood over her face as far as she could without actually obscuring her eye- sight. “Twill fetch it,” said the Regent. What the “it” was that had to be fetched the Princess knew not, for she had lost a portion of the conversation between the Regent and Annie by darting so suddenly into the bed chamber. But the danger wa3 imminent. Another moment, and the Regent would be sure to see her. For once in her life, then, the Princess of Wales did a beld act, which was not dictated by either passion or folly. She stood in the middle of the floor of the mag- nificent chamber, and let the red glow of the SE ANN I NER, te to upon ber. The Prince saw the figure. He uttered a cry of alarm. “ What is it?” said Annie. The Princess of Wales hastily advanced a step. e The Regent darted out of the chamber into the sitting-room, and seizing upen Annie by the arm, he dragged her towards the fireplace, exclaiming, “Something !—somebody !—a spectre!” * Ah!” cried Annie. The Princess of Wales came with a slow and solemn step from behind the screen. _ The Regent could not speak for terror. Annie was dumb from surprise. “Beware!” said the Princess of Wales, in as deep a voice as she could assume—“ beware ! Heaven will protect the wife !” “The Dark Woman!” said Annie. ““No!” gasped the Regent. The Princess of Wales had crossed the room, and, opening the door, she was in another moment in the outer chamber of the suite of rooms occupied by Annie. One glance let her see that the door through which..she had eatered; and which she recol- lected would lead her out into the Titian Gallery, was closed. : The key was in the lock. The Princess of Wales seized upon the key, and taking it from the lock on the inside, she adroitly enough transferred it to the outside, and gain- ing the Titian Gallery, she locked the door at once. , The Regent and Annie were prisoners. The Princess of Wales fled with the utmost precipitation down the whole length of the gal- lery. ‘“Madam! madam! Your Royal Highness!” said a voice. ‘‘ What has happened ?” It was the voice of Willes. ‘“‘ Ah, you are there!” said the Princess. “You sought to lead me astray !” “Ags I live, no, your Royal Highness! Let me now, however, beg of you to leave St. Jamess Palace.” “T wish to do so. Very late.” The clock of the Palace struck the hour of two. “Lead me away,” added the Princess, in a voice of emotion. ‘I have seen and heard quite enough for a night.” Willes coughed. “And I begin to feel certain that the Regent did not really send for me.” ‘‘ Madam, I cannot answer you on that point. All I know is, that I was ordered by the Regent to admit two persons at the garden-door of Carl- ton House, and I did so. If your Royal Highness will condescend to follow me, I will conduct you to the park by the same route that we came from it to this place.” e “T follow. But ? ; ‘Your Royal Highness is pleased to speak.’ “No matter. I will follow you.” It is late.” THE DARK WOMAN, CHAPTER XC. THE PRINCESS OF WALES MAKSS AN APPEAL TO THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE, Tue Princess of Wales had carried out one of her two ideas—she had penetrated into the apartments in the occupation of the fair Countess de Blonde. ' The other idea remained still to be accomplished, if she could see her way to it. Willes was in hopes that the Princess would, now quietly leave Carlton House, and that there would be an end of those uncomfortable night ad- ventures in the Palace. He preceded the Princess of Wales through that same suite of apartments which led to the wing of Carlton House in the occupation of the Princess Charlotte. All sounds were so profoundly hushed in this No. 44 —Dark WoMAN. a A LE ET LCL ALICE BT fede) = oi! tlie special residence of the Regent, that it might well be supposed every one had retired to rest, and such indeed was the supposition of the Princess of .Wales. That, however, did not deter her from her project, for up to that night she entertained the idea that it would be possible to withdraw her daughter, the Princess Charlotte, from a coalition with the Regent, and to the public eye at least identify their interests. Nothing could have been of greater importance- to the Princess of Wales, in the contest which was about to ensue between her and the Regent, than the countenance and support of her daughter, the heiress apparent to the throne when the old King should be no more. The Princess of Wales little knew, however, the strength and quality, or indeed the nature, of the passions which would be called into existence, in order to get an answer to her application. ee NL with his most courtly bow. 346 THE DARK WOMAN. . The Begent had most effectually secured the | tears—and perhaps a mother’s reproaches=-may not allegiance of the Princess Charlotte, by his consent to her union with the Prince Leopold of Saxe- Coburg. “This way, your Royal Highness,” said Willes, ‘*T shall have the honour, in a few seconds, of seeing your Royal Highness safely in the park.” “T think you told me that this was the wing in Carlton House inhabited by the Princess Char- lotte?” Willes looked uneasy, but he could not help replying in the affirmative. “Then you will oblige me by pointing out my daughter's apartments to me.” Willes groaned. “I perceive,” he said, ina low tone to himself, “that it is not all over yet. Yeur Royal High- ness surely forgets that it is now half-past two o’clock in the morning, and at such an hour your Royal Highness would hardly wish to disturb the Princess,” * The hour is of no importance. I am here, and heaven only knows if I shall ever be beneath this roof again.” “ How forgetful am I!” exelaimed Willes, as he struck his forehead with his open hand,—‘ how forgetful [am! There is a reception to-night at the Duchess of Gloucester’s, The Princess Char- lotte was to go, and has not yet reiurned. I thought the extreme stillness of this wing of Carlton House was something extraordinary.” “Not returned at such an hour as this, and the Regent at home?” “‘T think, madam, that the Regent has had a slight difference with her Royal Highness the Duchess of Gloucester.” ,Willes and the Princess of Wales, while this conversation took place, were in a small, octagonal- shaped apartment, not many paces from the prin- cipal hall or entrance of Carlton House. The room was lit by a single lamp dependent from the ceiling; and by its light the Princess of Wales looked keenly into the face of the valet, for she did not believe one word of what he had recently stated. Willes was speaking the truth, however; and in the excitement and confusion of the rapid events which had taken place that night in St. James’s Palace, he had really forgotten that the Princess Charlotte was from home. A speedy confirmation of his siatement ensued, for the sound of carriage-wheels and the tramp of horses, together with the rattie of the arms of the | guard, proclaimed the return of the Princess Char- lotte from the Duchess of Gloucester’s entertain- ment. : These sounds reached the ears of Willes and the Princess of Wales at the same moment, al- though they were listened to with very different feel- ings. The valet was provoked at the inoppor- tune arrival of the Princess Charlotte, which pre- vented him from getting rid at once of the Regent’s wife, whose continued presence in the Palace was | a source to him of the greatest disquietude, The Princess of Wales was pleased, because the long-sought-for interview with her daughter - seemed now to be so easy of accomplishment. “T shall see her now!” she cried. ‘‘ Easily see her as she enters Carlton House! I will see her, and ascertain if a mother’s presence—a mother’s sway her conduct!” “Your Royal Highness will ruin all.” * All what ?” “ Me, I mean.” ‘*T have promised not to implicate you, and I will keep my word; but I will see Charlotte, and not all the world shall prevent me.” Willes saw how perfectly vain it was to make even any remonstrance against this determination — of the Princess of Wales to see her daughter. He avandoned the whole affair to fate; and mak- ing but one despairing gesture with his hands, he was about to leave the small, octagonal apartment, when his steps were arrested by the Princess. ‘‘One word before you go. Will my daughter —will Charlotte—will the Princess pass through this apartment ?” “She will—she must!” “ That is enough.” The Princess of Wales drew more closely around her the silken cloak she had brought from the apartment of Annie, Countess de Blonde? and she drew the hood more over her face at the moment that a broad massive door which led into the hall was flung open by a couple of servants, and the Princess Charlotte stepped into the room. Closely following her was the Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg, in a very elegant hussar uniform of sky -blue and silver. i Leopold only advanced about two paces into the room; and then with a low bow he said, * Prin- cess, I have the honour to wish you most happy . repose, and respectfully bid you good night!” It would seem that the Princess Charlotte was not in the best of humours with the man whom she had resolved to marry, for she replied some- what curtly, without even turning her head to look at him, “If you return quickly to Gloucester House, [ dare say you will find Lady Bentinck still there.” “T?” exclaimed the Prince, “Yes! Who else? Have you not heft fan— her bouquet—her handkerchief—or whatever else may be the gage d'amour ?? **On my honour x“ ‘‘Pshaw! There is little honour in St. James's, or there was little; and [ do not think it has increased within the last five minutes.” The two servants had discreetly closed the door. The Princess of Wales had shrunk back into the recess of a window. “JT shall. be full of despair,” said Leopold, ‘if you will not bid me good night, and I shall imagine i “What?” cried the Princess Charlotte, with such sudden vehemence that Leopold fairly leaped a foot from the floor, but as he alighted he tried to cover his confusion by a low bow. . ‘‘T shall imagine,” he added, ‘that you have joined the party at Buckingham House.” “ And what if I had 2” “T should be one of the most unhappy men-in life. But farewell, dear Princess! I am afraid that my presence here is not welcome to you, and I love your peace and serenity too much to inflict it upon you. Once more, farewell!” “Indeed!” said the Princess Charlotte, petu- lantly, but in a much softer tone, ,‘‘So you think it easy for me to mix myself up with the a ro base and contemptible intrigues of Buckingham House ?” “Your mother-——” The Princess Charlotte laughed scornfully. “My mother had better return to Dresden, and not confuse her daughter’s position, and I will _tell her so.” f “Tell her now, then,” said the Princess of Wales, as she stepped forward and throw the hood of her cloak off her face, ‘Tell her now, ungrateful girl, if you have the heart to do so!” The..Princess Charlotte manifested extreme surprise, but her nerves were by no means shaken to any considerable extent by this sudden ap- pearance of her mother in Carlton House. The Prince Leopold was much more impres- sionable of the two, for the moment he saw the Princess of Wales he made a sudden rush to leave the room, quite forgetting that the door was closed, and came against it with a clatter which, in its rebound, sent him back some two or three feet into the apartment. Then the Princess of Wales clasped her hands, and looked imploringly at her daughter. “Is it for you,” she said—‘is it for you, my own child, to turn against me and join with your ‘stony-hearted father in the cruel persecutions I endure? Charlotte, Charlotte, I appeal to your heart! It is with me at Buckingham House that you should reside, and not beneath the tainted roof of St. James’s or of Carlton House! Recollect, Charlotte, that my reputation is your character! How will you look to the world as. the daughter of one who--who——But, no! I will not talk in that way! It is to your feelings that I would appeal! There is a prince of the House of Brunswick who would gladly make you his bride. Abandon, I beg of you, that party which is called the party of the Regent, and at the same time abandon the needy adventurer who seems to have enthralled your fancy! Charlotte, Charlotte— my daughter, speak to: me!” The Princess Charlotte had preserved a sin- gular attitude while her mother was speaking. Sho held her head in a strange oblique fashion, and with her eyes half closed, appeared as if she scarcely heard what was addressed to her. The Prince Leopold was in an attitude as though he had been suddenly arrested in the middle of a bow, and had not the power to raise himself to the perpendicular again. “Ts that all?” said the Princess Charlotte. “©All?” cried the Princess of Wales. ‘Is it not enough? A mother pleads to her child—is not that enough ?” ‘Do you want my answer?” “Alas! I hear it in your tones !” ‘‘ That is well!” “ Ungrateful — cruel — selfish ! will I appeal to you!” “That is better!” The Princess of Wales burst into a paroxysm of tears. “You advise me,” said the Princess Charlotte, ‘and I will advise you. Go back to Parma— dismiss the crew you have gathered about you at Buckingham House—live in peace, and let me alone!” “You will kill me among you!” “Good night! I am fatigued! - Never again Prince ?” a “THE DARK WOMAN, 347 ‘¢Your Highness.” “ You will be so good as see my mother to her carriage.” ‘With pleasure!” murmured Leopold. “T have no carriage!” sobbed the Princess of Wales. . escorted by valets and by—by I know not whom, in disguise and on foot, and for your sake, Char- lotte!” “A needless trouble, take careof myself.” “ Alas! I doubt it!” “T thank you, mother! “Your Highness.” “You will see that one of my carriages is placed at the disposal of the Princess of Wales.” ‘‘No!” said the Princess. ‘‘On foot, as I came, so on foot will I leave! I carry a heavy heart with me, but one of your carriages, Char- lotte, will not make it the lighter !” ‘“* As you please.” “* Farewell!” “Good night!” * Out of my way, contemptible |’ The Princess Charlotte had passed through a door opposite to that which led into the hall, but Leopold was in the way of the Princess of Wales, and all the pent-up anger that was in her heart vented itself upon him in so sound a box on the ear, that for a few moments he saw twenty chandeliers in the room instead of one. She dashed open the broad, heavy door; and by the manner in which the lackeys without hastily withdrew, if seemed tolerably evident that they had made themselves acquainted with the little family scene which had taken place at nearly three o'clock in the morning in the octagon-room of Carlton House. I feel quite qualified to Prince ?” The Princess of Wales had drawn the hood of, the cloak over her face; butit was evident enough had been heard for them to know who she was. ‘““ Way for the Princess of Wales!” cried one. The outer doors of Carlton House were flung open, and through a crowd of servants the un- happy Princess made her way. She did not utter a word; but with quick steps, and a thousand angry feelings at her heart, took her route towards Buckingham House, The adventures of the night in St. James's Palace were over. In another hour the cold, grey dawn began to / steal over London. CHAPTER XCI. WOMAN RESOLVES TO TOLERATE - MARIAN FOR A TIMR. THE DARK LinDA DE CHEVENAUX, in her new character as Countess d’'Umbra, sat alone in her Pe eaald house in Hanover Square. An untasted breakfast was before her, and a wild, haggard look was upon her face, Sleep had not visited her eyelids now for more than thirty-six hours. Alas! how steep and thorny did she find the path to her high ambi-~ tion! How happy she thought she must surely be could she but discover that son of whom she had **T came here like a thief in the night, —— | | \ 348 EL TE AT. oncentee pe THE DARK WOMAN, been deprived before she could even bless the day- light that he looked upon ! She had ever pictured that moment as the end of all her cares—all her troubles ; as the blessed recompensing joy which should obliterate the deep scars of the heart which time and suffering had inflicted. And she had seen him—she had heard his voice —she had held his hands in hers—she had clasped him to her heart—and she had heard him call her ‘** Mother !” ~ But where was her happiness ? Alas! a hollow, dreamy echo seemed to answer. “¢ Where ?” The Dark Woman leant her face upon her hands. A suspicion—a faint thought—came across her that, after all, her life had been a mistake—that the end was not sanctifying the means. ‘“Am J, indeed,” she moaned, “ pursuing an ignis fatuus, misnamed ambition, and leaving far behind me that sweet peace of the soul which is nature's priceless treasure ?” These words were but murmured forth, and at the last they had died away to an indistinct sound. The Dark Woman slept. It was in vain that she had courted repose in the magnificent chamber to which she had retired during the few early hours that had remained to her of the morning after leaving St. James’s Palace. But now, in an uneasy posture, upon the hard, unyielding corner of a table, and with all the jar- ring interruption of light and life about her, she had slept. Exhausted nature would have its way; and although ‘‘ nature’s sweet restorer” had refused its presence, ‘‘ with all appliances and means to boot,” the slumber that had now come over the Dark Woman was deep and dreamless. It was within afew minutes of noon, and while the Dark Woman ‘still slept, two men stationed themselves silently and quietly against the railings of the square garden immediately opposite the house. ‘ They had not occupied this station more than ten minutes, when the carriage of Lord Ilchester turned into the square, and stopped abruptly be- fore the hall-door of the mansion in possession of the Countess d Umbra. The Earl of Ilchester himself alighted, and courteously inquired for the Countess. The Earl had a reputation for suavity of man- ner to servants, and was popular accordingly. He was informed the Countess was breakfasting ; and assuming the air of a friend of the house, he would scarcely permit himself to be announced, but entered the room with a look of excessive candour and kindliness, the moment the servant who preceded him opened the door. ‘* Countess,” he said, ‘‘ I promised you an early visit. Ah, what is this? Death or sleep ?” The door had swung shut, and the Earl of Il- chester was alone with the slumbering Dark Woman, But it might be a trick—the Earl was a diplo- matist, and had heard of such things, He resolved to act accordingly. “ How strange it is,” he said, “ that I cannot conquer the feeling that possesses me, to be the firm, the true, and the fast friend of this myste- rious and beautiful woman.” The Earl looked nervously at the Countess d'Umbra, to note what effect this Jesuitical speech had upon her. : She still appeared to sleep. “No,” he added, ‘‘no; I cannot and will not betray her. There is a charm about her mind—a rare and exquisite beauty in her eyes, which I cannot contemplate with indifference.” The Dark Woman still slept. The clever Lord Ilchester began to think that, after all, the sleep might be natural, and that he was wasting all his fine speeches upon the air of the breakfast-room. He stepped lightly to the window that was nearest to him, and looked over the way to the square railings, The two men were there. The Earl made a slight movement of one of his hands over the pane of glass immediately opposite to his face. The movement was echoed by one of the men, Then they both came over the way to the house. of the Countess d’Umbra. The Earl again turned towards the slumbering Dark Woman. “Madam! Awake, madam !” She did not move. 4 The Earl of Ilchester pushed a small and very beautiful china cup to the edge of the breakfast- table, and down upon the floor. The cup broke into fragments, for it was sharp, thin, and brittle. But the Dark Woman did not stir. Then the Earl of Ilchester touched her on the arm. She started to her feet. “Help! belp! The serpent!—oh, heaven, the hideous serpent!” “* Countess |” “My Lord J1chester !” “You dream !” “Dream? dream? Oh, heaven! Yes, I re- member now. I fell into a sleep here, but I do not remember your presence, my lord.” “J have had the honour and pleasure only just now to present myself.” The Dark Woman shuddered. “T dreamt of a serpent that was striving to enfold me in its terrible convolutions, and I awaken to find you here, my lord.” The Earl tried to get up a smile, “Do you know, Countess,” he said, ‘' that that little speech, although delivered with all your usual grace, is anything but flattering to me.” “Let it pass, my lord. I neither mean to flatter nor condemn you.” The Earl bowed. “And I ought, I suppose, to thank you for this visit, my lord.” ‘“‘T understood, madam, that you wished the world to see and know that you were on gocd terms with an Under Secretary of State, so I have taken the very earliest opportunity of call- ing upon you. My well-known carriage is at your door.” “That is well, my lord, and I thank you.” “But I have something to say to you, Coun- tess.” ‘‘T can see you have.” A slight accession of colour came to the face of the Earl, as he added, ‘‘I have thought over our THE DARK WOMAN. % EE CA A an NN eee 349 TL LLL LL interview of yesterday, and I cannot help coming | most particularly anxious that his safety should to one conclusion.” “ What is that ?” “Tt is that the danger is all on my side, and that I am called upon to have all the confidence. You ought to return me the small box with the letters you took from my cabinet.” safle (s ‘‘But I cannot help saying ‘ Yes,’ Countess.” “Tt is of no use, my lord, for you to say ‘ Yes,’ because you must be well aware that until I say ‘Yes’ you cannot have the letters.” “A bargain, Countess !” “ What bargain ?” ‘The Regent a “ Well, the Regent s : ‘“‘ Granted a short time ago—a time that can be measured by hours—what, if it had been at all regular, would have constituted a free pardon.” The Dark Woman turned as pale as death. ‘A free pardon,” added the Secretary, “ toa man who had been left for execution.” “© Go on.” “ But—but, Countess, that free pardon was 80 very irregular, that—wanting, as it did, the coun- tersign of the Home Secretary—it was really of no ayail; and, from information which has been brought to me, I am aware that if a certain per- son had not carried that supposed pardon to Newgate, and if the mob had not aided and abetted that certain person a The Dark Woman turned her flashing eyes full upon the face of the Earl of Ilchester, as she said, “Speak out, my lord—speak out! What is it you mean by all this ?” “Simply that Allan Fearon, who was tried and condemned, may at any moment be arrested again and conveyed to Newgate, on account of the in- formality of the circumstances connected with the liberation.” “No!” “T am truly sorry to differ from you, Countess, but such is the fact.” “There was the signature of the Regent—of his own x ‘* No doubt there was; but yet there is a mode of transacting such business, which, if it be once departed from, would soon derange all the affairs of the Home Office.” ‘““T care not for your modes and forms, Allan Fearon was falsely accused and wrongfully con- demned, The Regent wrote an order for his libe- ration, and he was liberated.” ‘‘ By the exertions of a certain person.” “T did it.” “So I was informed.” ‘“‘ You were rightly informed, my Jord.” “Yes. 1 have had the account of how a woman, in a state of the greatest excitement, and mounted on a horse which had been goaded to its utmost speed, reached Newgate at almost the last moment that could be of any service to the criminal.” “To the innocently condemned, my lord.” ‘“* As you please, Countess.” “Tt is not as I please. I do not make at my pleasure innocence or guilt. Allan Fearon was falsely accused, and unjustly condemned. I inter- fered and saved him.” “You did; and, as I feel assured, Countess, that you must have some very powerful reasons for saving that young man’s life, I am, as your friend, np re be complete and assured.” “ Ah, indeed ?” “Tt is so, I will procure a more regular pardon for him, and see that it is properly countersigned by the Duke of Portland.” The Dark Woman looked the Earl of Ilchester full in the eyes. He stood the scrutinizing gaze very well for a few seconds, and then his eyes fell before it. ‘“‘ You have something else to say, my lord?” “T have.” “T listen.” “T think that, for this service, you ought to give me back the box and the letters.” “T thought so.” “T am glad to hear you say that, because it convinces me that we have both the same idea, Yon will do so?” “No!” ‘Countess, consider !” “‘T require no consideration.” “You decide, then ?” eh dol* “T am sorry, because—because-——” ‘Because what ?” ““That young man was traced to this house yesterday. He was; seen to leave it; and there are two officers attached to the Home Office who keep watch upon it, and-who will assuredly arrest him so soon as he shows his face in Hanover Square again.” “ Treachery !” “No. I only act ministerially. duty.” “Since when did the duty of the Earl of Il- chester ever induce him to do anything he could possibly avoid, which was contrary to his incli- nation ?” ; “Countess, you are in error, better to abide by facts?” ~ ‘“‘T comprehend!” “T am sure you do!” “You have found ouf that I am interested in the life of this young man, Allan Fearon. You offer me that life, you say, without the shadow of a doubt, if I will return to you the box and the letters I ‘took from your private cabinet ?”- (3) I do.” “T refuse the offer !” “Beware, madam, beware! fickle !” . “T know that well.” ‘And the pardon he granted only # day or two ago may be refused again, provided some techni- cality enable him so to do.” : ‘“‘T know that.” “Then, Countess, I put it to your wisdom, if you are really interested so much in this young man, to actin a manner that such wisdom will dictate,” ; ‘‘IT mean to do so. I have but one thing to say to you, my lord; and that is, that the Regent dare not do otherwise than protect the life of Allan Fearon !” “ Dare not ?” ““T use the words advisedly. The Earl shook his head. “ Allan Fearon is in no danger. I warn you, my Lord Ilchester, for your own sake—for the jake of your head, I warn you to abstain from It is my Will it not be The Regent is Dare not!” A ET RE OETA TN a A me 350 THE DARK WOMAN. contriving aught mischievous to that young man!” A tap came at the door of the room, “ Come in,” said the Dark Woman. The page appeared. “Two men, my lady, who will give no names, desire to see you.’ The Earl looked grave. “ Admit them,” said the Dark Woman. ‘I can be in no danger while my excellent friend the Earl of Ilchester is present. Mi ‘Nay, Countess.” “Ah, my lord, here are your two officers!” Two ‘slouching-looking, powerful men appeared at the door of the apartment. “ Wait!” said the Earl; ‘ wait without! The men made awkward bows, and waited outside the door. “Countess,” said the Earl, ‘' there is danger!” “T know it.” “To you!” “‘No, to you, my lord Y “You deceive yourself, Countess.” ~“ Not in the least. The change in the Ministry will take place this week. The new Administra- tion is to be a coalition one, under my Lord North, and you are promised the Home Secretaryship; but the production of the letters I have, which would prove your treasonable correspondence with the French, would destroy you. I have those letters; so you see, my lord, it is you who are in danger, and not I, 7 * Woman !” “Man !” ‘You know not what you say. I have but to call in those two men, and point you ont to them as the celebrated—no, I should say notorious Dark Woman, and within an hour from now yon } wonld be in a cell in Newgate. Give me the letters, and for all time you shall be safe. They are either concealed about you or in the house, and in any case I must easily find them if you are not at liberty to prevent me,’ ‘““No, my lord! Those important letters are not about me, or in the house.” “Where, then ?” “Of course I will tell you.” ‘Then I have made up my mind.” “To what ?” “To run my risk. I cannot and will not live with such a sword hanging over my head. I will proclaim who you are, and I will see that Allan Fearon is again given into custody. Offi- cers !” The two men entered the room. “One moment!” said the Dark Woman, want to give you time for reflection.” “T have reflected.” “You cannot ?” “ Cannot ?” “No, not with effect, because you haye not sufficient information to guide you.’ The page at this moment appeared, and looked in the face of the Dark Woman as if awaiting liberty to speak, ‘“‘ What is it, Carlos?” “Mr. Fearon, madam.” ee Ah!” p “Good !” said the ae: Allan stood on the threshold of the door. The Dark Woman gave a slight gasping sort of oe i sob for a moment, and then she was calm and still again, and bold and fearless, ‘“‘T intrude,” said Allan, “ You intrude ! No; that is impossible,” * She loves him,” muttered the Secretary; ‘T can see that she loves him.” The two officers whispered together. They had heard the name of Allan Fearon, and they re- cognised the condemned man who had been go near death at Newgate. The Dark Woman advanced to ae and took him by the hand. “Sit down,” she said. “Sit down. Who should be at home here, if you are not?” yet have come,” said Allan, ‘‘ aceording to my promise.” “Hush! not another word at present.” Allan looked perplexed. The Dark Woman took the Earl of Ilchester by the arm, and led him.into the recess of one of the windows. ‘My lord, you are terrified about letters.” “You know Iam, I cannot, and will not, take office until I have them.” ** And I have refused them to you.” ‘You do refuse them; and so I will proclaim war against you, and I will let the officers do their duty ; and both you and that young man, whose relation to you I can easily understand, will be destroyed.” “You never were more mistaken in your life, my lord. You not only do not know the relation in which that young man stands fo me, nor shall we be destroyed. € ‘‘ What is to save you? you ?” “The Earl of Ilchester!” 6b No! » Yes, yes—-again and again! I will make a confidence with you. Allan Fearon, my lord, is my son.” ' “ Your son!” “Even so. Stolén cruelly from me when an infant, I only found, by a singular combination of circumstances, that he had that relation to me, when, so to speak, he stood upon the scaffold, an innocent but a condemned man, before Newgate. All that I have done throughout my life has been for the sole purpose of discovering my son. I have now discovered him. Will you seek his and my destruction? Will you, my lord, be the man who, when the mother and the child are united, will consign them both to death? It will bea terrible spectacle to see us both brought forth to die--I as the Dark Woman, he as the still inno- cent, but still condemned, "Allan Fearon! Ido not: believe that you have a bad heart, my Lord Ilchester. Appeal to it! Ask it, rather than the brain of the diplomatist and politician, what you ought to do. I have suffered much. God help me!” The Earl of Ilchester was silent for a few minutes. Then he turned to the two officers, and said, in a deep voice, ‘‘ You can go. You are no longer wanted here—you can go. There is a guinea, with which you can drink the health of the Countess d’Umbra.” those Who is to save ———— THE DARK WOMAN. . 351 CHAPTER XCII. THE ALLIANCE BETWEEN THE DARK WOMAN AND LORD ILCHESTER IS PLACED UPON A MUCH FIRMER BASIS, Tne two officers hesitated. One of them spoke roughly. “Tf it so please you, my lord, the Governor said as we were to nab Allan Fearon off-hand.” “ What governor?” * The Governor of the jug!” “Can't you say Newgate, Bill?” said the other. . “Do you know me ?” gaid the Earl. “Yes, my lord.” “Then, if you don’t obey my orders, and be off at once, I will have you both laid by the heels | before you are an hour older.” “Come along, Bill !” “Tm a coming.” > The two officers left the room sulkily, and in another moment a tremendous noise was heard on the stairs. A compound of oaths and shouts, and such a _rumbling sound, that one might have well supposed some bulky piece of furniture had been brought to the head of the grand staircase, and then toppled over, to find its way into the hall by the force of gravitation. Binks then put his head into the room. * My lady,” he said, ‘‘is there anything else ?” “What do you mean?” “They have gone down. I was only just a-going by the door, promiscous, when those two fellow#came out, and one on ’em, he says to the other, says he, ‘I'll be hanged,’ says he, ‘if Vil go down stairs, though I’m told;’ and the other on ’em, he says, ‘No more will I,’ so I helped ’em The Earl of Ilchester smiled. “That will do,” said the Dark Woman. “Very good,” said Binks, and he withdrew his head from the doorway. “So, my lord,” said the Dark Woman, “ you have, after all, had the generosity to forego your intentions ?” ‘*Madam, I will sénd you, in the course of the day, the proper pardon, countersigned by the Duke of Portland, for Mr. Fearon, 80 waa he will be free from all danger. a ‘‘ He has bitter enemies.” ‘*T know it.” bs you will not seein me as the— the-—— The Dark Woman remembered at that moment that Allan had not been taken sufiiciently as yet into her confidence to know that she was the celebrated Dark Woman, of whom he must have heard. The Earl was puzzled. “ Countess,” he said, ‘‘I do not mean to inter- fere with you, or attack you in any way what- “ And you will trust me with the letters ?” “Twill, I feel confident that you will never use them to my detriment.” “Then, my Lord. Iichester, they are far better in your own possession,” said "the Dark Woman, The Earl started * The Dark Woman took a small gold key from a ribbon that was round her neck, and by its aid opened the top of an inlaid work-table in the room. ‘There, my Lord Ilchester,” she said, as she produced a packet tied round with green silk,— ‘*there are your letters.” “Ts it possible?” ‘‘ Examine them.” “There is no need, Countess. If you say they are bere, I believe it. This generosity shall not be misapplied, you may be assured.” “T am assured; and now I have something more to say to you.” “ Believe me, I will never seek to injure you or your son, I can well understand that your affec tion for him filled you with a thousand fears.” ‘6 Not one!” ‘¢ Not one ?” ** No, my lord; I really had not one solitary fear on his account. . Come further into the recess of the window, and I will tell you why.” *‘ Indeed !’” “Did I not say that the Regent dared not let him perish ?” “You did.” “Tt was no idle bravado. The Prince of Wales may be selfish, thoughtless, and dissipated, but he is human. Allan Fearon is his own son!” The Secretary started with surprise, “Good heavens!” he said. ‘Now, Countess, I know you for the first time.” The Dark Woman smiled sadly. ‘You are Linda de Chevenaux !” “*Tam. But I should hardly have thought that such a name was in the memory of the Earl of Iichester.” “T have heard your story. It was said t. at more than seventeen years ago the Regent But I will not offend you by saying what was said,” “You will not offend me. hear.” “Tt was said, then, that Linda de Chevenaux was the mistress of the Prince, but that an acces- sion of insanity came over her on the birth of a child, and that she murdered the child, and attempted the life of the Prince, so that, as a matter of necessity, she was placed in an asylum,” “That tale was a fabrication,” ‘So it seems, madam.” “T was forced into an asylum to stop my com- plaints, and my?child was torn from me, no doubt with the hope that we should never meet again.” “Tt is a sad story.” ‘‘] was married to the Regent.” then, I would rather *‘ Indeed !” “Yes, Iam the true Princess of Wales—the Princess Linda of Wales, and wife to the Regent.” The Earl bowed. ; ‘ST can see you doubt me, my lord; but I tell’ you that I only live now for one object, and that is to procure a recognition of my proper position, and the proper position of my son. The consent of the King was produced by the Prince of Wales to our marriage.” ‘“‘ Have you that consent ?” “T haye not, unfortunately; but the King still lives—the King who gave it!” ss You may say he lives, but it if vitality with- oe oS 352 out life. You are aware of his sad and serious mental condition ?” “Tam; but he may yet be restored to sanity, and there must be lucid intervals, in some one of which he will remember that he gave such a con- sent.” ‘But who shall ask him?” “T will.” “You, madam ?” “Yes, I will find away even to the secret chambers of Windsor Castle, which hide from the world the spectacle of a deranged King.” The Earl of Ilchester looked confused. ‘‘Do you know, Countess,” he said, “that if I countenance you in society under the name of the Countess d’Umbra, I shall commit myself and my official position most seriously, and do you, at the same time, but a very limited and doubtful good ?” “T have thought of that, and release you from all such obligation.” “T owe you many thanks.” ‘T have but one thing to ask of you, my lord; and that is, that, for the present, what I have told you shall remain locked in your own breast.” “Most religiously.” “Then I will detain you no longer, but you will depart with a better knowledge of the Coun- tess d'Umbra.” “‘T shall, indeeed. Farewell, madam, and may success attend you. If your marriage with the Prince of Wales were established, a son would be a better boon to the nation than a daughter.” The Secretary bowed, and left the room, bowing, too, to Allan Fearon, as he passed him. Allan returned the salutation; and then, as the Dark Woman regarded him with a smile of pride and affection, he said, “ Who is that Sipe ae mother ?” ‘The Earl of Ilchester, one of the Under Beene taries of State, and one who will soon be Minister himself for Home Affairs. You are safe now, my son, although you were not so yesterday.” The Dark Woman clasped Allan for a moment to her heart. ‘You are saved!” she said. “I, for once in my life—I have been compelled to trust to the better part in human nature. There is no more danger. You are my own son, and although bit by bit our secret is becoming known—although one by one-there are persons who are sharing with us a knowledge of the mystery of your birth, we are yet daily gathering security and power.” “Mother,” said Allan, sadly, ‘I have thought much of what you said to me at our last inter- view.” “ You were right to think much, my son. The prospect of what you might be no doubt dazzled you.’ ‘No, mother.” “Say you so?” “It saddened me. I could not but think there must surely be a world of difficulty in the proof of your marriage with the Regent, and perhaps like- wise a world of danger.” “Difficulty? danger? Is it my son who talks of difficulty and: danger, when a crown almost hovers in the air for his acceptance ?” “ Believe it not—believe it not! I have heard much of the Regent, and I know well that where his passions are concerned, either of love or of THE DARK WOMAN. hatred, he is subtle, deep, and dangerous. I re- collect ““ What-do you recollect? You could have had no experience of the Regent, or of his loves or hates.” “T grieve to say that I have had such expe- rience, Annie Gray, who now calls herself Coun- tess de Blonde, is the sister of my wife; and there was another, too, a young girl of the name of Singleton.” “Ah, I had forgotten! How strangely more important events banish from the recollection the trivialities of life! It seems as if it were an age since the affair you mention.” “ But do you know of them, mother ae , “Ido. The father of the girl you speak of is the celebrated Sixteen-stringed Jack the high- wayman.” “That is true. But it is strange to me that you should be acquainted even with his name.” “We will not talk of the past, my son; the future is all before us. I, too, have reflected*upon our interview of yesterday, and I cannot refuse to honour the constancy with which you cling to the love of one who has shared your more humble state. I will receive your wife, and your fortune shall be her fortune, Come, both of you, to this house; and as the Chevalier and Lady d'Umbra you shall at once exchange your present life of poverty for one of brilliant wealth.” Allan cast down his eyes, and sighed. ** You hesitate!” ‘Alas! mother, Iam as one perplexed in the extreme.” “You doubt me. There yet lingers in your heart a suspicion—a baleful something which makes you dream that this is all a delusion.” ‘No, no! Ido believe from my inmost soul that you are my mother!” “And yet you hesitate!” “Oh, mother, our paths are different! We are both wanderers in the world. You seek the thorny road of ambition—Z ths lowly path of contentment !” ‘Can this be possible? Are you so spiritless a thing that you would barter your high birth- right for so mean a thing as a peasant’s content- ment ?” “ Mother,” said Allan, I thank you much, be- cause you have spoken kindly of my wife; but I fear “ Fear ?” “Hear me. I do not fear in the sense you take the word; but I fear that your imagination-has carried you into the land of improbabilities. That you have been grievously wronged by the Re- gent long ago, I do not doubt, and since you tell me so, I will not doubt he is my father.” “My son, dare you doubt your mother's honour ?” “Nor her injuries.” " “What mean you?” ‘Mother, bear with me. All the love that you could ever hope for or dream of, shall be yours ; but the tale is an old’ one, and ‘has been oft re- peated. A Prince’s wayward fancy—struggling virtue blinded and soothed by a mock marriage— and then desertion !” The Dark Woman trembled to such an excess that but for the sustaining arm of Allan she must have fallen to the floor. ee ee THE DARKE Hira Was there something, after all, deep in the re- cesses of her own heart which echoed to these words from Allan Fearon? “And this from you?” she said—‘‘and this from you? You my accuser ?” ‘Perish the word, mother, I accuse only the hearilesa libertine who has wrecked your peace,” “ Alas, alas!” “But hear me. I come to tell you of a reso- lution. It is one, too, which has gathered strength since you informed me 1 am entirely free, and that no legal technicality can ascail me.” ’ What resolution ?” *‘] mean to see my father.” “You—you, my son? You see the Regent ?” “Even so. It is fit that I should see him. Were he twenty times a Regent, he is but a man, aod he shall hear me!” “No, no! He will destroy youl” “His own son? Impossible!” No. 45.—Dark WOMAN. WOMAN, h { A SS : ANAS hy Sw a I WN NNR NS SS SR DYNAN i MY \\ ‘ ~ \y \y Ht, My S \ i A\\ Y ANS = 4 3 A SS Mh xt Tf ae: | ~~ —= “You wil drive me to madness! My son, my fon, you undermine the whole edifice of my life, and we shall both fall amid its ruins.” ‘“No, mother. I can well imagine that having set your heart upon the proof of your legal marriage with the Regent, you think it can be substantiated by intricate intrigue—by placing one interest against another—by awakening jealousies, and embroiling many persons; but J, mother, would go direct to the task. You say the Regent is my father, and if so, he is your husband, or iY “No, no!—say not the word !” “Tt is not a word of evil to you, mothet ; it was betrayer I would have said.” “ You torture me—you torture me |” “Not for worlds !” “You do not mean daggers, but your words sink like envenomed poniards in my heart! Take m:re time for thought yourself, and give me time. ee Roe ep 3% ; Saintes si eckla Nao i ase Bring to this house your wife, and be assured that she shall have the welcome of a princess,” “ Will you pardon me, mother, if I say not yet 2?” - “And wherefore not yet ?” “T gee that you are rich—the evidences of wealth are around you. I know not from whence these riches have come to you, but for the present I would fain be the poor Allan Fearon, with no- thing to depend upon but thess two hands, and this willing mind, for a subsistence, than I would share the wealth the source of which I know not.” The Dark Woman tried to speak, but her voice refused her utterance. Terrible phantasma of many dark deeds, from whence that wealth had arisen, floated through her mind, The midnight robbery —the plundered traveller on the heath or the road —the cry of murder—such were the sources of the wealth which the mistress of Paul's Chickens now revelled in. And over her excited fancy, too, came the recol- lection of that fearful night, when, at her instiga- tion, went that crashing volley of fire-arms which had left but two crawling wretches—wounded and blood-stained — to brood over future vengeance against the Dark Woman. And with all this came the still more terrible thought that her son might know more than he would avow. What if those fearful words “ Dark Woman” were really associated in his mind with her? If such were the case, well might she despise the wealih which was the price of crime and blood. A film came over the Dark Woman's eyes, and once again—it was for the fourth time now—her heart nearly ceased to beat, and she felt the shadow of death about her. “You kill.me—you kill me !” she moaned. “What have I said? what have I done to cause this most intense emotion ?” You reject—you despise “Not you, mother. But—I cannot tell you how or why it is—there is a something at my heart that bids me pause in accepting from you those luxuries which would bring perpetual sunshine to my soul could I but surround my Marian with them.” * And you will not ?” ** Be patient with me for a while.” “Tt is pride—it is pride!” “T know not. But yet again I ask you to be patient with me, and again I say that I will see my father.” ‘** Let me think—let me think !” The Dark Woman clasped her hands over her eyes for several minutes, and when she looked upon Allan’s face again there was more compo- sure in her countenance. “ You shall see him!” she said. “I will take you to him! Who shall say but that one touch ef nature may reach even his heart ?” “Have you access to the Regent . “‘T have, and at my pleasure.” “Mother, 1 would not have you present at the interview—I would not have you a listener to it. “Ah! you fear me!” “No; I fear myself,” 99 There came a tap at the door of the apart-: ment, THES DARK WOMAN, “Hush !” said the Dark Woman; ‘not a word! At least, while here, you play the part of the Chevalier d’Umbra.” CHAPTER XCIII. WILLES TRIES TO BREAK THE BONDS WHICH UNITE HIM TO THE DARK WOMAN. Tuar young page, in whose fidelity the Dark Woman placed such reliance, glided into the apart- ment. A small scrap of paper was handed to the Dark Woman, whose lips curled with “a certain scorn as she cast her eyes upon it, “Sir Thomas Willes!” she said, in low tones. “That is a reach of ambition for a valet! Is he mad?” “ He waits below,” said the page. “ Admit him, buf linger for a moment on your way.” The page bowed, and left the apartment. “George,” said the Dark Woman, ‘I will order this man to help you to an interview with the Regent, since you are resolved upon it.” “It sounds so strange to call me George, mother.” ‘*T would have named you that. Retire behind yon screen, and you shall hear what passes between me and this Sir Thomas Willes.” Allan Fearon retired behind the screen, and ina few seconds the page introduced the Regent’s valet. Willes gave a well-aftected start as he entered the apartment, and exclaimed, “Ah, madam, is it possible that it was from your ladyship that I received the note dated from this house, and re- questing me to call upon the Countess d’Umbra ?” “It was I who wrote to you; and, notwith- standing 1 am somewhat disguised, you know me.” “Madam, it isa little talent 1 have to know people; but really I have no news for your lady- ship, except that the Princess of Wales was all the while running through the Palace, in the hope of meeting with the Countess de Blonde; and after that, she had a brief interview with the Princess Charlotte, close to the hall of Carlton House.” ‘Which ended in nothing ?” “Nothing, my lady, except a still wider breach between the mother and daughter.” “That is as it should be. Where is the Regent ?” ‘‘Ah, madam, he is indisposed. His Royal Highness fancies himself ill, and keeps his cham- ber.” ‘‘ Listen to me. I require a service of you.” ‘Madam, madam, you will destroy me! Look at me! AmTIthe manI was? Anxiety—want | of rest—constant alarms, are killing me. I implore you, madam, to endeavour to do without me, and to Jet me rest in peace,” “T will make to you a promise.” “Madam, if it be to release me, I shall be much beholden to you.” “There is a gentleman who desires an interview with the Regent.” ‘Gracious heavens, madam! ” He must apply to the Chamberlain, or the Privy Purse,” “That would be to court refusal.” Willes made a gesture as if he would tear a handful of hair from his head. THE DARK WOMAN, 355 ‘Madam, I cannot do it—I dare not doit! I walk in terror the whole day, and at night I always dream of tumbling over precipices and down stair- cases. But I will tell you what the gentleman should do, I will give you advice, madam, if you will hear me.” “Speak!” + f Let him apply then to the Countess de Blonde. The fair Countess does what she likes, and says what she likes. Let him apply to her, and if she chooses to say that he shall have an interview with the Regent, an interview he will have, if she held the Prince by the hair of his head to grant it him.” “Tt is not a bad thought, and perhaps may suffice.” “Let it suffice, madam—let it suffice, Any information I can give to your ladyship, I will bring to you with pleasure; but introducing people into the Palace is so dangerous a pastime, that the mere anxiety of it would be the death of me.” “Go, then. I will not test your loyalty to me in that particular at present.” “A thousand thanks !” “You return here this day week.” “If your ladyship pleases.” Willes left the house, and Allan emerged from behind the screen. “You hear, my son,” said the Dark Woman. ‘You must apply te the Countess de Blonde if you would see the Regent.” “Mother, I will do so. I know Annie Gray well; and from what my Marian has told me, I am well assured that she interested herself largely in my favour when I lay condemned in Newgate.” ‘6 She did. And if I live and prosper, she shall never sink into the low estate which usually ac- companies a discarded favourite. But will you leave me thus, my son? Will you leave me the con- sciousness that you may be in want?” ‘Fear not for me. I have trust in that Pro- vidence which has hitherto protected me. Fare- well, mother—for the present, farewell |” “One word before you go. Should you see the Regent, and should he speak harshly of me ' The Dark Woman paused, but Allan Fearon uoderstood her, “"T will believe nothing to your detriment, and it is scarcely from the Prince of Wales, though he be my father, that I shall seek for facts.” ‘* Go, then, and may heaven aid you!” The Dark Woman was evidently but faint and ill at ease; and when Allan had left the house, she remained for a long time in deep and anxious thought. She could not possibly conceal from herself but that, sooner or later, Allan must know that she had been called the Dark Woman, and perhaps it would be a positive relief to her if the Regent himself were to give him the intelligence. At all events, she trusted to the chapter of accidents, that this projected interview of Allan “with the Prince might assist rather than retard her projects. And, after all, how was she to prevent it? For if Allan Fearon had the will to see the Regent, even high in station as he was, and difficult of ‘ access, that will would most surely work itself a | way. But Allan was not quite satisfied with himself, and mere than once he put the question to his own heart whether he had not, by some high-flown and fanciful sense of honour, rejected that assistance which both himself and Marian stood so much in need of, _ But Allan was young and sanguine, and in the great city by which he was surrounded he thought surely no one need starve who had the heart and will to work. He resolved to run home to Marian, and then to set forth on an expedition to seek for some means of obtaining a livelihood. In the Strand, though, he was surprised to be accosted by a quiet-looking man dressed in black, who at the moment he did not recognise, until by his smiling he saw that it was Sixteen: stringed Jack, so well disguised that his most intimate friend might have passed him. “T am rejoiced to see you,” said Jack, would insist upon my coming to London to know how it fared with you aud Marian. I have been to your old lodgings in Martlett’s Court, and was directed to your new abode.” “Tt was with the hope of seeing you, Jack Singleton,” said Allan, ‘‘ that we left our address behind us.” “I’m glad to hear that, I hope that I shall never lose sight of you. I’ve been thinking of you for many an hour, and Lucy will have it that I ought to tell you all I know of one who seems to take an extraordinary interest in you.” Allan felt sick at heart, for he feared what was coming would have too close a relation to the Countess d’ Umbra, “ Jack,” he said, ‘‘I almost think I ought not to listen to you.” | ‘‘ Indeed, Allan !” “Yes. You do not know—that is, I am afraid, Jack———Jack, tell me at once, who is it of whom you would speak ?” “A most mysterious personage.” “And her name?” ‘*She’s called the Dark Woman; and brief as was your interview with her in the Old Bailey, you must have seen that she was no ordinary per- sonage. For my part, I forgive her totally and freely everything that she has done against me or mine, on account of that morning’s work, when she evidently was disposed to stir heaven and earth to save you, and succeeded.” “Ts she,” said Allan, faintly, “always called the Dark Woman ?” “Oh, no! She is at times a countess.” Allan hung heavily upon the arm of Sixteen- stringed Jack, and a deadly pallor spread over his countenance. “The Countess d’Umbra?” he said. “Oh, no!” “No? For the love of heaven, say no again !” “Tsay it freely. The Countess de Launy was the lady’s title.” ae breathe again,” “ But—— “Ah, you have more to say !” “‘Only that I believe she has as many aliases as the moon has changes. But be she what she may or whom she may, Allan,—and I think you ought to know all about her—she is entitled to your gratitude, for she saved your life.” “Yes, to my gratitude. But tell me all. I have heard too much or too little. Let me know all, Jack; and if it be a tale even of criminality, “Lucy | . a a ee nS EE ES Sn ee ee ee 356 I will endeavour to find excuses for the wrecked heart of the bewildered spirit.” “You amaze me!” “*T shall amaze you more. For if my worst fears are not but the vain chimeras of imagination, that Dark Woman, that person of many disguises and dramatic episodes, is my mother !” + Good heavens !” said Jack ‘It is but too true,” added Allan Fearon, mournfully; ‘and it is proper that I should tell you.” Sixteen-stringed Jack took the arm of Allan, and led him along for some few minutes in silence. It was not a silence that poor Allan felt inclined to break. When Jack spoke again, his voice was very sad. ‘‘ My friend,” he said, ‘‘I am afraid that this is & great unhappiness to you.” Allan sighed. ‘But are you quite certain of the fact?” ‘“T have every possible assurance. You and your daughter Lucy are both aware that I was a foundling. There was certain to be some sad story of crime or of misfortune attached to my birth. I might, by the grace of heaven, have passed through life still in ignorance of who or what I was, but that goodness has been denied me.” “Do not say that,” said Jack. ‘ You know very well that the desire to know who were your parents was one that you would never be able wholly to get rid of.” “It may be so.” “It was so, Fearon. It was a desire which day by day would have grown stronger; and notwith- standing all your happiness with Marian, it would still have hung over your spirits like a cloud.” ‘You are right, Jack—you are right! Now I shall ask you to tell me all you know of—of my mother.” *' Nol” said Jack. ““T expected you would say no; but still, Jack, you must tell me.” ‘‘No, again, Allan—no, twenty times, if you like. Let some one tell you who does not feel so friendly towards you as I do. I regret much that I ever mentioned the name of the Dark Woman to you.” ‘‘ Jack, hear me.” “Well?” “You say, let some one who is not friendly with me tell me all. Do you not think it would come in & kindlier fashion from one who is friendly to me, Jack ?” ‘t Perhaps.” ‘Then tell me all you know.” **'You insist ?” “*T do indeed.” “Then the Dark Woman became known to me as the chief and directress of a formidable gang of depredators, known as the ‘Paul’s Chickens.’ They were so beld—so strong—so fearless—that their success was something great. Whenever a housebreaker or a knight of the road made for himself any name, he was sure to be invited to _ enrol himself as a member of the band of the Dark Woman.” Jack Singleton,” said Allan, ‘‘is it from your own knowledge you speak, or from report ?” “From my own knowledge.” THE DARK WOMAN, “Go on, then.” “Well, Allan, all things must have an end, and so the fraternity named ‘Paul's Chickens’ saw, at length, its last day.” “Tt is over now?” * Quite.” “ Thank heaven for that much !” “The booty collected,” added Jack, “was very great, and some, if not all, of the members of the fraternity began to wish for a fair division of the spoil, according to agreement, and they called upon the Dark Woman to render an account.” “She did?” ““She promised. There was a meeting for the purpose at a house behind St. Paul’s, in Doctors’ Commons. The band of ‘ Paul's Chickens’ at- tended, and a catastrophe took place, from which only-two escaped.” “Ah!” “Tbe Dark Woman avoided the distribution of the booty.” “T see it all—I see it all, now! The moni- tions of my heart were only too real, too true! The luxury, the wealth, the lavish expenditure, the almost regal state of the Countess d Umbra, are founded upon the booty collected by the band ef robbers you have named.” Who, Allan, is this Countess d Umbra ?” Allan turned and looked in the face of Jack, as be said slowly, ‘It is the last alias of the Dark Woman.” ‘‘T am sorry for you, Fearon!” “TI thank you, Jack Singleton. It is not the sympathy of every one that I would ask for, but yours I know to be that of a friend.” “Tt is, indeed.” * Allan held up his right hand then, and ina voice of fervour, he said, ‘No, no! Not if gaunt starvation stared me in the face—not if all hope was lost, and quenched for ever in despair, would I consent to be a sharer in the unhallowed wealth of the Dark Woman !” Jack looked abstracted for a few moments, and then ké said, in a low tone, “ Allan, what do you mean to do ?” “ Work!” “You are right!” “T know I am.” ** You will be happier.” “Far happier, Jack, than if all the blood- stained gold of—of—my mother were rolling at my feet, and I had but to stoop to pick up heaps of the glittering temptation.” Jack held out his hand. “Good bye, Allan,” he said. I will come and see you soon.” “Do se—do so; and remember kindly both my- self and Marian to your daughter Lucy.” “That will I, Allan. If ever you want a friend, you know where to find me on Hampstead Heath ?” “‘ Yes—oh, yes.” Jack and Allan were at the top of the narrow street which led down to the banks of the Thames, where the old-fashioned house in which Allan and Marian had found a home was situated; and they were on the point of parting, when a man darted out of a doorway, and placing his hand upon Jack's arm, he said, “ You are my prisoner, Jack Singleton!” “Ah!” cried Jack; “you say 80.” “God bless you! “And I mean it, too! Help!—help! Jn the King’s name, help! help!” There was a rush of people from the stand, but _ Jack had flung off the officer, who, by the move- ment, came with violence against Allan Fearon. Allan was determined that Jack should not be arrested if he could help it, and he raised his right arm and hit the officer one straijght- forward blow, which sent him rolling into the road. ‘Go home,” cried Jack. ‘All's right!” A door of a private house opened on the mo- ment, and, to the surprise of Allan, Sixteen stringed Jack's horse stepped out of the pas- sage. On the horse was a slim-looking lad, in a plain brown suit of apparel. 5 The lad dismounted. Jack sprang to the saddle, and then leaning down he assisted the serving-lad to mount behind him, in a sitting attitude, as though the horse had had a side-saddle., Allan caught a glimpse of the pretty, gentle face, and he said to himself, ‘‘ That is Lucy, Jack’s daughter.” Allan was right. It was Lucy, who had come to London with her father in charge of his horse. The peop'e who had run down the street upon |- hearing the cries of the officer, now nearly sur- rounded the horse. ‘“‘ What's the matter ?” cried several. “Nothing particular,” cried Jack; “only my horse kicks and bites at times,” A plunge of the hind and fore feet of the horse at the moment warned everybody that it would be much safer to get out of kicking reach. The constable had now partially recovered from the knock-down blow he had received from Allan Fearon, and he shouted out, ‘' Seize him! seize him! Don’t let. him go! It is a highway- man !” ‘* I'll have him !” said a burly-looking man, as he made a snatch at the bridle of his horse, “* Will you?” said Jack, as he brought down the loaded end of a heavy riding-whip, that had hung from the saddle, right on to the burly man’s head. The fellow dropped as though struck by a thun- derbolt, Jack put spurs to the horse. “It’s Sixteen-stringed Jack, the highwayman!” shouted the officer, as, covered with mud, he scram- bled to his feet. “ All's right !” said Jack. ‘Good morning!” He was out into the Strand in another moment. There was a shout and a yell from the mob which was rapidly collecting ; but Jack knew well he could depend upon hig horse, which was per- fectly fresh, as he had only ridden it in from Hampstead that morning. ‘Oh, father, father!” said Lucy; ‘what will become of us?” ‘My dear, we are as safe as if we were in our own cavern on the heath.” “ Shoot him! Fire at him !” cried a voice, Lucy uttered a cry of alarm. Jack laughed. “My darling,” he said, “they will do no such thing as fire a'ter me in the Strand. It is too THE DARK WOMAN. 857 Now we crowded a thoroughfare for pistol-shots. are safe,” Jack had passed Charing Cross, and at a hand gallop he went up the Haymarket. The shouts of his pursuers died away faintly in the distance, and by the time Jack and Lucy were near to Bloomsbury Fields, they were quite free from all pursuit or observation. Allan Fearon thought his roost prudent plan - was to get home as quickly as he could when he saw Jack had fairly got off. The officer had been too much interested and absorbed in the desire for the apprehension of Jack to pay attention to Allan. When, however, he found that the highwayman ! had escaped him, he certainly came back to the narrow street, and looked about him. But Allan was gone, and the officer felt that he had but a very dreamy and indistinct idea of what the person was like who had so neatly and expe- ditiously sent him sprawling into the kennel in that quist street. : od CHAPTER XCIV. ALLAN AND MARIAN MEET WITH A SINGULAK ADVENTURE IN THEIR NEW HOME. ALLAN found Marian as anxious for his return as she had been on the morning preceding that which witnessed his second visit to the house of the Countess d’/Umbra. Some faint rumour of the disturbance that had taken place at the Strand end of the street had reached her ears; and, as is ever the case with those whose best affections are in the keeping of another, poor Marian could not believe that any alarm could reach her ears without foreboding some danger to the idel of her heart. Allan looked a little flushed, ‘“‘Dear Allan!” exclaimed Marian ; what has happened. Is there danger ?” ‘* Not to me, my own Marian. You see I am safe and well.” . “But I heard sounds of strife.” “Yes, dearest. I will tell you how it was.” Allan then narrated to Marian his meeting with Sixteen-stringed Jack, and the attempt that had been made to capture him at the other end of the street. But as he spoke, he sighed deeply ; and Marian, with the acute eyes of affection, could not but see that there was something that lay heavily at his heart. She flung her arms about him, and rested her head upon his breast. “ Allan—my Allan !” “Yes, dearest.” You will tell me all. mother’s again ?” “'T have, my own Marian.” * And—and——” Allan was silent for a few moments, and then Marian looked sadly in his face. ‘My Allan, I will not ask you to trust me.” “Perish the thought, my Marian, that would teach me otherwise than to have the truest con~ fidence in you! No, Marian, there shall never be a thought ora fact hidden from you by me I[ ‘¢ tell me You have been to your 858 only lingered a moment before I told you what I have to say, a3 one might linger at the grave side of some, at least, of the hopes of life.” Marian looked alarmed. Then Allan bestowed upon her an old familiar smile. “ There is nothing to hurt us, dearest,” he said. Come, sit by me, and I will tell you all that has come to my knowledgs this morning, and you shall advise me what to do.” Allan then related to Marian all that the Coun- tess d’ Umbra had said to him, and what had happened at the house in Hanover Square. Then he adéed the information that he had received from Sixteen-stringed Jack in relation to the Dark Woman. It was a great relief to his mind to be able to pour the story of his blighted hopes thus into the heart that was all his own. Allan did not sigh so deeply when he had concluded, and his eyes looked more bright and cheerful. Marian heard all, and then she clasped her hus- band in her arms. ‘‘Oh, Allan, Allan! how thankful I am that you did just as you did, and said just what you said !” “Then you approve, Marian ?” © With all my heart!” ‘* But it is very sad!” “Tt is sad, Allan; and yet you can in no way be answerable for the wild disorders of a mind which misfortune may have tinged with in- sanity.” “It may be so, dear. And now tell me what you think I ought to do. Should I see the Re- gest, and endeavour to procure from him some confirmation of the tale?” “Yes, Allan.” “My own heart says yes.” “He is your father, Allan, and you should see him, although I know not what you should say to him.” “ One thing, certainly, dear Marian.” “ What, Allan ?” “J will speak to him of my mother, and ask him to see her and to be kind and gentle to her, in the hope that her heart may be softened and all the wild delusions may perhaps fly from it.” * Are they delusions, Allan?” ‘t Alas! I fear so!” “Tt is, in truth, more than probable. There has been some mock marriage—some terrible pro- fanation ; and the poor, wrecked heart has so long dwelt upon it in silence and in solitude, that it has assumed the aspect of a reality.” “That is my own feeling in regard to it,” said Allan, gently. ‘My poor, poor mother! Oh, why has she sought by violence to succeed in what gentleness and affection denied? If she were poor and wretched as the meanest outcast that begs from door to door, how gladly would I have cast a protecting arm around her!” Allan rested his head upon his hands, and it was but too clear that he suffered deeply. ,. “T shall never be at peace,” he said, ‘‘ until I have seen the Regent.” “You shall see him, dear Allan!” “Do you think that your sister—that Annie can accomplish an interview for me?” “T am certain of it.” THE DARK WOMAN, And will she?” ‘‘T will see her, Allan. I feel convinced that you will never know happiness until you have had a meeting and an expl anation with the Prince. I will seek Annie this evening.” “ Marian?’ * Yes, Allan.” “You forget. By this time, I fancy, our poor resources are exhausted.” Marian replied in a low tone, “We have yet left three shillings.” * Three shillings !” “That is all, Allan.” “Three shillings between us both and want! Oh, ray Marian, I waste the very minutes of your life ! I will go forth now at once, The day has not passed away. I will go forth at once, and surely I shall find some mode, by honest labour, of averting the fell spectre, want, from our threshold |’ Both Allan and Marian started at this moment, and glanced towards the window of the little room in which they sat, and which faced the river, for a tremendous peal of thunder shook the house to its foundations, and seemed as if it would rend the very vault of heaven. They had been too much occupied by the deeply- interesting character of the conversation they had had to notice the rapidly increasing gloom of the outer air. The thunderstorm which broke over London on that day took them completely by surprise, al- though its approach had been carefully watched by many thousand spectators of the premonitory darkness. A vivid flash of blue lightning now for one dazzling moment lit up the river, and then came another peal of thunder of greater power than the former one. It was a fearful storm. Marian was pale with fear. Allan held her close to his heart, and whispered words of consolation to her. The blue lightning played over the surface of the river, which betrayed unusual agitation and sound, as though it were lashing itself to foam with many difficult and strange currents. The echo of one peal of loud-mouthed thunder scarcely died away before a second reverberation resounded through the sky. Then a pale, white gleam of. light came down from a rift in the clouds. ' The storm was over. A sharp knocking at the door of the room in which Allan and Marian were sitting, attracted — their attention. - The knocking was accompanied, too, by a weeping, wailing sound. “What is that, Marian?” asked Allan, as he sprang to his feet. The knocking continued. Marian’s face was blanched by fear, for she dreaded that perhaps Allan’s share in the escapé of Sixteen-stringed Jack had become known, and had procured a visit from: some of the myrmidons of the law. But when again she heard the sobbing tones of some one in distress she banished the idea. Marian opened the room door. Immediately outside on the narrow landing of the little old-fashioned flight of stairs, that led . THE DARK WOMAN. from the two rooms that comprised the ground floor of the small house, was the little girl who Marian had thought to be the daughter of their landlady, although a reflection upon the relative ages of the two would have rather suggested a more distant relationship, i This little girl was about nine years of age, and now her eyes were suffused with tears, and she presented every appearance of great distress. ‘Oh, lady! lady!” she said, “grandma is dying! Poor grandma will die!” Marian’s kindly, compassionate nature was ex- cited in a moment. “Your grandmother ill!” she said. to her at once.” “Oh, yes, good lady, do! She says she will die, and she ought not—indeed, she ought not, for what am I to do?” The child wept piteously, but she held Marian tightly by the hand, and led her down to the ground floor of the house, where, in the back room, Marian fonnd the old dame in a state of great suffering and exhaustion. It required but a small amount of knowledge to see that the aspect of death was upon the face of the aged woman. There was a restless look, however, about her eyes that showed the mind was ill at ease, and she moaned in such a manner that Marian thought the tones betokensd more distress of soul than of body. ‘Take the child away!” she said,—‘ take the child away! Take her away at once! I have that to say to you which must uot find its way to her young ears. Take her away!” ‘*Grandma,” said the little girl, ‘I will go and sit on the stairs, if you will promise not to die |” **Go—go! go, Emmy—go at once! God bless you! Go at once!” The little girl seemed to take these words a3 an ‘implied. promise on the part of her grandmother that she would not die, and she ~left Marian alone with the aged woman. “What can I do for you ?”. said . Marian. ** Would you like medical advice ?” “No!” was the sharp reply,—‘‘no, my time has come! No advice can lend to me one single breath of life. I have watched you.” ‘“ Watched me?” — “Yes. From the moment that you and your young husband came into this house I have watched you both |” Marian began to think these words were the result of a wandering intellect, and she said gently, ‘‘I hope you will be better soon. Perhaps you are not in the danger you think.” “IT amin no danger at all in the sense you mean, I am dying—that is all! Chance, or heaven, I know not which, has brought you here to this house. I have a something to say to you, because, a3 I have already told you, I have watched you, and I feel that you are the proper people to say it to.” “‘T will listen to anything you wish to say.” “The storm has passed away.” “Tt is passing away.” “Ts it lighter ?” “Oh, much lighter !” * All ig dark to me. “T will go Are you there ?” Marian was much shocked to see that the old 359 dame looked with eyes that saw not upon her face. . “ Listen to me,” she added, ‘‘and lose not one word that I am about to tell you.” ‘« Indeed, I will not.” “That child, Emmy, is my grandchild —my own poor daughter’s child. tive I have in all the world.” ‘‘ Alas!” said Marian, She is the only rela- ‘‘ Why do you say ‘alas!’ in such a tone of deep distress? Speak to me, girl, for you are but a girl !” “T cry alas! because I have a fear,” said . Marian,—‘“‘a fear that I understand your mean- ing before you utter it.” ‘Go on!” said the old dame, sharply. ‘ What is it that you fear?” “You are leaving the young child you speak of without a friend or relative in the world, and I fear that it is to my care that you would commit her.’ : -The dying woman moaned. “Do not misunderstand me,’ added Marian. ‘The fear has but one condition attached to it. We are so very poor that at present our means of existence extend not over the morrow.” “IT thought so!” said the old woman, sharply. ““T watched you!” There was something almost vexatious in the iteration of the words ‘'I watched you,” on the part of the old woman; but that was not a time at which Marian, with all her kind and sympa- thetic feelings, was likely to take umbrage at a casual phrase. “If you know as much, then,” said Marian, “you must feel that we can but indifferently at present fulfil the trust you would impose upon us.” ‘ “Go on,’ said the old dame, breathing with still greater difficulty each moment. ‘'Go on; you have something more to say.” “Indeed, I have; and if I had not had that something more to say, I should not have spoken as Lhave. We will accept the trust you would repose in us, and, poor ag we are, we will do our best to fulfil it.” “You mean that?” “Pardon me,” said Marian. ‘Even at this moment, let me tell you I would not utter such words, unless they came from my heart.” The old woman was silent for a few minutes, during which she made convulsive’ efforts to keep the breath of life from wholly leaving her. There was a rigid look upon her features, and she moved one of her hands to and fro until she grasped the arm of Marian. ; “TI told youd watched you,” she said, suddenly, —I told you I watched you, and by -watching you Il knew you. You will-be kind to the child. She is nine years of age this day. She comes to you with just sufficient wealth as may be the value ; of the clothing she wears. Will you let medie in peace, with the knowledge that you accept this trust, and will do ycur best by her?” “I promise it,” said Marian. “In my own name, and in that of my husband, I promise it? ‘And yet you are so poor?” “Indeed, and in truth, we are; but we are hopeful. My husband will procure employment, and your grandehild shall share with us that wkich we have to give her.” 360 a ee A strange, gleaming smile came over the. features of the dying woman, *‘No,” she said, ‘‘this shall not be!” Marian found that her intellect was wandering, and she was about to add some further assurance to her promises, but the old woman clasped her so tightly by the arm, that she could not but feel it as an exhortation to listen rather than to speak. Marian was silent. The dying woman’s voice was husky and hollow, and each word was articulated with difticulty. ‘‘ When I am gone,” she said—‘ which will be when I have said that which I have to say to you —you and your husband will find yourselves, with my grandchild, the sole occupants of this house. There has been a crime committed in it which even now weighs heavily upon my soul. I will make no confession: let that lie between me and a higher power. But at midnight, when the child sleeps, do you and -your husband raise the hearth- stone in the front room adjoining this. Beneath that stone you will find what I leave you for yourselves and for my grandchild Emmy. I watched you, and was right.” Marian thought at. the moment that this could be nothing but the raving of one on whom the hand of death pressed heavily. ‘* Speak no more of that,” she said; “ but believe me that we will fulfil the sacred trust you repose in us to the utmost of our power.” “You do not believe. Beitso. But midnight will come, and my words will dwell in your ears. The hearth-stone is easily raised, and I shall be justified.” ‘‘If it be so,” said Marian, gently, ‘we shall consider what is there is the fortune of your grand- child.” ‘No, not wholly. My grandchild wants pro- tectors. It is to you I leave the wealth, with but the conditions that you replace to her in this world all the loving care that she has lost.” The rcom of death was meanly furnished. A wretched rushlight sent but a poor, flickering radiance around it, and at this moment faded away. vats Marian forgot that it was daylight, for the shutters of the apartment were closed, as though some strange whim had seized the dying woman that no ray of sunlight should be present at her dissolution. Marian started, then, to find herself in dark- ness; and stepping to the door, she flung it open. The storm had completely passed away; and through the window of the outer room there streamed a broad gleam of golden sunlight. A straggling ray of light fell upon the face, and Marian saw that it was the face of the dead. The little girl rashed towards her; but Marian hindered her from entering the apartment, and called out to her husband, * Allan, Allan; do you hear me?” Fearon ran down the little staircase; and, ata glance, he saw what had occurred. The child began to cry bitterly; but when Marian in a few brief words had informed Allan of the singular scene which had taken place between her and the dying woman, she turned her atten- tion to assuaging the gricf of the little Emmy; and, like the brief tempest of an April day, the grief of that young heart soon gave way to the careszes of a new friend. em Allan was perfectly incredulous with regard to the pretended treasure beneath the hearth-stone ; and, but that he shrunk from leaving Marian alone with the dead, he would have earried out his original intention of sallying forth and seeking employment. Marian, too, under the circumstances, felt that she must forego her expressed wish to seek an interview with her sister Annie at St. James's Palace, ‘*We will both wait, then, my Marian,” said Allan, ‘‘until this midnight has passed away, and we have tested the truth of the strange reve- lation made to you by the dying womans, and which I cannot believe.” Marian’s incredulity upon the subject, although strong at first, had gradually given way as time advanced. It might be that mere familiarity with the idea made it even more credible to her; but certainly, by the time the evening was half expended, she begun to look upon finding a trea- sure beneath the hearth-stone of that old house as a fact which only needed a process for its fulfil- ment. The child was put to rest, and had been long in slumber, when Marian and Allan counted the strokes of midnight as they sounded upon some neighbouring church. It was almost a kind of superstition which made them wait until that hour which had been men- tioned by the dying woman herself as that at which she would wish the hearth-stone to be raised and the treasure found, which she so singularly bestowed upon utter strangers. But as she had herself said, she had watched them. . It might be that even in her last moments a preternatural sagacity and insight into character had enabled her to read in the countenances of Marian and Allan the honest sympathies and kindly charities that resided in their hearts. CHAPTER XCV. ALLAN AND MARIAN FIND A TREASURE —SIR HINCKTON MCYS WRITES TO THE REGENT, Wuat strange freaks Destiny was playing to those young souls which had joined themselves together to uphold and sustain each other in the great struggle of life! Could Allan and Marian have supposed it pos- sible that, so short a time before, they were 80 situated as scarcely to believe that any accident in human life could secure them from much priva- tion and much misery, and yet that now, by a series of circumstances almost transcending be- lief, they occupied a home which had been aban- doned to them, and were promised some unknown amount of treasure which might lift them to com- petence. The little apartment, beneath the hearth of which Allan and Marian felt it their duty to look, was indeed of most unpromising aspect. Poverty seemed there to have exercised a long struggle with the desire to seem above its reach. The threadbare carpeting, the wretched sub- stitute for window-curtains, the crazy, ricketty furniture, held out indeed but little prospect of a THE DARK WOMAN, | THE DARK WOMAN. 5 i | NVM ‘iN Y S | } || => - ahh Fj AS Wp ae ba | MN i| | } p ; Ne mut i" ' ai i Y Whi! ij AT AT ! i | A Wil RAS A A/c Nu \ A vA Lj | SOS \ Mey tll AHA) th | il = 3 Mal Hay |! Ne H | Hig Hl c Hi \ pe! \ Pa Ne ! if 2 \\ 261 realization of the promises of the dying grand- mother of the little Emmy. ‘‘Hold the light for me, Marian,” said Allan, “and I will soon discover if the old dame but dreamt, in her dying moments, of a treasure she wished to possess, or really pointed to the exist- ence of one.” The hearth-stone did not look as if it had been removed for many a long year, if indeed at all since the house was built; and Marian could not forbear a sigh as her hopes seemed to vanish into thin air. “Marian,” he said, “you have thought of this treasure until you wish for its existence.” “1 do wish for it, Allan; for it would save you from that encounter with the cold world which you would otherwise undertake to-mor- row.” “Then for your sake, Marian, I, too, will wish for it.” No. 46.—Dark Woman, Marian’s band trembled as she keld the light; and.amid the deep stillness of that house in which lay the dead, Allan worked at the hearth-stone, beneath which he now scarcely expected to find any realisation of the promises of the dying woman. The hearth-stone yielded in a few minutes to the exertions of Allan, but nothing appeared be- neath it save the impacted earth, which might be expected in the shallow foundations of such a house. ‘“'Thore is nothing,” said Allan, “Be it so,” sighed Marian. “I, too, to-morrow, will seek to do what is possible towards our support. The burden shall not all-rest upon your heart, Allan—at least, I will do something to lighten the pressure upon us of the maintenance of that poor orphan child who sleeps so serenely beneath this roof.” Allan’s eyes were fixed upon the impacted earth, 62 THE DARK 5 WOMAN, ——- and then he started, as he cried, ‘‘ Lower with the light, dear Marian! Cast its faint beams closer upon this spot.” ‘“‘Ah! you see something !” “JY do; and yet “Allan, Allan, there is hope!” * Be not sanguine, Marian ; accident alone may i -have pier this piece of cord beneath the hearth- stone.” As Marian held the light down, it shone upon the cord that Allan mentioned, half embedded in the solid earth. The test of this cord being a thing of itself, or in connexion with some other substance, was short and easy. Allan grasped it in his fingers. It resisted. Allan looked up into the face of Marian with a smile. “You are not deceived, dearest,” he said ; ‘‘ there is a something here.” Martian held the candle lower still. Alian Fearon scooped out the solid compacted -earth from below the end of the cord, that evi- dently, by its existence, was buried deeply, or connected with some other substance which held it ed “ Here it is!” said Allan. The neck of a brown earthen jar appeared. The string was coiled around it, and nothing but the breaking of the cord, or the remoyal of the jar itself, could possibly release it. “'Phank heaven !” said Marian, faintly,— ‘‘ thank heaven, for all our sakes !” Allan removed the jar from a deep hole in which it wasembedded. ‘The lid was tied tightly on, but he quickly opened it. * Gold!” he said. “Then it is, indeed, true, Allan a “ Behold, dear Marian! here is far more than enough for our own wants, and for those of your | young charge, for many and many a long day !” } ra ae iiretemtier ee re ne EOL AE je - = “ coor - | Allan. Marian could not but feel well pleased at this opportune aid; but at the moment that Allan Fearon had turned out of the jar some of the gold pieces which it contained, there came a heavy knock at the door of the house. Allan and Marian started to their feet. Any one, to see them at that moment, might have fancied that they were about some act of guilt, and that the gold that. was at their feet might be the spoil of some crime. “‘ What is that ?” said Marian. The knock came again, heavy, sharp, and dis- tinct. “JT will go,” said Allan, —‘ I will go!” “No, no! Who knows? there may be danger. You may yet, my Allan, be dragged from me.” “My Marian, i do not think that you need fear on my account. The law has surely done its worst in inflicting suffering upon me.” Bang! came the knock a third time. “Take ‘the gold above-stairs, Marian,” said ‘Be the eyes of the person who demands admittance here friendly or otherwise, it is as well that we keep our own secret.” Marian with difficulty carried the jar, for in _ good truth it was heavy with gold. She left the lower room with it, and then Allan - yeplaced the hearth-stone. He stamped it down with his feet. Then the knock came a fourth time, and with a savage energy that was enough to awaken the dead. There was no hall or passage to the’gmall house. The outer door opened at once into the very room beneath the hearth-stone of which the booty had been found. Allan called out aloud, ‘Who knocks ?—who knocks here, at such an hour of the night ?” There was no reply for a few seconds, and Allan began to think that whoever had so pertinaciously applied for admission, must, after that fourth knock, have gone away in despair. Bat such was not the case. Allan heard a strange noise ; and then, by the .| faint light that came through the window—for Marian had taken the candle with her—he saw come through one of the panels of the door some point of a glittering instrument. Whoever was without had lost faith in the door being opened, and was taking measures to try to force if. “ Hold !” cried Allan. - “Be you whom you may, I will fire, if you persist in attacking the door !” “Oh, indeed !” said a deep, rough voice ; ‘‘you have got barkers, have you ?” Allan had no pistols, but he had thought it as well to speak as though he possessed the means of such sudden mischief. . ‘Tell me who you are, and what you want,” added Allan, ‘“‘ and there may then be no objection to opening the door to you ?” ‘‘T want old Mrs. Ratcliffe.” —~ “ As a friend 2?” *« Well, you may say so.” ‘She is dead.” ** Dead !, dead !” There was such a tone of consternation and sincerity about the tones in which the word was uttered by the man without the door, that Allan felt half inclined at once to admit him, without further parley. But it was the stranger who spoke again. “ Tell me, for the love of heaven,” he said, in tones of deep and genuine emotion, “how long - she has been dead, and what has become of a child —a little child ?” “A young girl ?” “Oh, yes, yes ! fant !” Infant?” said Allan, “Yes ; she was about two years of age, heaven bless her !” “ There is no such child here. ‘There is a young girl, who looks to be about nine or ten years of age, at least.” “Now, heaven help me for a fool!” said the voice. ‘I had forgotten that she would not always remain a child. It is seven long years since my shadow darkened this doorway.” “ Come in,” said Allan, as he opened the door, —‘ come in, and tell me what interest you have in the child you speak of.” A little creature—a mere in- Allan opened the door, and a powerful-looking. man, attired in a huge, rough overcoat, made his - appearance on the threshold. ‘‘Marian,” cried Allan, dear ! There i is no danger 1? Marian appeared on the lowest of the little flight: of stairs that led to the upper floor, be the light in her hand. “a light—a light, v ~ THE DARK WOMAN, There was evidently some alarm on the coun- tenance of Marian. The strange, rough visitor looked from one to the other of them in a seeming perplexity, and then he gaid, “It seems to me as if I ought to know you both, but I don’t know how or where.” They both looked at him, and in the same way it seemed to Allan and Marian that they must have seen this rough-looking man on some former occasion. “Pell me,” he said, “if you have any com- passion, aby—any feeling Feeling! that’s an odd word for me to use! you, what has become of the little one ?” Marian was about to speak, but Allan gave her a warning gesture, and she was silent. “You cannot object,” said Allan, ‘to our having the caution to ask who it is that makes the inquiry, and for what purpose?” “ Well—I—will tell you. Perhaps you won't believe me, but I am the little one’s father!” ‘‘ Her father?” exclaimed Marian. “ Give me the light,” said Allan. Fearon took the light, and stepped up close to the strange, rough map. He held the light to his face, and he saw two tears slowly coursing down his cheeks. “You are her father,” said Allan. The man nodded. ‘‘ And you shall have all the information you seek of us.” ‘¢T will seek her, if it be to go to the end of the world!” ‘¢ You misunderstand me,” added Allan, “ There will be no journeying required. The child is in this house.” The strange, rough man clasped his hands to- gether and uttered a hoarse cry, ‘“‘In this house—this actual house? My little |. one—my Emmy in this house ?” “+ Yes,” ‘* Ah!” gaid Marian, ‘‘he knows her name! too, think that you are her father !” “T am—I am!” The rough stranger staggered to a chair, and sinking into it, he clasped his hands over his face, and as he rocked to and fro in a paroxysm of mournful recollection, he said, “‘I am her father— her guilty, unworthy father!’ “ Guilty ?” “Ay, guilty, for I murdered her mother !” “Good heaven |” “Not with these actual hands—not with a blow that took away life mercifully; but I left her to want—to starvation !” The remorseful man was silent, with the ex- ception of deep moans that came from his labour- ing breast. Marian and Allan knew not what to do. I, They looked inquiringly at each other and then at the sad and conscience-stricken man before them, and, in truth, they knew not what to say. After a time, then, he looked up, and in a gentle, soft voice, that no one could have sup- posed would come from so rough a specimen of humanity, he said; ‘‘May I see her? I will not speak to her, if you would rather I shonld not.” “You have a right,” said Allan Fearon, ‘to see your own child.” “ Yes,” said Marian, edie shall see her. ehe sleeps now.” But But tell me, I beg of |_ 863 — ‘Stop, stop! One moment!” said the rough man, “I forgot. Tell me, if you please, how it ig that she is in your charge, and hew long her grandmother has been dead.” “To answer your last question first,” said Allan—“ her grandmother has been dead about seven hours.” “ Seven hours only ?” ‘‘ That is all; and she lies there.” Allan pointed towards the inner room. “ Flow strange that I should come here on such a day as this! And the little one?” ‘She has been our care for the same period of time. Her grandmother solemnly implored my wife here to take charge of her.” “And you did? You meant to do so ?” “We did.” ‘t Heaven bless you both !” ‘Let us tell you all,’ added Allan, ‘We would have taken all the care we could of the helpless little one, who was said by her dying grandmother not to have a friend or relation in ‘all the world, much less one so near as a father.” ‘* She had cause to think me dead.” “We then, in our poverty, would have done our best to fulfil the obligation cast upon us, but it is proper that we should inform you that we have been placed in possession of money which will make that task easy.” “Money? What money ?” “The grandmother of the little one informed us where she had hidden a large sum.” “Ah! Five hundred pounds?” “We know not yet.” “T see it all now. Seven years ago I left the child with Mrs. Ratcliffe. A sum of five hundred pounds was placed in an earthen jar, which I left with her for her support and that of the child.” “We, by her directions, found gold, probably to that amount, in an earthen jar.” — ‘Then Mrs. Ratcliffe has preserved that money for my little one.” ‘You are, no doubt, entitled to it,” added Allan; “and we are not the people to dispute your claim.” ‘You would let me take that money?” “Of course we would.” “It is not ours,” said Marian. “We will see about that,” said the rough stranger. ‘'Madam, will you let me look upon the face of my child? I will not awaken her.” _“* With pleasure,” said Marian. ‘She lies above here; and she is indeed fair and gentle to look upon.” “Fair and gentle!” sighed the rough man. ‘‘ Yes, she should be fair and gentle !” With tottering steps, the man followed Marian,. and- Allan, after carefully closing the door, like- wise ascended the stairs. The child was sleeping so peacefully and inno- cently, that it would have been asin to awaken her. The coarse, rough stranger shook like a leaf in autumn, and the tears rolled down his cheeks as he gazed upon the face of the slumbering girl. He clasped his throat with his hands, and it was in half choking accents that he said, “ If—if-——I dared—oh, heaven, if Ionly dared to kiss her !” The sob which followed thess words was so heartrending, that Marian was deeply touched by it. All her woman’s gentle nature rose up in S Se 364 THE DARK WOMAN. favour of that poor father, who, whatever might have been his crimes or sufferings, cherished such abundant affection for his child. “You shall kiss her,” said Marian, “‘ No—oh, no!” “Yes—I say you shall !” “It is too much mercy ! too much!” ‘“t Nay, do not say so.” ““T—I dare not—I dare not !” Shuddering and trembling, the unhappy man made his way to the door of the room, and then, after one last and long look at the fair face of the slumbering girl, he tottered down the stairs. Marian and Allan followed him. He spoke hoarsely. “Keep the money,” he said. ‘J did not ex- pect to find in this house a single farthing of it. Keep it—keep it for yourselves, and for the little one. Farewell! it may be that we shall meet again.” He moved towards the door. **Qne moment!” said Allan Fearon. Heaven, no! It is “ Before you go, at least tell us by what name we shall ~ think of you.” “T have no name. Farewell!” He dashed the door open, and left the house. The rain, which had now set in fiercely and in squally gusts, found its way on to the floor of the little room; while Allan and Marian looked at each other in surprise and amazement at the strange events of that day ard night. — CHAPTER XCVL. A MEETING AND A CONSULTATION AT BUCKING- HAM HOUSE. A RATHER strangely assorted party was assembled in the Painted Chamber of Buckingham House on that eventful evening, when Allan Fearon and Marian were making such great changes in their fortune and position at the little dwelling by the banks of the Thames. There were present her Royal Highness the Princess of Wales, the Lady Arabella Gordon, niece to the Duchess, the Marchioness of Sunning- ham, and Sir Hinckton Moys. Adverse interests and feslings brought these people together, who, individually, probably had a great detestation of each other. The Princess of Wales could not but be aware of the kind of intimacy which the Marchioness of ‘Sunningbam had enjoyed at the Palace, and it was not exactly in human nature, or certainly in her nature, which was remarkable for its jealousy, that she should feel any attraction to such a per- Bon. It was not likely, either, that the Marcbioness of Sunningham should be very desirous of healing the breach between the Prince of Wales and his wife. Sir Hinckton Moys only sought to make use of “all these women,” as he called them, for hisown purposes. He had three objects. . The one was the disgrace of Annie, Countess de Blonde. Another was the destruction of Allan Fearon. The third was his own restoration to the com- forts and emoluments of place, as favourite plea~ sure-caterer to the Regent. The Lady Arabella Gordon was simply one of the political party, who sought power and place through advocating the popular cause of the Princess of Wales. The Princess had been greatly irritated at her reception by her daughter at Carlton House, and she was certainly much embittered against the Prince and his party, since that visit to St. James’s, under the auspices of the Dark Woman. Hence, the Whig party found her a much more easy tool than they had done before, Hence, Lady Sunningham found her much more ready to aid her in her projects. And hence, Sir Hinckton Moys fancied that he was a step or two nearer to the accomplishment of his designs. Lady Sunningham was speaking to the Prin- cess. ‘‘Madam,” she said, “you will not fail to perceive that, one by one, those persons who have any real feeling fall off from ‘the service of the Regent, and are desirous of paying their respects to you.” Sir Hinckton Moys felt that these words were intended to refer to him, and he made a low bow accordingly. “This gentleman, your Royal Highness is aware,” added Lady Sunningham, “enjoyed all the confidence of the Regent.” “T have heard as mucb.” “‘T may say,” spoke Sir Hinckton Moys, in a voice of great suavity, ‘‘ that the Regent trusted me in all things, both domestic and political.” “Therefore,” added Lady Sunningham, “a more valuable ally than Sir Hinckton Moys could not possibly be found.” There was a slightly contracted look about the brow of the Princess of Wales. Perhaps she had some slight doubt about the value of an ally who was willing to betray his former master in all things, both domestic and political. But she did not express the doubt. “T am most desirous,” added Sir Hinckton Moys, ‘‘to be useful to so ‘illustrious a princess as the Princess of Wales, who, I am well aware, has suffered so many cruel wrongs.” ‘‘ Alas! I have, indeed,” said the Princess of Wales. . There can be no doubt whatever but that the Princess of Wales really, throughout the whole of the disastrous transactions in which she was con- cerned, thought herself a deeply injured indi- vidual. ‘“‘Of your sincerity, Sir Hinckton Moys,” said the Marchioness of Sunningham, “there can be no doubt.” ‘“T trust not,” added Sir Hinckton Moys, with the most unblushing effrontery—“ I trust not; for I have left the service of the Regent at a time when he would most gladly have retained me, and when he would have given me almost any post in his power, provided I would only have re- mained.” “ You hear, Princess?” said the Marchioness. “JT do, and am much obliged to Sir Hinckton Moys.” The disgraced courtier bowed low. “And now, madam,” he said, “I have one a THE DARK WOMAN, ; eee ae thing to tell you, which should engage your most serious attention.” “ What is that ?” “It is comprised in a name, because one-half the persecutions you endure are caused and sug- gested by the person bearing that name.’ ‘* What name?” “The Countess de Blonde.” » “ Alas! alas! I have seen her.” “Then your Royal Highness has seen your worst foe—your most implacable enemy.” ‘She is very beautiful.” ‘* All the worse,” said the Marchioness,—“ al- though, for my part, I cannot see it; and how any men of judgment can be enchanted by mere children like that, who ought not to be out of the nursery, is to me a wonder.” Sir Hinckton Moys smiled faintly. “Tt would be equally a wonder,” he said, “if such a mere girl as this Countess de Blonde had not some fancy of her own which she much prefers to the Regent.” “ Ah!” said the Princess, ‘is it so ” The Marchioness nodded. ‘“‘ It is so,” added Sir Hinckton Moys. ‘Then we shall easily be able to ruin her.” ‘“ Masily. I hope so, at least.” “‘ And she is my enemy ?” ‘*So much so, your Royal Highness, that I know for a certainty—and who has been in a better position to know than 1?—that all the suggestions for your more active persecution and annoyance, have of late come from the Countess de Blonde.” “Grant me patience, Sir Hinckton,” cried the Marchioness of Sunningham; creature the Countess de Blonde!” “You are right, Marchioness; I ought not to name her so. Her real name is Annie Gray.” ‘‘And her position that ef a common work- girl,” added the Marchioness, with bitterness. “‘TIs it possible,” cried the Princess of Wales, “that the Regent could stoop so low?” ‘* Ah, madam, great personages, in the indul- gence of their capricious fancies, do not calculate how low they stoop.” A faint flush came over the face of the Prin- cess of Wales, and after a few moments’ pause, she said, ‘‘ What can be done with this person ?” “She must be displaced,” said the Marchioness. “ Decidedly,” said Sir Hinckton Moys. * But how?” “By your Royal Highness’s assistance.” “My assistance ?” . “Yes. If your Royal Highness will only con- sent to see the young man who is her real lover, and whom she is attached to, much may be done.” ‘“‘ But what can J say to him?” Sir Hinckton Moys exchanged a glance with the Marchioness, and then said, and if your Royal Highness will only see him, -and urge him to take away from the Regent the girl to whom, probably, he is .attached, and offer to him your support and protection, he will no doubt consent to try to do so; and if she, the Countess de Blonde, should prefer remaining with the Regent, one blow will, at all events, be struck at her heart, in dissevering her from her real lover.” “do not call the “T will explain | to your Royal Highness what i mean. This young | man to whom I allude is named Allan Fearon, | } ‘ i “T think I see.” “ You will be sure to see, madam. At present, his interests are associated with hers, because he — waits until, with a large fortune acquired by the plunder of the Regent during her term of partner- ship in the Palace, this Annie Gray will come to him, and enjoy it in his company.” “ To be sure!” said the Marchioness. ‘‘You are aware, madam,” added Sir Hinckton, “or you may very well guess, that the female favourite of the Regent has opportunities of en- riching herself which she is not likely to neg- lect.” The Marchioness of Sunningham looked with a slightly-heightened colour up at the ceiling. “Then you think,” said the Princess, ‘“ that this young man may be induced to separate his interests from those of the Regert’s favourite ?” ‘“ Most assuredly, madam, if you will but see him. He has a strange vanity about him, that would render him your slave, if you will but gra- ciously treat him courteously. The Regent knows of his existence, and looks upon him with con- tempt as well as with jealousy.” ‘‘ Yes,” said the Marchioness. ‘And no sooner will the Regent be aware that he has had an in- terview with you, than that jealousy will be more than ever inflamed, and the whole consequences will fall on the head of the mock Countess de Blonde.” “Be it so. I will see him.” “You decide wisely.” : “But I know not what to say to him when I do see him.” rd “Urge him, madam,” replied Sir Hinckton Moys, ‘to insist upon the Countess de Blonde leaving the Regent, and promise him a place in your household.” “T will.” ‘‘Tt is well settled.” ‘And now,” said the Princess of Wales, “I. want you all to advise me.” . ‘‘ With pleasure, madam.” ‘You are aware that my two chief councillors were Alderman Dood and that Scotch advocate, Henry Dooem.” Sir Hinckton bowed. “Thay both advise me, the moment the death of the King shall take place, to go into the most public of the streets, and show myself to the people as Queen of England, so as to raise the whole of London in my favour, and, on the strength of the mob, cause myself to be carried to St. James's. Alderman Dood then is to be raised to the peerage, and Councillor Dooem is to be promised the Chan- cellorship. The King is to feel so overawed by the loud ‘expression of popular opinion, that he will yield to its influence, and all proceedings against me will fail.” “Capital!” said Sir Hinckton Moys, as he with difficulty concealed a sneer that curled his lips. “You think the plan a good one?” “ Excellent !” “And the old King’s life is not worth a day’s purchase, they tell me.” ‘Not an hour's,” said Lady Sunningham. “To be sure, there are the troops,” said Sir Hinckton. “Oh!” added the Princess of Wales, ‘* Coun~ cillor Dooem Bays that they may be tampered with.” -_ al 366 THE DARK WOMAN, ELAN Ne Sea ae AES, Se PIERO Ree 2) “Indeed !” “Yes. He says that everybody may be bought and sold with money enough.” “No doubt,” lJanghed Sir Hinckton Moys. “Will your Royal Highness, then, sign an order to this young man, Allan Fearon, to wait on you ?” __ “ As you please.” - Sir Hinckton Moys drew writing materials to- wards him, and wrote:— “ Buckingham House, “Mr, ALLAN FEARON,— “Please to wait on me on the morrow after receipt of this.” Sir Hinckton Moys placed a pen in the hand of the Princess, who signed the paper. It was not until he had left Buckingham House that Sir Hinckton Moys added, in a space he had taken care to have left above the Princess's sig- nature, the words :— “T fully expect, by your assistance, and that of your inamorata, the Countess de Blonde, to put the Prince in a great difficulty. Come just as usual, but see the fair Countess first, as she may have some message to send.” The procuring of this letter was almost the sole and whole object of Sir Hinckton Moys and the Marchioness of Sunningham at this interview. By its aid they expected to achieve the ruin of the Countess de Blonde, and, possibly, the destruc- tion of Allan Fearon likewise. Sir Hinckton Moys was, however, playing a atill deeper game than the Marchioness of Sun- ningham. He wanted to restore himself td the favour of the Regent over the bodies, so to speak, of Allan Fearon and of the gay Countess de Blonde. In the privacy of his own chambers in the street off St. James’s Street, he indited the fol- lowing letter to the Regent :— “ London. ‘May it please your Royal Highness,— “T secure this letter with a seal which your Royal Highness was pleased to give me one fine day on St. George’s Terrace, Windsor, in order that when I should have the pleasure of commu- nicating with your Royal Highness on matters strictly personal to you, the letter should reach you direct and with as little delay as possible. “ When your Royal Highness, in consequence of a series of the most artful insinuations and well-planned surprises, was pleased to order my departure from St. James’s Palace, I locked upon it as some intimation that I had not entirely lost your confidence, since you did not order me to return to you that seal. “Your Royal Highness will, therefore, I am sure, pardon me if I make use of it now for the purpose of ensuring that this communication | should reach your eyes, and your eyes alone. ‘“‘T have served your Royal Highness faithfully in many delicate and intricate circumstances. “T cannot deny that, such being the case, I departed from St. James’s Palace on the occasion alluded to with irritation and anger at my heart. “ A night’s rest sufficed to quench those feel- ee eee ee ote ings, and I remembered instead how long I had enjoyed your Royal Highness’s confidence — how many things I knew that no one but myself and your Royal Highness knew—and I made a resolution. “That resolution was, that although banished from your Royal Highness’s presence—although deprived of my emoluments, position, and pros- pects at the Court of St. James’s, I would still be your humble and devoted servant. “Chance quickly placed in my way a mode by which I might serve you, at the same time that it placed\in my hands the most startling evidence in regard to the manner in which your Royal Highness is deceived in those in whom you at present place your trust. “The story of a courtier’s disgrace flies upon the wings of the wind, and that wind seems to have the peculiarity of blowing from every quar- ter of the compass at once, inasmuch as the in- telligence reaches all people, and is commented upon as ‘a piece of news at one and the same time by every person interested, “Tt was yet but four-and-twenty hours that I had been deprived of your Royal Highness’s favour, when an emissary from Buckingham House waited upon me. “ Brilliant offers were made to me, coupled with but one condition. ‘“‘That condition was that I should betray your Royal Highness’s secrets, and join that party which’is alike hostile to your government and to your domestic peace. “Tt was upon the threshold of my lips to re- turn such an answer as would have prevented me being of further use to your Royal Highness; but I have habits of reflection. A residence in Courts teaches one thing if it teaches no other. “Think twice before speaking, thrice before acting. ‘“‘T thought twice, and then, as I state to your Royal Highness, I made a resolution. ‘‘That resolution was to go into your enemy’s camp, not as their friend and ally, but in order that I might retort their own treachery upon them by supplying you with information of their ' movements. ‘‘T have been to Buckingham House. “T have had an interview with the Princess of | Wales and some of her advisers. I am, go to speak, sworn of her privy council, but. I have communicated nothing to her or to them which they were not fully advised of before, while I have acquired certain information which will be exceedingly interesting to your Royal Highness, “That information is both domestic and poli- tical. ; ‘‘'To begin with the latter, it is intended that on the demise of the Crown, and your Royal Highness’s consequent succession, an attempt should be made to produce a riot in London in favour of the Princess of Wales, on so large a scale, that it will carry all before it. “The troops around your Royal Highness were to be tampered with; and, in fact, by downright force your Royal Highness was to be thrown into the painful position of being compelled to suc- cumb to popular violence. “ Such is the political programme, “The domestic one rather astonished me. ‘“‘T discovered that the young man named Allan ae yy >. a RRC AA ig i pt mtn Sth wn ec SS Si ete THE DARK WOMAN. Fearon, so recently rescued from death by your Royal Highness’ clemency, was and is neither more nor less than a spy in the employment of Buckingham House. He-has interviews with the Princess of Wales, to whom he carries intelligence from St. James‘s Palace. “That intelligence is procured through the means of his chére amie, the Countess de Blonde. ‘‘T am quite sure, when your Highness reads thus far, you will be angry and excited, and pro- bably you will disbelieve me, and possibly you may carry this letter in your hand and challenge the Countess de Blonde to disprove its state- ments. : “T beg your Royal Highness to do no such thing. “Put me to the proof of what I have stated. If I fail in that proof, banish me with disgrace from your kingdom, as well as from your presence, and deprive me even of the means of ever commu- nicating directly with your Royal Highness. “Tf I succeed in the proof, your own sense of dignity, and regard for your position, will teach you how to act without any suggestion from “Your Royal Highness’s “Most obedient, humble servant, “ Hinckton Moys.” When Sir Hinckton Moys had finished this letter, he re-read it with the satisfaction and the smile of a fiend. . > “T have set my life upon this cast,” he said, “and stand the hazard of the die!” The letter was despatched to the Regent. ee CHAPTER XCVII. ALLAN FEARON UNCONSCIOUSLY PLAYS INTO THE HANDS OF HIS ENEMIES, Ir it were a quality of mind of the Dark Woman to attempt to attain her ends by tortuous means ‘and mysterious devices, it certainly was the cha- _ racteristic of Allan Fearon to proceed by, the most straightforward paths towards his simpler objects. No sooner, then, had he been assured by the so- called Countess d Umbra that he was the son of the Regent, than a kind of necessity for an inter- view with his presumed father came across his mind, . ie But if, for the sake of such an interview, and the apparent justice between himself and the Prince of Wales, he desired that meeting, how much more did he wish for it since he had heard from Sixteen-stringed Jack those particulars re- specting his alleged mother, which, while identi- fying her with the notorious Dark Woman, filled his imagination with terror and regret. He seemed to see her trembling upon a precipice, which the events of her past life had dug for her destruction, Covered by the thin and flimsy disguise which for the present hid her identity from the eyes of justice, he saw her each moment surrounded by a thousand dangers. a At first, it was for his own sake that. he wished to see the Regent, that he might know his father, aod the Regent might know his son; but now it Was for the sake of that mother, who, whatever ‘ en NT NC Ne thn A ee, 867 might be her faults, her failings, or her crimes» Allan trembled to think was obnoxious to the arm of justice. ‘Therefore was it that he resolved in losing no time whatever in availing himself of the good offices of the Countess de Blonde to procure for him an interview with the Regent. And, upon reflection, the Dark Woman herself was not unwilling that that interview should take place. She was willing to test if the Regent had still a heart which could be touched by the pre- sence of his son. She believed in her own skill and ability to be present at that interview, for she scarcely con- ceived it possible that Allan would undertake it without her cognizance. But in that she was mistaken; for as it was epecially on her account that Fearon wished to see the Regent, so most specially did he desire that the interview should be between them alone. On the morning after the singular midnight ad- venture, which had placed Allan and Marian ia the possession of such ample funds, they held a consultation together in regard to the best mode of proceeding. The end of that congultation was that Marian wrote a note to her sister, in which she begged her to see Allan, since he had something to say to her of most serious import. Armed with this missive, which he thought would procure him admittance to the Countess de Blonde, Fearon repaired to St. James's Palace. Marian had given him ample instructions, so that he had no difficulty in making his way to that particular court-yard where was the door that more immediately conducted to the apartments in the occupation of the favourite of the Regent. And so precise had been Allan’s instructions from Marian, that he soon stood on that same threshold where she had been conducted by the kind-hearted wife of the Yeoman of the Guard, who had so greatly assisted her when she sought a pardon for Allan. Fearon was not much used to the ways of Courts, for although he had certainly visited the Palace before, it bad oaly been as the accredited agent of Mr. Webber, the gold-lace manufac- turer. : But the young man went in his usual simple, straightforward manner to work, and was more likely to overcome obstacles by such means than as though he had plotted and planned for hours. Allan knocked quietly, but energetically, at the door, which might or might not admit him to the interior of St. James's Palace. There was a promptitude in the door being opened which startled Allan at the moment, but it arose from the fact of one of the attendants of the Countess de Blonde being upon the point of issuing from it. This young woman looked with surprise at Allan, as she did not recognise him as an attendant or an official of the establishment. Her surprise was not decreased when he held — out the letter, saying, with his usual courteous manner and tone, ‘‘ Can this be conveyed speedily to the Countess de Blonde ?” “A letter to the Countess 2” * As you perceive,” smiled Allan, gently, “E shall be much beholden to you if you can put mo in the way of getting it delivered to her.” / bn eet et ted se ra Re ’ | —— THE DARK WOMAN. * But I’m afraid letters to the Countess, and from a handsome—that is to say, from a young man, might not be approved by the Prince.” “ This is not a love-letter,” said Allan. “Oh!” said the waiting-maid, in a tone which at once conveyed the impression that the interest she had taken in the matter was considerably reduced. “ There is no secret,” added Allan. ‘The letter is from the sister of the Countess de Blonde.” “ Only her sister ?” “That is all.” “ And you?” “T am her sister’s husband.” The waiting-maid looked anything but pleased. “There was something so quiet and gentle about Allan, that even a flirtation seemed out of the question; and yet those speaking eyes of his, and gentle voice, had passed the fragile barriers be- tween him and the heart of the waiting-maid. ‘¢ Shall I be beholden to your kindness,” added Allan, “to put me in the way of delivering the letter to the Countess ?” * Yourself, do you mean?’ ‘¢T would rather deliver it myself.” ““ Why, there’s a guard-room to pass through, with some of the Yeomen always on duty; but if you don’t mind waiting, I will take the letter to the Conntess—that is to say, if it requires an an- swer; and if you will step inside with me, you can wait in the little hall—but the Yeomen will not let you pass through their guard-room.” “« T-will accompany you with pleasure,” “t How jealous Peter Bolt will be!” “Th?” said Allan. “Oh, nothing—nothing!” Allan’s sense of hearing was acute, and he said, with a smile, ‘‘Oblige me by not making Peter Bolt jealous, for indeed I come here on a very serious errand.” The heedless girl only laughed; and, having shown Allan into the “little hall,” as it was called, which was a sort of vestibule to the small guard-room, where a couple of the Yeomen of the Guard, in their antique costumes, were playing at dominoes, she tripped up a staircase, and disap- peared with Marian’s letter. There was a considerable accession of respect in the manner of the girl when she returned and in- formed Allan that the Countess de Blonde would see him; although, she added, the Countess said, if it was only to thank her, she was already sufii- ciently rewarded for what she had done. Allan quite understood the meaning of this message, and he said, with emotion, “I have certainly much cause to thank the Countess de Blonde, and I will do so; but that was not my object in visiting her this morning.” ‘* You will follow me, then,” said the girl; but there was an evident confusion in her manner which did not escape the eyes of Allan Fearon. He saw her show a small slip of paper to the two Yeomen of the Guard, and he heard one of them say, “Very well, but we ought to keep it.” The girl said something in reply, but the Yeo- man shook his head and put the slip of paper in his pocket. r ‘Pass on,” he said to Allan. ‘You can ac- company this young woman.” : Allan ascended the staircase, ani in another a spt A On ER = = moment was in that Titian Gallery which has been so often mentioned to the reader. , ‘You have nothing to do but to go straight on,” she said, ‘‘ and you will meet somebody.” ‘‘Many thanks,” said Allan, who did not doubt for a moment but that the ‘‘ somebody” would be the Countess de Blonde. Allan was much annoyed, however, to see a tall sinister-looking man advancing towards him, who, with a smile of mock courtesy, said, ‘‘I under- stand, sir, you wish to see the Countess de Blonde ?” “ Such is my errand here.” “The Countess will feel pleased if you will communicate to me the object of your errand.” “Phat, sir, is for the Countess’s ear alone.” “Then I am afraid : “Indeed, sir!” interrupted Allan. ‘Then ig the Countess de Blonde a state prisoner in St. James's Palace ?” Another footstep sounded in the Titian Gal- lery at this moment, and, in a hurried manner, Willes, the Regent’s valet, made his appearance, while the Countess’s attendant, who had evidently held some communication with Willes, opened a & door a considerable distance: off, through which — she disappeared, closing it again with a sharp report. : “Sir,” said Willes, as he touched Allan on the arm, ‘‘ your presence here is so inopportune—so very—what shall I say ?—~dangerous, if you will have it so, that I beg of you to retire. His Highness the Regent will be in the gallery in ten minutes.” “The Regent ?” cried Allan. gallery ?” “T assure you of it.” “Thanks for the assurance! It is a piece of good forture I scarcely looked for.” Z “Good fortune!” exclaimed Willes. ‘' You know not what you say. Your name is Fearon, is it not ?” ‘Lbs. “Then, Colonel Hanger, join with me in per- suading this gentleman to go.” ‘‘ Ah!” said Colonel Hanger, who was the tall, “Here, in this sinister-looking personage who had accosted Allan, © and who now filled the post vacated by Sir Hinck- ton Moya. “The Regent will be irritated,” added Willes. ‘‘The Countess de Blonde will be in fresh diffi- culty, and we shall all be accused of I know not what.” ‘‘ But,” said Allan, ‘ what can irritate the Re- gent at me?” “Do not ask, but go at once.” “Oh!” said Colonel Hanger, “I begin to re- collect. You had better go, sir; and as Willes and myself are most excellent friends of the Countess de Blonde, his Highness need not be irritated on the subject.” A door at this moment was flung open so close behind Willes, that he had to give rather a ludi- crous leap to get out of the way of it. j ‘© What is all this?” said Annie, appearing at the opening. ‘ What is this contention about ?” “Fair Countess,” said Colonel Hanger, with a bow. - “Rabbish!” said Annie. ‘Keep your fine speeches to yourself; they are lost upon ms. Allan Fearon, what do you want tosay tome? What | a ee ee THE DARK WOMAN, rrererrs LEFT? LUELLA GLE ALILITEL? ST Mh IN i ie | } does Marian mean by sending you to me? Is she sick, in danger, or in want? You shake your head. tell you the air of St. James’s is not healthy for you. You have enemies, Allan, here and elsewhere. You -want to thank me; I am thanked. Go your ways. Heaven bless you and Marian both, and forget that you ever knew Annie Gray.” «Annie Gray will never be forgotten by those who love her,” said Allan. Oh, oh!” ejaculated Colonel Hanger. “He will destroy himself,” said Willes. “And what’s that to both of you?” said Annie, with startling abruptress. ‘I like people to love me. They shall love me, too! Not two frights like you! I don’t mean either of you. Come this way, Allan, if you have really something to say to me.” Allan gladly obeyed her; and in another mo- No. 47 —Dark Woman. PLEIN ARN tet = oni ment Annie led him through the doorway, which she closed ia the faces of Colonel Hanger and No? Then why do you comehere? I, Willes. ‘‘ Wilful !” said Hanger. ‘‘ Most imprudent!” exclaimed Willes. “The very man, my dear Willes, of whom the Regent was a little jealous!” ‘My dear sir, we must save her, because “Because what ?” _ “ We have already gained a great deal through the favour and influence of the Countess de Blonde, and shall gain a great deal more by her continuance in favour.” “That is true.” ic ” “Then, my dear sir, you will say nothing “T am dumb.” Colonel Hanger left the Titian Gallery, and Willes watched him carefully as far as he could see him. “He will betray ber,” he said, “and there will ete en 870 -- THE DARK be mischief. Can it be that she really cares for this young man, and that I have been as blind as a bat all this while to all that is passing around me? Never mind; if it be so, it is all the better for me, Sir Thomas Willes. I will stick by her, because—because I know it is to my in- terest so to do.” Wiltes lingered for five minutes in the gallery with his senses all on the stretch. Then faintly he heard, as if coming from a distance, a familiar cry in the Palace of St. James's “Way for the Regent—way for the Regent!” “He is coming!” said Willes. ‘! Morning prayers are over! He is coming |” Willes turned and tapped sharply at the door leading into the Countess de Blonde’s apart- ments. Allan Fearon iad been full ten minutes in that beautiful boudoir of the fair Countess. Annie bad flung herself into a chair, and partly shaded her eyes with her hand, as she said, “ Well, Allan, you see me again—your old acquaintance, Annie Gray. I don’t know if it be cruel or kind for you to come here.” “IT do not mean to be cruel, Annie.” "Ts Marian happy ?” “I strive to make her so.” Annie sighed deeply. “Are you happy?” said Allan, gently. “You must not ask me that. What brings you here? You have an errand. Speak it at once, for we may never meet again!” ‘Strange circumstances, Annie, which almost transcend belief, hayes made it the first wish of my heart that I should have an interview with the Regent.” a3 You 2” “Even I!” -“ You an interview with the Regent? Stop—I guess-—-I more than guess—-I know! Marian loves me dearly, and you, because you love Marian, haye—what shall I call it ?—a reflected affection for me; and between you both, you fancy, by some appeal to the Regent, you will save me from the bitter, bitter fruits of the life I lead. When I no longer please his fancy—when another face, an- other form crosses the imagination of the fickle lover—you fancy that I shall be spurned, and left to the wide world a helpless, hopeless creature!” “No, Annie; that you can never be. While Marian and I have a home, you shall ever be wel- come toit. But no appeal of the kind you fancy is intended to the Regent. A.strange tale has been told me, and I seek its verification from his own lips. In a word, can you, Annie, procure me an interview with the Prince of Wales?” ‘Perhaps, if I knew 4 ‘Knew what, Annie?” “What you wished to say.” Allan was silent for a moment. ‘*‘ Keep your secret,” added Annie. “ Only tell ‘me one thing. I have chosen my own fate—my own course in life—and I wish no friends of mine to heap useless reproaches on the head of him who is now my destiny.” “ Neither is that my object,” said Allan sadly. “Then let me tell you another thing. The Regent is jealous of you.” . ; “Of me? Oh, heaven !” “ Yes; he ascribes my interest in you, and the em ati atin i OO a. et RN ert Sane i, att pret RM ie mst i, mt WOMAN. exertions I made to save your life, to personal in- terest in you. He will not listen to the fact that you are my. sister’ husband; and even now, by seeing you, I risk the raising of a storm it may be difficult to quell.” YT will quell it, Annie, in five minutes’ conver- sation with the Regent. Tell me, I implore you, when and where I can see him?” Annie reflected. “To-night, at half-past nine o’clock, you must meet Willes, the Regent’s valet.” “Ah, ne, I fear not! Willes has already re- fused, and escaped a most imperious command to that effect.” : “You confuse me,” said Annie, “Stay, I hava You are a Turkey shawl merchant.” ‘A what ?” “A dealer in Turkish and Indian shawls. Here, take these, and these—this scarf from Delhi—these Cashmere wrappers from Persia, Bring them with you at the hour I have mentioned, and demand to see me. I will then take care that you bave your interview with the Regent, for I can see the wish to have it sits very near your heart, indeed.” Annie, in her careless, hasty way, dragged out from a beautiful cabinet that was in the room some costly fabrics, in the shape of shawls and searfs, and flung them into the arms of Allan. “You should see the Regent now,” she said, ‘but be will not be five minutes longer in the Palace; and besides, I wish to speak to him first, to clear his mind of that absurd jealousy of you, which otherwise will make him meet you with suspicion. Remember, half-past nine to-night!” “TJ will!” ‘Indeed !” said a voice, as the door was dashed open. ‘And has it really come to this? Ob, Coun- tess! Countess!” “The Regent!” said Annie. The Prince of Wales stood on the threshold of the door, trembling with rage. A flash of colour came over the face of Allan. Was that man his father? Did he for the first time look in the face of that other earthly parent that had been declared to him by the Dark Woman? Did he indeed behold tha man who might call him ‘‘son,” but who had never eared to look into his eyes, or cast a thought upon his welfare? There was a weight at Allan’s heart, and asuffa- sion of tears to his eyes. He bent low to hide his too visible emotion, and then the sharp tones of Annie rung in his ears. . “You will becareful, Mr. Brown, to match both the Cashmeres and the Indian shawl. Don’t mind the price: there’s a long purse to pay for them. it! Now, +e off, for I'm busy. Don't you see his Highness the Regent? Bow to his Highness the Regent !” “Yes,” said Allan, faintly. : i * But I thought,” said the Regent,—“ that is, I was told “What?” said Annie, so sharply, that the Regent gave a slight jump. * Well, it was said-——” “ Who said it ?” “That a gentleman had visited you, and that his name was Fearon.” “Gracious heaven!’ said Annie; ‘ you're always fearing something, or somebody. Go away, Brown—go away, my good man! Don't lS A NN TN, | cetacean a oo er eee AN SPST APOE NNR A 58 THE DARK WOMAN. 371 nn LL NE EN you see there’s going to beadisturbance! I shall scream inaminute! Come, George, out with it allnow! Who told you? and what did they tell your” *‘ Colonel Hanger.” ‘Call him in!” cried Annie, at the top of her voice. : The sound of footsteps at a tremendous run down the gallery, at this moment, was sufficiently significant of the flight of Colonel Hanger. Allan bowed low to the Prince as he left the room. He could not trust himself to speak; and in three minutes more he found himself in the court-yard of St. James's Palace, with Annie’s shawls and scarfs upon his arm, The Regent looked confused. ‘“‘ Then it was a shawl man, after all ?” he said. “ Just as you please,” said Annie; “ or a lover in disguise.” é - “Come, come, don’t jest about such things !” “And are you so foolish as to suppose I have no lover?” “A lover? Can you tell me to my face that you have one ?” ‘To be sure I can!” screamed: Annie. \The Regent changed colour, and placed his hand upon his sword. ““Y will know who it ist I am tortured and tormented by these surmises! People whisper names and suspicions to me; and since you are so candid, Countess, perhaps you will clear up all the mystery, by telling me who is the favoured individual who shares with the Prince of Wales your affections ?” “T didn’t say shares. * Ah!” ‘Now you're in a passion.” “‘T will mave his name, madam !” “ You shall, sir. It is George.” ‘‘ George who ?” ‘George, the Regent !” “Oh!” Annie burst into a shrill laugh; and Willes, who had been listening attentively at the door, rubbed his hands together, until he nearly set them alight by the friction. ‘“* She’s monstrously clever !” he cried,—‘ she’s monstrously clever! I'll stand by her through thick and thin; and who knows but I may be Lord Willes yet! Lord Willes! Ha, ha! Way for my Lord Willes!” All or nothing.” =o CHAPTER XOVIII. SHUCKS AND BRADS HAVE AN UNEXPECTED INTERVIEW WITH THEIR OLD MISTRESS, WuitE the events we have recorded were taking place at the Court of St. James’s, and while the Regent and the Princess of Wales were contend- ing, in their royal fashion, for the mastery in in- trigue and high affairs of State, a very different scene was being enacted in as celebrated, but by cans so fashionable, a portion of the metro- polis. In one of the back streets of old St. Giles’s there was a house which went by the name of the ‘© Warren.” This house, for the space of a hundred years, had been the haunt of “ the family,” as, with a charming domesticity, the thieves of London chese to call themselves. Who had been the original landlord, owner, or possessor of this house, was a mystery that was lost in the lapse of time. Some would have it that the house had existed in the reign of Charles the Second, and that all the inhabitants of it had perished in the great . plague of London. That, in fact, it was one of those houses which, after the plague, had remained for a time shut up with the red cross still on the door, until some one thought proper to break it open, and take possession. But be that how it may, the house, old and dilapidated as it was now, had become the haunt of ‘the family.” Housebreakers, decayed highwaymen, footpads, pickpockets, and all the numerous, fraternity of depredators, were sure to find a home in the Warren. There was nothing to pay. Some retired cracksman, probably, would take ‘possession of the house, and establish himself in ‘one room, where he laid in a stock of illicit spirits and tobacco. Those refreshments he retailed to all comers. The only qualification for a temporary lodging in the Warren was the same which would at any time secure free quarters in any gaol of the king- dom. No wonder, then, that the Warren was generally tolerably well inhabited. It was full of nooks, and corners, and hiding~ places of all sorts and conditions. The officers of the police generally despaired of finding any gen- tleman who was ‘ wanted,” when once he had ‘ passed the threshold of the Warren. It was night, then—that night on which the singular individual had made his entrance to the house close to the Thames, in the occupation of Allan and Marian, when, at the corner of the street in which the Warren was situated, a man, wrapped up in an old great-coat, stood.on the watch. The clock of St. Giles’s Church struck two. “‘ What’s become of him, I wonder?” muttered this man to himself. “I hope no harm has come across old Brads.” The reader will now conclude that this man who was on the watch was none other than Shucks, the companion of Brads, and for a time the guest, at the cavern on Hampstead Heath, of Sixteen-stringed Jack. The night was dark, and Shucks began to get more and more uneasy about the absence of his comrade, At jength a rapid footstep sounded close at hand, but Shucks was cautious, and he darted into a doorway, to reconnoitre the approaching passenger before he showed himself. Then there was a low, faint whistle, and Shucks immediately emerged from his place of conceal- ment. “ Brads 2” * All’s right, old pal!” mE . “'That’s well. Ibave been waiting here for you a whole hour.” ‘*T have seen her.” ‘6 Seen who?’ “T told you, Shucks, all about it, I am sure.” | | | | | | 872 ‘‘Ah, so you did, I daresay, but I was half asleep, you see, a8 we came in from Hampstead, and didn’t hear half of it.” “Tt don’t matter.” “ Very good.” ‘“‘ But another thing does matter.” ‘¢ What's that ?” “Why, you have heard of Shillingworth, the fficer ?” “To be sure.” ‘He has made up his mind, with one com- panion, to get into the Warren to-night, and find out who is in refuge in it.” “You don’t say so!” be I do.” “But how do you know that, Brads?” “T will tell you. I have been to pay a visit to one who——Well, well, that don’t matter. She is safe, well, and happy.” “‘ Who do you mean, pal ?” “My child.” “ Your kid?” ‘t Yes, Shucks, I have a child.” “Ts he smart and clever? ’Cos, you see, if he is, he will be just the thing to push throngh the fanlights at the top of street doors when we go cracking cribs, Brads.” “No, no! Do not speak to me in that way, Shucks. Besides, my little one is a girl.” “‘ They are all the cleverer.” “*T will not hear of it. Let me tell you about the officers.” “Tell it all at once, old fellow. Let us come into the Warren. You will have to tell it there, you know, to the ‘ family.’” “That is true. Come on—come on.” Shucks and Brads walked towards the old dila- pidated house, and tapped in a most mysterious manner, not on the door, but on the old rusty iron railings that were close to it. ‘What cheer?” said a voice. “Kites don’t pick kites eyes out,” said Brads. ‘‘ That’s like enough,” replied the voice. ‘ Some- body is a coming.” “Let them come,” added Brads. A man strolled slowly up towards the door, and looking Brads and Shucks curiously in the face, he said abruptly, ‘‘ What do you call your- selves, mates ?” ‘“* Cracksmen.” ‘And what’s your names when you are at home ?” ‘“‘T am sometimes called Shucks.” ‘And I Brads.” At the same moment both Shucks and Brads made a peculiar sign with their thumbs, and the scout who was on duty in the street in which the Warren was situated, called out, “It’s as right as it can be. Number one’s, and no sort of mis- take.” The door opened immediately. Brads and Shucks went into the Warren, which presented such an odour of spirits and tobacco to the senses, that had they not been.pretty well accustomed to it, would have gone near to choking them. A heavy blanket was stretched across the pas- sage, or rather, we should say, hung in loose folds from the ceiling. : Any one who should succeed in making way into the passage of that house would, if he at- THE DARK WOMAN. tempted to rush forward, be wonderfully puzzled and involved in the folds of the blanket. Bat the person who kept watch in the passage produced a lantern, and held aside the blanket as he said, “It’s right on, my ‘family’ men—right on; and you can only fall down one flight of stairs.” “Thank you,” said Shucks. “I suppose we have the liberty of picking ourselves up at th foot of them?” “Certainly: This here is liberty hall when once you gets in.” The man laughed as he held out his lantern to guide Shucks and Brads, who made their way along the passage, and then came to another blanket, which was exactly at the head of a flight of stairs that led to the» lower regions of the house, The moment they had passed this second blanket they became conscious of a low murmuring sound, as of many persons conversing together at some distance. “There’s a full muster, of the ‘family’ to- night,” said Shucks to his companion. “Tt sounds like it.” They descended the old ricketty staircase, and then, as they came in sight of a dim light which shed some sickly rays about it below, a man called out sharply, ‘ Halt, halt!” ‘* Yes,” said Shucks. ‘‘ Where are you coming to, eh? Hold a bit! There, now! A\ll’s right and square again !” There was a heavy sound, as of some door shutting. It was the closing of a trap-door which was exactly at the foot of the staircase. There had been in ancient times an old well on those premises, and this trap-door covered the entrance to it. . At the foot of the flight of stairs that Jed to the secret place of meeting of the thieves, it formed a terrible defence, when open, against any intruders on their counsels. ‘Now, come on,” said the man who had charge of the trap. He was a terrible specimen of humanity. Some fearful scene that he had gone through had muti- lated his features in a frightful manner. This man now held aside a third blanket, and there appeared behind it a door which was only on the latch. Another moment, and Shucks and Brads were in a low-roofed apartment, which was made up of several kitchens of the house turned into one. The atmosphere was dense with tobacco- smoke. : A hoop of iron, suspended by strings, that ra- diated from its circumference and united in its centre, supported some half-dozen flaring candles, which looked lurid and red in their flames in the midst of the heavily loaded air. These candles dropped melted tallow upon the heads of the persons below them, and were ana- thematized accordingly, in language not to be found in any dictionary with pretensions to polite- ness. About thirty persons were assembled in this noisome place. iene They were all laughing, talking, drinking, and smoking. A round table was against one of the walls, Saas vena ea caneneinenenmndeemtendaniindamameanemedtieiiennmaendiniemnamaneee THE DARK WOMAN. and on that table stood an arm-chair, which was occupied by a portly man in a red night-cap, who was puffing huge volumes of smoke from a very large Dutch pipe. As Shucks and Brads entered the place, the shrill blast of a whistle overpowered all other sounds. In a moment, an intense stillness reigned in the haunt. ‘‘ Now, my pals and tricksters,” said the man with the night-cap, “to business—to business! Here we is, like so many babies in the wood, and the blessed world outside is our cruel uncle, who wants to leave us to starva, and be covered up by the robin redbreasts with tobacco-leaves. Wasn't it that, Jim, eh ?” ‘* Rather!” said the person who sat at the feet of the president. ““Wery good! Now, Jim, get along. Proceed to the business of the blessed meeting!” ** All’s right!” said Jim. “The noble president is able and willing to hear any of the ‘family’ say what he has got all for to say.” ' A slim youog man rose. ' “Theres a good chance,” he said, “on the Western Road to-morrow night. Mr. Lazenby, the bank cashier, carries home a cash-box, be- cause the bank premises, in Lombard Street, are in course of repair. I am not a knight of the road; but I bring the news, as in duty bound.” “* Good!” said the president. ‘ Put that down, Jim.” Jim, who evidently officiated as secretary, wrote on a slip of paper, and put it into a hat. Then a burly-looking man rose, and said, ‘‘ The family has gone out of town at number four in Bulstrode Street, and there’s only an old woman left in the house. It’s not a bad chance for cracking the crib. The old woman can easy be got rid of, I should say.” “Put that down, Jim.” “ All’s right!” said Jim, as he made another memorandum, and placed it in the hat. Another of the ‘‘ family ” rose. ‘Mr. Bult,” he said, ‘‘ the silversmith, in the Ox- ford Road, leaves business every evening at eight o'clock, and walks to Notting Hill. He carries with him all the day’s takings, in a canvass bag, tied round his waist, under his coat. There isa lonely spot just on the rise of Bayswater Hill.” “Good!” said the president. ‘Down with it, Jim!” “ All’s right!” Another rose, : “The house number ten in Hanover Square,” he said, ‘“‘ which has been to let furnished for so long, and which Lord Lincoln occupied, is now let to a lady who calls herself the Countess d'Umbra. She seems to be immensely rich, and there are only four men-servants in the house, three of them sleeping in the attics. It’s a crib that might well be worth the cracking, and easily done.” “Good again!” said the president. down, Jim.” “There you are!” said Jim, as he cast the me- morandum into the hat. ‘Ts that all, pals ?” No one else spoke. “Then call out!” added the president. Jim took one slip from the hat, and called out “ Put that RAE Ot NL RN A OG A RP A RN ee “pa in a loud voice, ‘*‘ What cracksman is for this, eh ?” “T!” cried 4 voice. “There you are! regulars into the house,” A shabby-looking man took the slip of paper, and held it up to read it. “Ah!” he said; ‘ this will do for me.” “ Who is for this?” said Jim, again. knight of the road is for this ?” “Give it here!” said a voice. A tall man in a coat of faded scarlet cloth took the ticket, and laughed when he read it. . ‘‘Well,” he said, ‘‘as sure as my name is Jerry, I will see what is to be found in the cash- box of the bank cashier!” ‘‘ Who is for this?” cried Jim, again. ‘* What cracksman’s is this ?” ** Here!” said Brads. “There you are, my lovely pal!” “What is it?” said Shucks. “Tt’s the crib in Hanover Square.” “Very well, Lucks all! We will do it.” ** Of course we will!” In this manner, by lot, the little pieces of ‘business’ were duly distributed; and then the president again blew his whistle, commanding silence, “Pals ali,” he said, “I wish you luck! If you have good fortune, don’t forget the dues to the family chest. If you fall into the hands of the traps, you know that you will be defended and looked after.” There was a clatter of glasses and pewter mea- sures upon the tables in token of assent, Then the president spoke again. “Has any family man anything to say for the good of tke fraternity ?” **T have,” said Brads.” “What is it 2” “‘T had some buginess of my own close to the Thames to-night, and when that was over I did not choose to go up one of the old streets into the Strand, so I borrowed a boat.” " Good! ” “‘T borrowed a boat, I say, as no waterman was at hand, and was about to push off, when two men came down to the stairs, and called out for a cast to Blackfriars. I took them both, and they thought me a waterman. I did not know either of them, but they talked freely enough, though in whispers. I did not hear all, but I heard enough.” There was a death-like stillness now in the thieves’ kitchen, for they could tell by the man- ner of Brads that what he had to say was some- thing that would be of interest to’them all. Brads continued. -“T found that one of the men was the officer named Shillingworth.” Execrations burst from several lips. “ Listen, pals!” said the president. “The other, ” added Brads, ‘‘I could not make out at all; but I heard enough of what they said to know that an attempt will be made to-night at four o’clock to get into the Warren.” “Ah!” cried the thieves, as with one voice. At this moment the door of the kitchen was opened, and a man, supporting himself by the aid of a stick, came in. The head of this man was bandaged, and there Do it well, and pay the “ What a I pg IOSINIA ic ne RR TIA NN OS RN LO NI lg a nme 874 THE DARK was blood upon his face. He tottered rather than walked to a seat, and sat down with a groan. All eyes were turned upon him. “Who are you, my hearty?” said the pre- Bident. “T am Jonas, the Birmingham cracksman.” ‘Ah! we have heard of you. What’s amiss?” “JT will tell you, pals. Business got bad at Birmingham, and I came to London in the ‘Flying Wonder ’—that’s the new coach, you know—and we were only a day and a night on the road. In the coach was a clothier, who lived in Barbican; and I got him into patter, and found out that he had gilt in his house. I cracked his crib last night, but fell through a skylight, and was as near fall- ing into the hands of the traps as may be. I slept _ in a pen in Smithfield, and there bought this stick of a drover fora penny, and came on here. - I suppose I may stay a bit.” ‘“* Of course.” “ Ah, thank you, pals, thank you! Ican pay my way as well assay my say. A drop of purl now would do me a world of good.” At this moment a shout, that before it ended degenerated into a cry of pain, came from the street. Then all was still. It was so common at that period in the streets of London to hear all sorts of cries, that beyond the moment, the thieves who were collected in the kitchen of the Warren paid no attention to this one, But Shucks and Brads both kept their eyes upon the new-comer from Birmingham, and Brads felt quite certain that he was silently coanting the number of persons in the place. What do you mean by that, pal?” said Brads. “You are ticking us all off on your fidgers ag if we were sheep at a fair.” ‘6 Eh 2?” ‘“‘ What is it ?” said the president. “ Thirty-one—thirty-two !” said the Birming- ham cracksman. “I’m glad of that!” “What do you mean?” roared several of the thieves. “ Why, you see, pals, I’ve always taken notice that things go lucky when there is an even num- ber of us together, ahd unlucky when there is an odd number; so I wanted to know which was which here in the blessed old Warren, that was all. I find it’s even.” CHAPTER XCIX. THE OFFICERS ARE REPULSED WITH LOSS FROM THE THIEVES HAUNT, Tue cracksman from Birmingham spoke quite openly and clearly, and yet there was something about his style and manner which appeared sus- picious, not only to Shucks and Brads, but’also to the whole fraternity. One thing was quite evident, however, which was, that he never could have obtained admit- tance to that place unless he had been in full pos- session of the signals and modes of proceeding by which he could pass the scouts and sentinels who kept watch over the Warren. No one had a right to interfere unless the presi- PN IR OI ORR PN SEPT OTTE TRAE ante Ln tet ec on oe Pam Ne tl AR. teeny one eae WOMAN, . ps dent of the evening chose to do so; andin a few moments another arrival seemed calculated to draw all attention away from the Birmingham cracksman, and leave him to his own contempla- tions, He was slowly sipping the mug of purl for which he had expressed a partiality, when the door of the thieves’ kitchen again opened, and a light, active-looking youth, of the unmistakable style of London pickpockets, made his -appear- ance. “ Pals all,” he said, with an assurance of man- ner only to be acquired in the fraternity to which he belonged,—‘ pals all, theres a pretty go at Newgate.” ‘“* What is it?” cried everybody. ‘Oh, I heard if from Acres, one of the under turnkeys, who don’t object to a little business on the sly. There's a new coach, it seems, called the Flying Wonder, that comes from Birmingham in a day and a night.” “Ah!” cried everybody; and all eyes were turned upon the provincial cracksman, who was sipping his purl. His hand shook slightly, and a small portion was spilt upon the table. _ Brads nodded to Shucks; and then the presi- dent in the night-cap called out, ‘Go on, my pal. What was the end of the row ?” “Why, you see, a family man from Birming- ham came to town in the coach with a Barbican clothier, and got him into a patter all the way, and that night he cracked his crib; but he fell through a skylight, and hurt himself. The traps got hold of him, and he’s now safe in the jug.” The wounded cracksman, who had announced himself as from Birmingham, spilt some more of his pur], and then, with a strange laugh, he fixed his eyes upon the young pickpocket, as he said, “ You haven't got half the tale, now. The traps didn’t nab him, for here he is.” “Hera?” ** Yes, my pal, I’m the man.” 6 You ?”? “To be sutre—who else? Let’s have a glass of purl all round, I got hold of some of the gilt, although I did get an ugly fall; and I'll stand treat for the sake of the old Warren.” ‘“‘ But you were in Newgate an hour ago,” said the pickpocket. “ All a mistake.” “Bat I’m sure you was.” ‘“‘ Never was in the jug in my life, except once to see an old pal, and then they nearly grabbed me. Come, let’s have a song! There's nothing like keeping our spirits up, is there, my jolly pals ? Why, I feel I could sing one myself. What shall it be—a song of the road ?” . ‘* Stop a bit,” said Brads. There was a death-like stillness in the thieves’ kitchen, for an uneasy sensation had crept over everybody that somethiug was amiss. The president with the red night-cap abstract- edly drew his pipe from his mouth. The young pickpocket placed himself exactly opposite the provincial housebreaker, and leaning his elbows on the table, he stared him full in the face. Still more of the purl was spilt, and the man’s hand trembled as he lifted the cup to his lips. ‘s Listen to me, comrades,” said Brads. ‘ All / , THE DARK WOMAN, 375 this don’t sound well, or look well. It may be that it’s all fair and square, but it may not. I'm not the man to fly in the face of a comrade, and say things are wrong when they may be right; but as nobody can be in two places at once, I should like to know if the Birmingham cracksman is in Newgate, or here at the Warren.” ‘You see me here,” cried the man alluded to; ‘*s0 there’s an end of that.” ‘‘And I should like to know something else,” said the young pickpocket; “‘ and that is, what's under the bandage that’s over his eye and a bit of his forehead.” As he spoke, the nimble pickpocket darted for- ward his right hand, and, with a sudden snatch, divested the head of the pretended wounded man of the bloodstained wrapper that was about it. A profusion of dark hair immediately fell on each side of his face, and the apparently feeble, tottering housebreaker sprung to his feet. He dashed the table from him, which, striking the young pickpocket in the chest, sent him sprawling to the floor. “ Hall-porter asleep. Good night!” Another moment, and Wriggles disappeared in the darkness. Shucks and Brads stood upon the very threshold of the door; but the intelligence that Wriggles had given was alarming; for although with his admirable finesse and dexterity, the boy had suc- ceeded in actually getting into the house through the fanlight, and in undoing all the fastenings of the door without arousing the slumbering hall- porter, it was highly improbable that Brads and Shucks would even succeed in closing it again without making noise enough to awaken him. And so they paused for a moment. Murder was not their vocation. Murder, too, has a voice, and amid the stillness of the night, the slightest cry—a shriek—one spasmodic sob, even, would be sufficient to put an end to an enterprise which could only succeed by its silence and its secrecy. What was to be done? Brads whispered to Shucks. “Let me go in first. I'll light a match and look at him.” ** Good !” ‘Hold the door—hold it close to, or the cold air will creep into the house and awaken every- body as if you touched them. I’ve known it do 80.” Shucks held the door close, leaving but a small crevice. Brads had glided into the hall, and for a few seconds he listened intently, and heard the deep, sonorous breathing of some one in profound repose. It was that sound which, no doubt, had let Wriggles know that there was a hall-porter, and that he slept upon his post. There was something encouraging, though, about the nature of the breathing—it was so deep and long-drawn. Brads ventured to light a match. A thieves’ match which lit without the faintest sound, and which, for about the time it would take you to count twenty, cast a faint blue light about it. pu Seated in a large leather chair, with a canopy or hood over it, was a burly-looking man in crimson livery. At his feet was a large earthen jug, and the very atmosphere of the hall was full of ale. “A sot!” whispered Brads. ‘ He sleeps sound enough.” It was abundantly evident that sobriety was not one of the virtues of the hall-porter of the Countess d'Umbra’s residence in Hanover Square. After making this discovery, Brads had no hesitation in at once admitting his comrade to the house, and they closed the outer door. & Carefully and deliberately they closed it, as though the Jeast noise might cost them their lives, and as though they had no faith—although, in truth, they had abundant—in the continued repose of the hall-porter. Then they drew over their boots thick worsted socks which would most effectually deaden all sound from their footsteps while they should remain in the house. Shucks lit a small lantern. Brads looked to the priming of a pistol he had with him. The two housebreakers were quite prepared for action. The hall of the Countess d'Umbra’s honse in Hanover Square was large and handsome. It indeed looked far more like some splendid apart- ment than the mere hall or vestibule of a house. There were paintings of value on the walls. Statuary—copies from the antique, and not modern abortions from the so-called studios of men who owe their position to the arts and in- trigues of modern hypocrisy and adulation—reposed in silent majesty in various niches, and on pedestals of rare marble. ~ Exotics, with broad, metallic-looking leaves, lent the charm of vegetation to the place. The only blot upon the scene was that hard- breathing, drunken hall-porter. How strange it is that humanity should, in so many cases, mar the beauty that it has the power to create! Various doors opened from different parts of the spacious hall. A beautifully adorned staircase sprung up from about the centre of it; and the little lantern that Shucks waved to and fro, was reflected in its light from the gilt balustrades. “A tidy sort of a crib, this,” whispered Brads, ‘* You may say that.” “ Speak low.” “ Ay, ay! But nothing short of a pistol-shot at his ears\would wake up that fellow!” “I believe you.” They made choice of one of the doors that opened from the hall, and which, they thought, might lead to the principal dining-room. ' The door yielded to a touch. The apartment they entered was a very hand- some one. In one corner there was a buffet, on which glittered a quantity of plate and glass. The housebreakers made their way towards it, and Brads untied from around his waist what had looked like a coiled-up apron, such as a mechanic returning home from his work might wear. It was a stout canvass bag, or indeed, sack, for it was of considerable size. Into this, the more costly articles of plate were placed silently. The bag was then placed behind the door ready for removal. There was a sharp, cracking noise. The doors of the buffet were opened. “ Nothing!” said Brads. “ Nothing ?” “ Only eatables—preserves, and such-like stuff !* “© Come on, then!” “ All’s right, comrade!” ERE SNR eet Ne A NS sire area ca taneeere | | Sa ee pn et eA ee ne aes rt ws Dee oe THE DARK WOMAN, . —————<— ~ sorapeenentingiineien date nemeammeme rp at ae a They crept silently into the hall again, where | opened it, and he paused there for a full minute’s the hall-porter was sleeping more noisily, if not more melodiously, than ever. “ That fellow is enough, of himself, to awaken the whole house,” said Shucks. “ They are likely enough used to it,” remarked Brads. “It won't do to interfere with him yet.” They both tripped lightly along, until they ) came to the foot of the magnificent staircase; and then, after casting another careful glance about them, which dwelt for a moment or two upon the slumbering hall-porter, they commenced the ascent of the stairs. They moved noiselessly as two spectres. The lantern that Shucks carried cast strange grotesque shadows upon the walls; and in a few moments they had gained the landing, and stood still to listen. The house was Saale still. “Shucks, my beauty!” whispered Brads. ‘* What now, eh?” ‘‘There’s never any good got by going into drawing-rooms, you know.” “T know that.” “Very good. Let us get up to the other floor at once.” **Come on, then!” : “There’s more to be got out of a best bed-room than all the fine drawing-rooms in the house.” ‘Hush! Come on!” They slowly crept up the next flight of stairs, which, in fact, led them nearly to the highest floor of the house; for, with the exception of a few miserable slanting-roofed attics, with their little corner windows in the roof of the house, the habitable portion of the mansion ended with the second floor. That second floor was, however, very spacious. There was a long broad corridor, which went the whole depth of the house, from the front to the back. From that corridor, which had a secondary staircase leading from it to the servants’ portion of the house, opened many doors. It was the object of Shucks and Brads to find the door which led to the apartment of the mistress of the house. If the Countess d’Umbra were not fear-proof, they thought they might not only succeed in terrifying her into silence, but in making her point out to them where the best booty in the mansion could be found. : It was money they wanted ; and they well knew how difficult that was to light upon in 4 strange house, without some special information of its whereabouts. Shucks carefully examined each door they came to with the lantern. They at length decided upon one that had gilt mouldings in the panels, and which they thought would surely lead to the principal—if not, one of the principal—bed-chambers of the mansion. It was an agreeable surprise to the housebreakers to find the door of this room only on the latch. “ Keep dark!” whispered Brads. Shucks slowly drew the slide over the lens of the lantern. All was darkness. The door creaked very slightly as Shucks \ space. No—there was no alarm. He put his head in at the smallest possible opening of the door that would admit it. There was a light in the chamber. Shucks never uttered exclamations of eurprise, or any other feeling, while he was on such business as had brought him and Brads to that house, or he would certainly have said something indicative of his admiration of the room into which he looked. It was the handsomest and most luxurious bed-_ chamber he had ever seen. The furniture and fittings glittered with gold, and the whole was lighted by a lamp which stood on a pedestal close to the foot of the bed, and which shed a faint pearl-like light over the chamber. But was it occupied ? That was the question. The silken curtains were drawn closely around the bed. Was any one wrapped in deep repose on the. other side of those curtains? That was a question which Shucks could not solve. At least he could only approximate to an answer to it negatively. He did not hear any one We as That was all he could say. He opened the door a little wider. A faint ray of the light from the room fell upon the face and form of Brads. Shucks -was in shadow to Brads, but he saw that he was beckoned. y The two housebreakers entered the room. They would not have needed the worsted socks over their boots in that apartment. The carpet was so thick and so soft, that to tread upon it’ gave them the sensation of walking upon snow. They did not utter the faintest areas to each other. The whole problem of their existences at that moment seemed to be to discover if any one was in the bed behind the silken curtains. That was to be discovered before anything else was to be done or thought of. Together they slowly advanced towards the bed. They both inclined their heads to listen. No, not the lightest sound! Shucks advanced his hand and touched tha curtains. He slowly parted them. “Ah!” he said. The bed was empty. A great sense of relief c came over both the housebreakers. And yet it was very strange that at such an hour, that gorgeous bed-chamber, which was lighted too, should be unoccupied. A glance at the bed, likewise, was sufficient to show that it had not been slept in that night. It was now within half an hour of early day dawn. What were they to think, those two burglars, as they stood in that magnificent bed-chamber, which seemed lighted and prepared for the reception off & tenant who had never come to it? —_— ee ee et Re FOES hee CHAPTER CI. THE DARK WOMAN SEEMS TO BE AT THE +EX- TREMITY OF EVIL FORTUNE, THE state of incertitude into which Shucks and Brads were thrown upon finding no one in the bed-room, and that no one had been in it, did not last long. Their attention was soon attracted to much more interesting considerations. There was a tastefully arranged toilette table in the room, which was literally covered with articles of value. Rings in which diamonds blazed—bracelets in which were embedded the rarest jowels—ornaments of all kinds and descriptions of gold and silver, many of them encrusted with gems, met the as- tonished and gratified eyes of the two house- breakers. Here, then, was a booty that far exceeded their most sanguine expectations. ‘‘ That will do,” said Shucks. *‘ Rather!” said Brads. They, for the moment, forgot caution in the ex- citement that came to them through their eyes, and spoke in their natural tones. But that was only for a moment, They turned to each other, and both cried ‘t Hush !” simultaneously. Then they laughed, but quite noiselessly. They spoke not another word for some few minutes, but as quickly as they could they crowded their pockets with the rich and rare erticles which were on the toilette table. A well-filled purse, too, lay among the jewellery, and that, of course, was at once appropriated. rf Now, ” whispered Shucks, ‘'d should say go. ” “So should I,” said Brads, “The job is done.” “ Quite, and done well.” They glanced once more around them at the gorgeously-appointed bed-chamber, and then made towards the door. Never did a robbery appear so easy as that one at the Countess d’Umbra’s. There was not the faintest sound to indicate that any one was stirring in all the house. Shucks and Brads began to think themselves too lucky. It had been all done too easily. They looked half ashamed of the trouble they had taken, when so little in reality had been required. And so they left the second floor of the Countess d’Umbra’s mansion, and, crossing the long corridor, they commenced the descent of the grand stair- case. They were abundantly satisfied with their booty ; and, in truth, they had reason to be 80, for some five thousands of pounds would require to be ex- pended to replace the costly trifles which they had swept off the dressing-table. But the adventures of Shucks and Brads in that house were not yet over. Fate had something else in store for them. Brads lingered for a moment at the doors that, on the first floor, must lead to the most magnificent . rooms of the mansion. ““Shucks,” he said, “old friend, I should like to take a peep in here.” SSR A ES FSR I SR ea nS EE RN THE DARK WOMAN, “You had better come on.” “Only a moment.” ‘“‘ Recollect there’s the bag of plate below.” “Oh, it’s all right!” Brads slowly and carefully opened a eae: handsome door, that seemed to be—and no doubt was—of solid Spanish mahogany, and peeped into the room to which it led. He drew back his head in a moment, “A light!” he said. “Ah! Some one up.” ‘Tt looks like it.” There came a low moaning sound from some human lips within that room. The two housebreakers were startled and as- tonished. They paused for a few seconds, and their impulse then was to descend the staircase, and secure their bag of plate, and leave the man- sion as quickly as possible. That would have been the most prudent course; but curiosity got the better of all other feelings, and they slowly opened the door of mahogany again, and peeped into one of the most spacious and elegant of the reception-rooms of, the house. They still heard the low moaning sounds, but they could see no one. Yet there was a light in the room. A small hand-taper, in a silver holder, was burning faintly, but steadily, upon a table in the room. The light that it sent about it was scarcely sufficient to ‘‘ make darkness visible.” Shucks and Brads now, as if impelled forward by some power which they could not resist, slowly crept into the spacious room. They still heard the low moans. Those moans evidently came from some one sleeping, but apparently suffering from some dream, that much disturbed the imagination, and foreed those faint sounds of suffering from the lips. Shucks and Brads made motions to each other to keep silence, and to advance with caution. There was a couch—a couch, the covering of which was crimson silk, flowered with golden threads. It stood not far from the small table, on which the night taper was placed. Some one, in an uneasy slumber, was lying on the couch. The taper light fell on the pale, half convulsed face of the sleeper. She murmured some words. , “No, no! Oh, heaven! Spare him! Prince? —Prince? What Prince? Lost!—all lost! Kill me—me only! Oh, heaven!” There was something awfully soul-entrancing i in the tones of agony in which these enjoins. words were uttered. The right arm of “the sleeper was over the upper part of the face. It was a female, in a rich, loose, indoor habit of blue silk, with silver ornaments. An uneasy gesture removed the arm from over the face. Shucks and Brads clung to each other. It was a thousand wonders now that they did not cry out; but they struck their heads together, in the eagerness .of each to whisper to each other the words that came to their lips. “ The Dark Woman!” Yes. That was the Dark Woman, alias the Dountess d Umbra, and they knew her. Those two men who had seen her so often—who had formed two prominent members of that famous —_ ssenemeden diem hemndiiemntmaeianmmacienee nee a I a a a a ET ET A a a i AT AT ITI THE DARK WOMAN, ° 883 ‘¢ Brads ?” . ** What's to be done?” “1 don’t know!” They were silent for about a minute, and then Brads spoke. “The Countess d'Umbra and our old friend, then, is one and the same person ?” “Yes. I only wonder it did not come into our heads before.” ** So do I.” ' “ But what shall we do with her ?” * T'll tell you what I think, comrade. She will waken up soon. Let us stay by her till she does ; and then, you know, she will be in our power, and we can make what terms with her we like.” | “Terms with an eel half out and half in the i} i band. of depredators called Paul’s Chickens— those two men who had escaped from all her murderous machinations—who had crawled away wounded, but not killed, from that terrible scene at Doctors’ Commons, where the crashing volley of muskets of the guard had sent all but them to destruction,—those two men whom she had visited in Newgate, and tried there, in the gloomy cell of the prison, to destroy,—they were there—alone with her—with their most cruel, most merciless, most implacable foe ! They were there! No wonder that they clung to each other, and, for a moment or two, hardly believed the evidence of their own senses. One of them, alone, might possibly have still thought himself deluded, or in such danger that he might have rushed from the house. But they supported each other. “The Dark Woman1” they whispered to each other again. ' - Yes—there could be no mistake. It was the Dark Woman. Well she knew that it was not behind silken curtains, and upon beds of down, that she could expect or court repose. What to her, with the wild fancies and the deep anxieties that. beset her brain, were all the elegances of the gorgeous bed- chamber above, that had beeh so recently visited by her old associates, Shucks and Brads? ~ Nothing—nothing. If she slept, it would needs be some short repose, when and where she cou!d. a. And so, at some half-hour past midnight, she had closed her eyes, and sunk into an anxious, dreamy slumber on that couch. There they found her. / What would they do?—what could they do? They looked into each other’s eyes for suggestions. They breathed hard, like men who have just escaped from some great danger. But neither of them had a suggestion to make.’ They did not take her life—they did not think to murder her on the-first impulse of beholding her; and so she was saved from death. She slept on. Again some more than usually disturbing influ- ence swept across her brain. She spoke, “Mercy! mercy for him! I consent, then, to die! Let him live the Prince he is! I will die!” ‘* What does she mean?” said Brads. Shucks shook his head. Brads then beckoned to his companion, and as light as foot could fall, they made their way to a distant window. They clasped each other by the hand. They spoke in anxious whispers. ‘© It’s she |” ae “ The Dark Woman?’ “ There is no doubt.” = * None in the world!” _ It was strange, then, that although they told each other there was no doubt, the impulse came over them both to go back to- the couch, and thoroughly satisfy themselves by another look at those features which they knew so well, Then they returned to the window. There was really no doubt remaining. “ Shucks ?” water ?” “ Well, weil!” “ Or with the fiend himself ?”? * But you don’t want to—to——’ “* To what?” ‘* Murder her as she sleeps!” “No, no!” . “Then leave it all to settle itself. Let us lock the room door, and wait by her till she wakens up. I would not lose sight of her looks, when she sees us, for a trifle.” “’ Very well. Be it so!” They locked the door. They drew two chairs towards the couch—one sat at the foot of it, the other sat at the head. The Dark Woman still slept. A clock struck five. _ The dawn of a new day was coming. Oh, what a terrible dawn it would be to her! What could she think—what could she say, when she should look into the faces of those two men, whose lives she had sported with, and endeavoured in vain to take? How could she, who spared no one, ask them to spare her? What could she do?—what could she say? What form of prayer would be calculated to move their hearts? what form of threat would stay their hands? Through the blinds of the room came the first cold streak of day-dawn. The light from the little wax tapers got colder and fainter. Objects in distant parts of the resplendently gorgeous room grew each moment, now, more and more distinct. The new day was coming, but the Dark Woman still slept. Her two mute but implacable guards still sat by her, awaiting the awaking that must surely be to her one of terror and of despair. ? CHAPTER CI. THE DARK WOMAN FINDS HERSELF IN THE « TOILS OF THE HUNTERS. I't was half-past five o’clock: Faint sounds came upon the morning air from awakening London. Now and then the distant tolling of a bell, then some faint shout of the ‘human voice from far off—the rumble, too, of wheels, as probably some market carts made their way through the still deserted streets. The great city was arousing itself to a new day of life and action; but still the Dark Woman a“ a rp ect et atin es alten eS” gn ami mt the ctl gs | 3 | eR NT EES NT Se SESE Ta Hin an a Bi or No ET LR NRA EN MER slept on that couch, and still her two guards kept watch over her. But this did not last for long. Momentarily the daylight came streaming into the apartment. It was reflected from the tall mirrors and sparkling chandeliers. Surely the daylight would soon dis- sipate the slumbers, however deep, of the vexed spirit who there rested for a time beneath the eyes of its implacable foes. Then there came faint sounds from the lower part of the house, and Shucks and Brads began to conjecture that some of the domestics were stirring. - It was six o’clock. Little did those two men expect to find them- selves at such an hour in the Countess d’Umbra's mansion, with their pockets loaded with the spoil they had intended to take away with them under cover of the dark night. . Little could it have en- tered into their imaginations to suppose that any circumstances whatever, within the prospect of belief, could have induced them to sit down quietly in that magnificent saloon, and wait for daylight. Yet there they were, and quite content so to wait. How safe they felt! What a hostage they had for their freedom and entire immunity from all the consequences of their night's work! How completely did their danger dwindle away before the greater danger of the Dark Woman, and how confidently they could appeal. to that greater danger to save and succour them! ~ But the silence became, in time, intolerable. Brads spoke. : “ Comrade, shall“we awaken her ?” “YT don’t know,” said Shucks. ‘Hush! we shall be spared the trouble, at all events.” There was some sudden noise in the lower part of the house which seemed to reach the slumbering senses of the Dark Woman. She started and opened her eyes. Shucks and Brads sprung to their feet. The Dark Woman looked around her for a few seconds, but evidently scarcely awake to external impressions. But this state could not last beyond some half-dozen anxious throbbings of the heart, and then her eyes fell upon the face of Shucks, who was at the foot of the couch looking at her coldly and sternly. It was not a scream that she gave utterance to, so much as a half stifled cry—such as might have come from some one wounded in their sleep. ‘* Shucks!” she said. “' The Dark Woman!” said Shucks. It was a something in the air, or perhaps some slight imperceptible sound of breathing, which induced her to turn her head with the rapidity of thought, and then she saw her other foe. ‘* Brads !” she gasped. ‘‘ The Dark Woman!” said Brads. A shudder passed over her frame, and she felt nervously upon the couch by her side, as though seeking for some weapon, but there was none. She was there alone—unarmed, helpless, with those two men, who had such abundant reason to be her bitterest enemies. ‘‘' You have come to."kill me!” she said. “I know it—I feel it! You have come to kill me!” Brads looked at Shucks. and the two housoe- THE DARK WOMAN. breakers found it difficult to reply to this question. They felt, in their own hearts, that they had not come to kill her; and the mere fact that they had watched by her so long, as she slept, made it impossible that they should kill her. But the silence that ensued was full of bitterness and dread to the Dark Woman. She could not endure if. . “Speak!” she said. ‘Is it to be the dagger or the pistol? I expect no mercy!” “ Because you never showed any,” said Brads. There was something heroic in the Dark Woman at this moment, as she clasped her hands, pre- paring herself, as she thought, for death, and pro- nounced the one word ‘' Never!” Both Shucks and Brads felt the power of the superior mind—the higher courage than their own, which they encountered; and it was with almost tones of respect that they both spoke at once, saying, ‘‘ We don’t come to kill you.” A revulsion of feeling came over the Dark Woman. The paleness of her face gave way to a flush of colour. ‘“‘ What then?” she said. ‘ What are your wishes, and whérefore do you seek me?” Shucks made a gesture to Brads to speak. “ We didn’t seek you,” he said, ‘“‘ but we've found you, and we mean to make the most of it.” ** Ah!” cried the Dark Woman, “ that is all. You are wise men. I~Know you, and you know me. Say the word—will you serve me still? Is it possible that after all—after all the acci- dents——” “* Accidents ?” said Shucks, as he looked at Brads. ; ‘ Accidents ?” said Brads, in a tone of surprise. ‘“* After all the past ?” said the Dark Woman. The housebreakers nodded. : ‘‘ Ts it possible, then,” added the Dark Woman, “that you will be to me what you were?—and that, understanding each other better, we may still——” “ Peace, madam!” said Shucks—and there was almost dignity in the housebreaker’s manner,— “‘ peace, murderess! Do not speak to us in such away. We ought to be two ghosts, instead of two living men, at this time, if you could have done the job for us. We've nothing to do with you ever again; but we know you, and, finding you in this fine house, with all these luxuries about you, we think we're lucky fellows!” The Dark Woman caught at an idea. a faint hope to save herself. ‘t This house,” she said, ‘ belongs to a lady.” ‘‘ Yourself,” said Shucks. ‘ The Countess d’Umbra}’ said Brads. ‘‘ We know all about that. Look ye here, madam! We came here on business, to crack the crib in the old style, and get what we could; but we little thought to find so old and so valuable an acquaint- She had ance as the Dark Woman in the noble Countess d@’Umbra; but, as we have found her, we're not the men exactly to stand in our own lights, and for the sake of revenge to give up advantages, are we, Brads ?” . “Not at all,” said Brads. ‘Our old acquaint- ance is rich and prosperous. We know where the money comes from. It belongs to Paul’s Chickens. The rest of the fellows are all dead, and so we are Paul’s Chickens—ain’t we, Shucks ?” “TJ should think so,” said Shucke. ‘ Only till re ne eee — ——--— i MH A \ \\ this morning, we didn’t know where our money was—did we, Brads?” ‘‘Not a bit of it. But, as now we know all about it, we mean to have our own.” The Dark Woman looked from one to the other, as they spoke in this jeering manner to each other for her benefit, and with low, chuckling laughter, exulted over the utterly dependent position to which accident had reduced her. There came a sharp knock at the door of the saloon at that moment; and so absorbed had the two housebreakers and the Dark Woman been in their conversation with each other, that they had not heard the repeated attempts to open the door from without, nor that that sharp rap was the second one that demanded admission. “Hush!” she cried, as she sprung to her feet. “‘No, my lady,” said Shucks, “‘ you don’t go!” He placed himself between her and the door. The tap for admission came again, No. 49.— Dank Woman. “ You will ruin me and yourselves too,” she said. “You've been talking idly, for you know I cannot and will not refuse you whatever money in reason you may demand of me. Do not, however, drive me to extremities, so that that money shall not purchase the secrecy I require.” ‘Look ye here, my lady!” said Brads. “If we let you out of this room, there’s nothing in the world to prevent you making an outcry, and say- ing you've found a couple of cracksmen in the house! Away, then, we go to the Stone Jug, and there’s an end of it.” “And you not say that you have found the Dark Woman in the house ?” Shucks and Brads considered for a moment. “We might,” said the former. ‘But who would believe us ?” “Then what would you do? Your very pre- caution3 will ensure my destruction and your own |” 386 ‘You can write, my lady ?” ““ Write ?” “Yes, to be sure. And here’s pen and ink, and everything for the purpose. Now, just sit down, and write me a little bit of a letter, and I shall be content.” The Dark Woman sat down; and, with an air of vexation, took a pen in her hand, “ Dictate,” she said. “Dick who ?” said Shucks. “Who does she mean ?” said Brads. The Dark Woman made a gesture of impa- tience. ‘Tell me what to write, and I will write it.” “Oh, that’s it! Very good! Now, my lady, if you please, write after me!” *T will—I will!” “*My dear Shucks.’ marm ?” “TY have—I have!” * Hem! Have you got that, “(My Dear Suucks,— “* You find me in a fine house in Hanover Square, with no end of money, and calling my- self the Countess d’Umbra ; likewise having called myself once before the Countess de Launy; but you know, dearest Shucks, that I'm only the Dark Woman, as used to command Paul's Chickens. And Pm hereto carry on some old games, always provided I'm not found out. So, my dear Shueks, here I am. “« Yours, internally, “Pune Dark WoMAN, “* alias the Countess de Launy, ‘* alias the Countess d’Umbra. “EN, 10, Hanover Square.’” “It is done!” said the Dark Wonian, as she bit | her lips with vexation. “* Now write another, word for word, only putin ‘My dear Brads,’ instead of my dear Shucks.” “ Shucks,” said Brads, “ you're a genus.” “T always was,” replied Shucks. ‘ Now, my lady, get on.” The Dark Woman wrote the other letter, and the two housebreakers taking possession of these precious epistles, placed each carefully in safe pockets. “Now you may go,” said Shucks—‘now you may go, my lady, and order breakfast. We want it preciously, I can tell you.” “ Breakfast ?” “Yes, to be sure. It isn’t lunch time, is it?” “ Breakfast here ?—in this house 2” “Yes; breakfast first, and business after- wards.” “You cannot stay here—you will ruin all !” “We've been so often ruined, we don’t mind about it. Now this is what I calls comfortable. I never was in such a-easy chair in my life. It beats a spring-cart alltoatoms. Sit down, Brads, and make yourself at home, old boy. If we ain’t at home here, I should like to know very much where we can be. Now, my lady Countess, see to the breakfast.” The Dark Woman made a gesture of despair as she walked to the door. : ff Stop a bit!” said Brads: “I like rum in my ea.’ “Good!” cried Shucks; and ifor me.” eT cette Heahlinandnat init nnobil st es THE DARK WOMAN. ‘“‘ And do ye hear? Pipes for two.” “The Dark Woman turned fiercely. “‘ Wretches !” she said. “A pot of half-and-half,” said Shucks, ‘to begin with. I’m thirsty; and send it up in the pewter. None of your jugs for me. I’m always afraid of biting a bit out of the edge, and choking myself.” The Dark Woman dashed out of the room, with a groan of mental agony. Shucks buried himself in the depths of an easy chair, and Brads lay at full length upon a sofa; on the rich silk covering of which he drummed with his heels. A half scared looking footman brought in a tray, and began to lay the breakfast, “I say, Johnny,” said Brads, “ where’s the half- and~half ?” ‘The eff-and-eff 2” ejaculated the footman with an astonished air. “What do you mean by eff and-eff?” said Shucks, as he dealt the footman a blow in the middle of the back, which sent him sprawling on the floor, with the tray beneath him. **Murder!—murder! Thieves! Murder!” ‘‘What’s the row?” said Brads, as another footman appeared at the door, whose hair would certainly have stood oa end, had it not been for the mass of white powder that held it down. The Dark Woman, looking as pale as a spectre, glided into the room. She evidently spoke with difficulty. “‘ These persons,” she said, “are my guests to breakfast. Supply them with whatever they require,” ‘“Now that’s what I call handsome,” said Shucks. ‘So do you hear, Johuny ? Let’s have the eff-and-eff.” ** And pipes for two,” said Brads. funny smell in the room,” “Gracious powers!” said the footman. the fumigating pastiles.”’ * Well, I don’t like it,” said Brads; ‘but there’s always a "something the matter with the blessed drains.” “My lady—my lady!” cried a voice of alarm at.the door. “The plate!—the plate! The plate off the buffet in the dining-room ! Ob, my lady, my lady, it’s all put in a bag; and ‘behind the door !” “Bring it up here!” said Shucks. ‘ We'rea going to take it home, to be polished. Ain’t we, Brads?” “To be sure!” A scream, in a female voice, heralded some fresh arrival, and one of the waitirig-maids of the Countess d’Umbra rushed into the saloon. “Oh, madam, madam! Thieves, madam— «There's a wits thieves! All the trinkets, madam, off the toilet- table! They’ye all gone, madam! Murder!— thieves !” The Dark Woman fixed her gaze upon Shucks and Brads; and then turning to the servants, she made a motion to them to leave the room, which they did reluctantly enough, for their curiosity was intensely excited by the strange aspect of these early visitors of the Countess d Umbra, who had come from no one knew where, and had got into the house no one knew how. But they did go, and the Dark Woman was alone with her old acquaintances. eect chet eceth RAN geet es ITI Et“ eran Fae Nt tO aN al TO A ne ee ee ee | | { oa an maeneneene ; - THE DARK WOMAN, She stepped up to the table, and placed upon it a thick roll of bank-notes. “Your remaining here,” she said, “ will defeat all your own objects, by defeating mine. There is a thousand pounds. Take the notes, and relieve me from your presence—lI will not say for ever, because I know you will come again. You have achieved an advantage over me, and I must pay you for your silence and secrecy. I am willing to do so; but you must not destroy me, by coming to this house, and committing follies which would soon shuf up the sources of your own wealth. Take the money, and begone! But leave behind you the plunder, which you know as well as I do would produce you, in the manner in which you would be obliged to sell it, but a small sum. Take the money, and go. [I leave to your own mercy the time when you will come again.” Shucks got out of the easy chair. Brads rolled himself off the sofa. They could not resist the strong influence which this imperious and talented woman still had over them. They looked at each other for a few moments, and then Shucks said, “ Very well. Are you willing, Brads?” ivan? - Shucks made a rough division of the notes, not being particular to two or three, and pushed one- half of them towards Brads. ‘That's yours,” he said, “‘and these are mine. Good morning, Countess d Umbra. You may, or you may not, see us again soon; only, you know, it’s proper that a gentleman should call on his banker when he likes. Good morning, madam!” ‘Good morning!” said Brads. The Dark Woman said nothing, but she madea gesture of disdain. The two housebreakers paused near the door, and emptied their pockets of the trinkets and jewellery they had taken from the magnificent toilet-table above stairs. Then they left the room, but each of them as they did so felt in the secret pocket, where they had placed the letters on which they founded their security. The footman was coming slowly up the grand staircase, with a look of ineffable disgust on his countenance, and a great pewter pot in his band, the froth on the top of which pruclaimed its contents. “ The eff-and-eff,’ he said. “‘Oh,” replied shucks, “‘ you have had a good deal of trouble, Johnny.” “‘ Lots—oh, lots!” “Then take it all for your pains.” Shucks: tcok the pewter pot, and flung the contents ia the face of the footman; and then he and Brads left the Countess d@’Umbra’s house in Hanover Square as quickly as they could. There was a look of terror and despair upon the face of the Dark Woman. At a heavy price, she had got rid of her unwelcome guests, but not for ever. She was alone again, but the remem- brance of their presence would haunt her night and day. Who should say, too, at what inopportune moment they might arrive again? Or who should say but that, in some brawl, or intemperate carouse, the secret they would otherwise, for their own interests, keep, might escape them. A feeling of despair came over her. “T see it all,” she said. “I see it all, now,—— ne 387 I see it all a3 if in a glass—even as in Astorath's house I was wont to show to the credulous and the superstitious, those images which they believed the art of the astrologer had summoned before them. I may succeed in the wishes of my heart; but Ishall die—I must die! I cannot, dare not live in dread of these fearful discoveries! The conviction was creeping over me, and it is now a certainty. The Regent must and shall acknow- ledge his own son; and then it will be time for the Dark Woman to die—to die!” She clasped her hands over her face—then she ‘wrung them despairingly, and she sunk upon the. floor in a strangely huddled-up attitude, as if even at that moment stricken by death. But it was not so. She had yet much to do; and after a time, although she was pale, and her limbs trembled as she walked, she rose, and left the room, muttering as she went, “ To-night! to-night! I will see the Regent to-night! He shall know all! There shall be no further con- cealment. He shall know who and what his son really is; and if there be one touch of nature in his heart, I will arouse it in the sacred names of Justice! Son! and Father!” ee CHAPTER CIII. ALLAN FEARON IS TRUE TO HIS APPOINTMENT AT THE PALACE. How utterly impossible it would have been for Allan Fearon to have engaged himself with any- thing like effect in the ordinary affairs of life while his mind was so fully engrossed with the sad and important concerns connected with his mysterious birth and parentage. There were times when he could not but believe all he had heard from the Dark Woman to be but the wild ravings of insanity, and then he would shrink with shame and regret from a contemplation ‘of the efforts he was making to intrude himself upon the notice of the Prince of Wales. Then again the whole circumstances would appear so congruous—so clear and consequential one upon another—that he could not doubt their truth, and the wish for a private interview with the Regent grew into a burning anxiety. His friend—his comforter—his mentor, through out all these alternations, was Marian. She could bring a cooler judgment to bear upon the circumstances; and that Allan might probably enough be the illegitimate child of the Regent was by no means a very startling proposition. If Marian bad thought there was dange?® in her husband’s visit to St. James's, she would, of course, have been the first to oppose herself to it ; but such an idea formed no part of her conside- rations on the subject. The Court of St. James’s was by no means like some Indian satrap, whose lightest nod could con- demn to death. There might be difficulty, but no real danger, in Allan Fearon making his way, under the auspices of the Countess de Blonde, into the most private portions of the Palace. And so Marian counselled him to go. She saw that nothing but an interview with the Regent would allay the feverish anxiety which was at Allan’s heart. \ a ng eee aero eek SAN Ah ARANDA ARH Mt APOE NERA PORN MII 4 eit pireensaeaheid nib ladies atone 388 ‘* How fortunate it is, Allan,” she said, ‘‘ that circumstances have placed us in a position to enable you to give individual attention to these affairs which so nearly concern your mental happi- ness !” “ It is indeed fortunate, Marian.” “Go, Allan! See the Regent! I am sure Annie will be as good as her word, and procure you an interview. He surely cannot refuse to tell you the truth; and then, however much you may regret the circumstances which have produced so much misery to your unhappy mother, your mind will be no longer tossed in a sea of conjecture regarding them.” “‘ Yes, Marian, I will go. Sooner or later I must see the Regent—for my mother’s sake I must see him, and put an end to all these dread anxieties. He cannot—will not—dare not refuse to speak to me, for I shall appeal to him by a name which even must reach his heart.” ‘‘The name of father!” “Yes, Marian, it isa strange name for me to utter—as strange as that of mother ; for, cast upon the wild world as I was, I never knew a father’s or a mother’s love !” As the time approached for Allan Fearon to make his way into the Palace of St. James's, there was evidently a nervous tremor about him which he could not subdue. He could not but feel how much depended upon that interview with the Regent, which he had been promised by one who certainly had the power, if she preserved the inclination, of granting it to him. Half-past nine was the time named at which he was to present himself before the Countess de Blonde with those costly shawls and scarfs, which were to make up the passport for his admission to the Palace. Jt was not to be supposed but that Allan upon that occasion attired himself with unusual care. Indeed, he wanted but the star upon his breast to look every inch a prince. Marian had carefully made the shawls into a parcel, and they were duly addressed to the Countess de Blonde. The clocks were striking nine when Allan bade Marian adieu, and with a heightened colour upon his cheek, hastened down the Strand and Pall Mall, towards St. James’s Palace. He was going to seek his father. He, the poor foundling—the destitute, nameless child, who in all his tenderer years had been the object of casual charity, and who had risen to man’s estate with- out a single home association, or home endear- ment. His father! No repetition of the sound could familiarise it to the ears of Allan Fearon. Stranger and stranger still the words seemed to echo to his heart; and when he told himself that that father was a Prince, the son of a King—almost a King himself; and that he, Allan, was about to seek his presence in the Royal Palace of England, he might well at times pause upon his route, and ask himself if he were mad or dreaming. Perhaps but for that parcel in his hand, Allan would still have shrunk back, believing himself the victim of some morbid imagination, which had pictured to him fantastic relations which had no human existence. But that parcel, containing Annie, the Countess rr ar ci ee a it nr en ee ere re eae THE DARK WOMAN. I A ION PREY ABO IPED TRI ESOT HAM NONE HATRED NE NED TOE IO SIONS IITA PREEREE DAYS SCIOIRY SGP _ de Blonde’s, shawls and scarfs, was the one practical common-place thing which connected the events together, and justified him in believing in their reality. 5 And so Allan went his way. Now the reader will recollect that this was early in the evening, and that there would be no difficulty in penetrating into one of the courts of St. James’s, on even the pretence of an errand. Allan was scarcely glanced at by the sentinels on duty, as he made his way through the great gate into the Colour Court. From thence he had no difficulty in finding his way to the Ambassadors’ Court, and to the very door-step where he had before stood and applied to see the Countess de Blonde. Allan paused for a moment. There seemed to be some confusion at the park entrance to the Palace. A drum beat, and there was a rattle of arms. The rapid rolling of carriage wheels came upon his ears, and Allan, then, could not resist the temptation to ask a Yeoman of the Guard, who came by with his halbert upon his shoulder, what was amiss. ‘“Amiss?” said the man. amiss !” ‘“‘T heard a drum and the guard,” “Oh, that was the Regent!” “The Regent ? and leaving the Palace?” “No; he has just arrived from Windsor.” Allan breathed more freely. He began to have still greater confidence both in the ability and the will of the Countess de Blonde to procure him the desired interview, since she knew so well the exact time when the Regent would be at St. James's. Had she not appointed him to come at half-past nine? And there was the Regent within ten minutes of the time arriving from Windsor. Allan began to get confident and hopeful. He knocked for admission. ¥ A man replied to the summons. Allan was determined that he would play his part in such a manner, so as not to deprive him- self of any of the chances which the Countess de Blonde had given to him. ‘*T have some Indian shawls,” he said, ‘ for the inspection of the Countess de Blonde.” “Oh, yes!” was the reply. ‘‘ Her ladyship has left orders that you are to be shown to her apart- ments.” Allan crossed the threshold, and at that moment he could not have spoken, if a kingdom had been offered him for the success of the effort. He began again to fear that his agitation would mar all the effect and the results which he had fondly hoped from that interview with his alleged father. “You don’t look well,” said the man, who was one of the servants out of livery, whose duty it was to attend in that portion of the Palace. ‘Oh, yes, I am quite well.” “You looked so pale.” ‘‘No—it has passed away. It was but for a moment. Is the—the Regent with the Coun- tess ?” The servant shook his head. ‘‘ We never answer questions about the Regent here. The less you and I, and such folks as us, know about the Regent, the better; except that “There's nothing eA tr ee A YA aOR eV Pen hPa Re mnNIetY yma THE DARK WOMAN. he’s the Prince of Wales, and all that kind of thing, don’t you see?” ‘I understand—I understand, and will follow you.” They passed through the small outer hall—they passed through the guard chamber, where those two or three lazy Yeomen kept their half-sleepy watch; and then the short flight of stairs was ascended, The double doors, covered with crimson cloth, were pushed aside, and Allan Fearon found himself fairly in the warm and perfumed air of the Palace. ‘‘ You'd better wait here,” saidthe man. “ This is what we call the Titian Gallery, on account of the pictures you see. You may look at them. And I needn’t tell you to make your best bow, if any of the officers of the household, or Mr. Willes, the Prince's valet, should come this way. You understand ?” ‘*T understand,” said Allan. *“T’ll let one of the Countess’s own maids know that you are here. I dare say they won't keep you long.” ‘‘Thank you,” said Allan. It was impossible for Fearon wholly to conceal that his feelings werein a state of excitement ; and the official of the Palace looked at him curiously, wondering what could be the matter with him. But, after a few moments, he seemed to satisfy himself of the reason. “Ah, to be sure,” he said, “the poor fellow’s never been inside a palace before, and most likely is frightened half out of his wits, for fear he should meet the Regent! But we gentlemen of the Court are too much used to great people, to put ourselves out of the way in the least for them.” Allan was alonein the Titian Gallery again. Slowly he paced its entire length, looking right and left with an abstracted air at the royal por- traits which adorned the walls. It seemed to him as if more than one of these portraits followed him with their painted eyes, as if in dreamy speculation whether they saw a descendant of their regal race, or not. Half-past nine had chimed by the Palace clock some few minates, and then Allan heard a light footstep, and one of the Countess’s attendants ap- proached him. ‘* You're to come this way, young man. The Countess de Blonde wants to see you imme- diately.” “T will follow you,” said Allan. A door was opened from the gallery; but it was not the same by which Allan had previously entered the apartments of Annie Gray. This door communicated with a narrow passage, half circular in shape; and then Allan found himself conducted through two apartments, very dimly lighted, and furnished in perhaps the most antique style that the Palace could present. A door at the other end of the second of these apartments opened upon a room, which was only lighted by the reflection from the lustres of an adjoining apartment. “You're to wait here,” said Allan’s conduc- tress. “T will wait.” Allan was not alone above a minute, for, with rapid footstep, Annie herself came into that semi- datk apartment. as + a AO Ae CCN NN AR CEES ae REN ANNA ED righ oN i anna 389 * Oh, you're here!” she said, ‘Lay down the shawls. Do youstill want to see the Regent?” “More ardently than ever.” «And you won't tell me why ?” “TY dare not yet.” “Very well. You're not afraid of the dark ?” ‘“‘ Certainly not.” “Follow me, then. No, I think you must go first. I shall never be able to open doors with these rusty old keys.” ‘‘What are these keys for?” said Allan, as Annie placed in his hand three antique rusty specimens, connected together by a steel chain, perfectly black with age. “You know, or you may have heard, that there is a whole suite of rooms in the Palace, which have not been opened since the time of James the Second. I don’t know why or wherefore, but I dare say there’s some reason forit. These keys open the doors leading from the Titian Gallery to that suite of rooms.” “But He “Don’t be impatient, now. looked up in them.” “IT? Locked up in those deserted rooms 2?” “Certainly. You want to see the Regent, and it is there the Regent will come to see you.” “ Are you sure, Annie?” “Certain, for I will bring him. Now, I see you hesitate. You won’t trust me. Very well, go home again. It don’t matter to me a jot.” “You are too hasty, Annie. I do trust you. Take me where you will—act as you think proper. I confide myself entirely to your guidance; and oh! believe me that this wish to see the Regent is no piece of idle vanity, nor does it result from any false sentiment connected with yourself. After the interview you shall know all; but before that I dare not speak, because I wish to be able to tell him with truth that I have not done so.” “That'll do! Now, come on! There's no time to lose! The Regent is in the Palace; he is only come in from ME lately, where he has been to see the mad old King !” Annie led Allan Fearon into the Titian Gallery by the same route that he had left it so lately, and then flitting like a shadow past the old, grim, regal portraits, she paused before a door in the wall, above which were the royal arms in bold relief, As they went, he could not help saying to him- self, in a faint whisper, ‘‘Is that mad old King my grandfather 2” “ What do you say ?” cried Annie. “Nothing. It is nothing.” “Very well, then. Now take one of these keys —I don’t know which is the right one, but it is one of the three—and open this door with it. Willes tells me that it leads to the deserted rooms.” Allan could not conceive how it was, that to obtain an interview with the Regent, it would be necessary to be locked up ina suite of deserted rooms in St. James’s Palace; bat since Annie would have it so, he made no opposition. The second key that Allan tried fitted the lock, and the ancient door creaked on its hinges. “There!” said Annie, with her usual hasty manner. “There! you have nothing to do but to go into those old rooms, and wait with patience.” “T submit myself entirely to your directions, Annie,” You're to be ae ner eee renee 390 THE DARK WOMAN. “To be sure you do; and the wisest thing in the vorld, too! When I promise anything I do it. I have said that you are to have an interview with the Regent, and you will have it.” “T feel assured I shall.” “Go along, then!” ‘In darkness ?” a Yes,” Annie gave Allan a slight push, and he stepped over the threshold of the first of those mysterious rooms in St. James’s Palace, which had been closed for so many years, either because they had been the scene of some great crime, or some great affliction. Be heard the key turned in the lock. He heard, for a moment, the light footsteps of Annie, the fair Countess de Blonde, retreating from the door along the Titian Gallery. Then all was still. For the first time, perhaps, in his life Allan Fearon felt the force of the expression of ‘‘ a dark- ness that could be felt ;” for the intense blackness of the air about him seemed to convert it into soraething tangible, which had the faculty of roll- ing in huge masses about and over him, and yet not to touch him. But we must leave Allan for a brief space to his: own reflections in those mysterious rooms of St. James’s, while we follow Annie to the brilliant snite of apartments she called her own in the Palace. She was expecting the Regent. The Prince had not yet dined, late as it was. It was true that he had taken some refreshment at Windsor, but he had promised to have a tefe-a- tete dinner with the Countess on his return. It was one of those little dinners of which you can scarcely see anything—a dinner consisting of some most exquisitely cooked and dished trifles, which, to the extent of five or six, were to succeed each other in rapid succession, until the most fastidious appetite would feel full satisfac- tion. These were the sort of repasts which the royal epicure really enjoyed. Andwith Annie as a companion, they always presented themselves to the Regent in favourable and happy contrast to the stately banquets of the Castle, or of the Palace. The Regent was in excellent humour. Annie could not help seeing that something had pleased him. ‘¢ Well, Countess,” he said, ‘“‘ what pleasant things have you to say to me to-day ?” ‘*None,” replied Annie. “None?” laughed the Regent. then I must say them to you.” “‘ Of course you must.” “Then Doctor Arbuthnot says that the King cannot by any possibility survive six months.” Oh 1” The Regent did not exactly like the tone of the “Oh!” so he added, “I am quite sure, if my health were in such a condition, my best friends ought to wish me with my ancestors.” ‘Some of them,” said Annie, “‘I dare say wish you were in their company now.” ““T should not be surprised, Annie, if that were true.” “Of course it’s true. Come, now. pay the least attention to me.” “JT suppose You don’t “Pardon me. I meant to do so. There, do you like that little ragout ?” “‘ Yes,” “T thought you would. Do you know, Annie, I find I am the most constant of men ?” ‘‘ Indeed !” “Yes. I love you better and better every day ; and when we are together, I feel my best affec- tions divided, so to speak, between you and the dinner.” “ Hold your tongue, George.” “What for ?” “Because you were never made to talk—to talk, what do they call it?—ch! sentiment, You were never made to talk sentiment.” The Regent laughed. The little recherche dinner lasted three quarters of an hour. Annie amused herself with a couple of glasses of Constantia. The Regent was deep in a bottle of, tokay, when Annie spoke sharply —" George |” “Well, what is it?” “‘T am tired and stupid.” “Impossible !” “And yet true. I have a fancy—an idea—a caprice—call it what you will. I want to look at those rooms that open from the Titian Gallery, by the door with the coat of arms over it.” “Never! You cannot mean what you say, Annie!” ** I do mean it.” The Regent shook his head. “It’s of no use for you to oppose me. [I tell you I do mean it! When you oppose me in any- thing, you only fix it still firmer in my mind.” “ And when I do not oppose you?” asked the Regent, playfully. ‘‘ Oh, then, it makes no difference!” ‘ So that, in either way i “ In either way, I am determined to do what I like.” The Regent laughed. ** Come, now,” said Annie, ‘ why should I not see those rooms in the Palace?” “ A crime was committed there.” “A crime?” ‘t Yes,” “¢ What crime ?” ‘** A father and a son had there a quarrel.” ““ What father and son ?” “‘ King Charles the First and his son, afterwards King Charles the Second. ‘The son struck the father. It is said that, ever since then, strange wailing sounds are heard at times in the suite of — rooms. The King swooned, and remained per- fectly insensible for eight hours.” “Tg all that true?” ‘‘ It is related and believed by the Royal Family of England.” “ Then you believe it ?” Lae: “ It is very shocking, do you know, George ?” “It is so, Annie. It is said that, when the King—that is, Charles the First—recovered from. | his swoon, the first words he uttered were, ‘ They hung my scaffold with black; bat red would be a more appropriate colour, since they shed the blood of a King.’” ‘‘ That was very strange.” “ And terrible. So you see, Annie, that you ought not to want to go into those rooms, because THE DARK WOMAN. 391 ——— the last two persons in them were a father and son, who outraged nature by such a quarrel.” Annie looked thoughtful. “Very well, George,” she said. “TI will think of something else, that will please me just as well.” “Good! What is it?” “There is a young man who wants an interview with you, and if you grant it to him I will forego the visit to the suite of shut-up rocms.” “Who is it?” ‘* Allan Fearon.” “‘ Allan who ?” “Fearon.” ‘“‘T surely have heard that name before. To be sure! It is quite familiar. It is the name of the young man who was going to be hanged at New- gate, but for whom, at your interposition, Annis, I granted a pardon. It’s very odd, too, but my Lord Ilchester was with me this day; and he was uncommonly solicitous that the pardon, which was rather informal, should be granted, and properly countersigned at once; and I did all that was necessary.” “That was right. view ?” “Countess, you know I admire and love you very much, but I am the anes r “* Well ” *T cannot, then—I was going to say I dare not, then—grant an interview to the person you have named; and if that is the only alternative which will prevent you asking me to show you the closed apartments, I would rather go with you now at once, and walk through them.” “T take you at your word,” said Annie. And now about the inter- CHAPTER CIV. ALLAN FEARON HAS AN INTERVIEW WITH THE REGENT, AND KNOWS HIS POSITION. As Annie spoke, she sprung to her feet, and the Regent looked at her rather ruefully. ‘“Do you mean to say, Annie, that you want me to go now ?” “I do.” “ Just after dinner ?” “How far is it? Across the Titian Gallery— through a door-way. I am surprised at you, George! Any one would fancy you were an old man. Here's the key.” ‘The key ?” “Yes. Ihad all the old keys that could be found brought to me, and I found that this one fitted the lock. I opened it, and the door creaked.” “Ah! then you are like Blue Beard’s wife. You have indulged your curiosity already.” “No. I waited for Blue Beard to come home first.” “Meaning me i “Meaning you.” “Upon my word, Annie, you try me; and ifI did not love you as 1 do “Come along,” said Annie, as she seized the Regent by the arm, and lifted from the chimney- piece a small silver lamp,—‘‘ come along, then; and I shall be as good to you as possible for ever, efter your complaisance of this night in humouring my whims.” The Regent could not veaiat the fair enchantress, who held his fancy in thraldom, and he allowed himself to be led into the Titian Gallery. There was a scufile of feet along the gallery, just as the door of Annie’s apartments were opened ; and if any one had looked very sharply, they might have seen the retreating form of Willes, getting as expeditiously as possible out of the way. ““T am afraid,” said the. Regent, “that tho rooms will be full of dust, and very damp.” ‘‘ Very likely,” said Annie. ‘** And that we shall both catch cold.” “Bad colds,” said Annie. “Then you won't be deterred ?” ‘Certainly not!” The Prince made no further opposition, and they crossed the Titian Gallery towards that door at which Allan Fearon one hour before had entered . the deserted suite of apartments. That hour had been, in truth, a weary one for poor Allan in those solitary rooms. The dark- ness became terribly oppressive; and more than once he stretched forth his hands as if to keep it from him. But Allan did not remain exactly where the Countess de Blonde had left him—that is to say, just within the doorway. He felt his way cautiously, and step by step he traversed the room he was in. He came gently against several articles of furniture which were in his way, and then he crept slowly on until he reached the wall. Allan thought he would come to some judg- ment of the dimensions of this first apartment of the suite, by pacing round its walls, and counting his steps. The room was a large one, but after going along two of the walls, Allan’s hand came upon the handle of a door. That was, no doubt, the door that conducted to the next room of the suite. He tried the handle, and with a sound that testified to the close con- tact of the door with its framework for many a long year, it opened. Allan passed into the second room. He could scarcely now refrain from an exclama- tion of satisfaction ; for this second room was not nearly so dark as the first one. Some wandering reflected light from the night sky must make its way through the crevices of the shutters of this room. That such was the case Allan soon found, by seeing the dim outline of a window, the shutters of which fitted badly enough to allow a rectangular piece, so to speak, of the outer air to be visible. . The dense masses of darkness no longer seemed to roll about the head of Allan Fearon, and he made his way towards the window with a hope that he should be able to increase the amount of dim light that made its struggling way into the apartment. This was easily done. The shutters closed badly, and were not fastened. A touch opened one of them; and then, in com- parison to the absolute blackness that had been ~ before about him, he felt that he was in a pleasant and grateful kind of twilight. But that twilight was “not sufficient to enable him to see what was in the room, with the ex- ception of the dim outlines of some heayy sofas, and tall-backed, uncomfortable-looking chairs. 392 Allan was in contemplation of this room, as well as the dim light would permit him, when a sound came upon his ears, which he felt certain indicated the arrival of some one in the suite of disused apartments. © Instinctively he closed the shutter again; and, indeed, he closed it more effectually than he had found it. He then heard voices. “Come, now,” said one. “ You are satisfied, I hope. You see there is nothing but some old rotten furniture and quantities of dust.” ‘‘No, I am not satisfied! I must go on!” That voice was Annie’s. The other, then, was no doubt that of the Regent. The heart of Allan beat quickly and painfully. ‘©Oh, oh! cried Annie, suddenly. ‘‘ The light !” “Eh?” “ The light is going out.” “Going out?” cried the Regent. ‘And we shall be left in the dark in these rooms! Let us escape at once!” ‘No, no!” “But, Countess “Oh, George, if you love me—if you really have any regard for me, and wish me to be always good and kind to you, you will wait here while I go and get another lamp !” ‘In the dark ?” ‘No, not quite in the dark. I will leave this light with you, which will last till I come back, although it is fading. It will not be a brilliant light, but it will be still sufficient to prevent you from feeling that you are quite in the dark. Nay; it may, as lights often do, you know, just betore they go out, shoot up into a brighter flame. I shall not be gone a minute.” ‘Be quick, then.” “T will—I will!” Annie left the Regent alone. — Allan heard all this quite plainly. Into the room in which he was, there came the gleam of the lamp that Annie had declared to be expiring, but which was really in very good condition. He fully comprehended what she meant. She had brought the Regent to him. Then was his oppor- tunity for an interview. It was for him to take advantage of it, or lose it. But would the Regent remain to listen to him ? Were he to make an abrupt appearance, what was to hinder the Prince from leaving him at once? There came a practical answer to this dread in the course of a few moments. ““Why—why—what does she mean by this ?” said the Regent. ‘'She has locked the door lead- ing to the Titian Gallery. What a mad-headed creature she is to be sure! I hope she will come back again directly.” Allan pressed both his hands upon his breast for a moment, to still the tumultuous beating of his heart, as far as that movement might do so; and then he slowly paced forward towards the door of communication between the two rooms. The Regent uttered a hurried exclamation. He must have heard something of the footsteps of Allan. The young man reached the doorway. Heswung the door slowly open. 39 TIE DARK WOMAN, The Regent uttered a cry. The light from the lamp fell full upon the figure of Allan, as he bent down upon one knee on the threshold of the inner room. “Your Royal Highness,” he said, “sees before you no enemy; but one who would be willing—as willing as he would think it his duty—to shed his life-blood in your defence, if such were necessary.” “Good heaven! Help! Guard!” “Your Highness—your Highness, I implore you to listen to me!” ‘““ Who-—what—what are you ?” “Tam human—a man! Iam one who would fain speak to your Royal Highness’s heart.” “But—but in these rooms—these deserted rooms? What? Who? Ah,I see!” “Your Royal Highness guesses.” “Confusion! A trick!” “Let the end sanctify the means. I am as I say, such a friend and subject of your Royal Highness, as the whole of England may not match.” There was a gentleness about the tones of Allan which aroused some memory of the past in the heart of the Regent. After the first few moments of surprise and alarm, he had not the slightest fear from the unknown personage who then spoke to him in those long deserted rooms. “Stop!” said the Regent. ‘ Your name is——’ ‘“‘T have no name yet.” “No name?” “No, your Royal Highness. I wait for you to give me one; but I have been called Allan Fearon.” “T thought so; and this is the way in which the Countess de Blonde has tricked me into granting you an interview—an enforced interview, which will be the worse both for you and for her.” ‘“‘Let me hope not,” said Allan, sadly,—‘‘ let me hope not. It has been for some years past, your Highness, the dream and hope of my life, that one day I should have the joy, the rapture, or the agony, of such an interview as this,” “I do not comprehend you.” “JT will explain; but my heart beats wildly, and my pulses throb.” ‘He is mad!” thought the Regent. “Of late,” added Allan, ‘the dreamy hope I have spoken of became a fixed and anxious pain. I should have soon died, if I could not have seen and spoken to your Royal Highness. These words will appear strange to you without their context. They may sound like the ravings of one bereft of sense. ‘They will not speak to your Royal High- ness’s heart—to your judgment; but still I pray you to be patient with me, and, of your own free- will, to listen to me.” ' Again the echo of old remembered tones came upon the ear of the Regent. The voice of Allan had a cadence which spoke to the Regent of twenty years ago, when even his heart was not so indurated by change and luxury as it had since become. “‘T hear you,” said the Regent. you would say to me?” “And does your Highness hear me willingly ?” There was a slight harshness in the Regent’s tone, as he replied, “It seems that your ac- complice, the Countess de Blonde, has put it out of my power to say no to that request. I fancy I am locked in.” “Then,” said Allan, gently, “although I have ‘What is it nan elt mh Pmt ee ea rr ete ee nat Mt mle oe ena llc Mn winners tannins 1 rarmecmaeenae Set Pipe net leet EE Ameen UCR a te ea eee —— oe eee accent er AN te Ne Nn i YS I LE LLL LLL ALLL LLL ALLL EL LD DLE RL a a es mene nee he oe ahem Ai eet Aan Pore anf emma ene terme ene Saar e aaa eS aN Wee ryt = nt > i \ { | ii a ee | hy von UAMOTOUN. !!'\3, TL } ilk yearned for this interview, as though it were a portion of my life, I will forego it, and wait in the adjoining apartment until your Royal Highness is released. ‘The secret of my heart shall be hidden in its depths for ever, before I will force it upon unwilling ears.” Curiosity began to be an element in the Prince's mind, in regard to what Allan Fearon had to say. A strange curiosity, combined with adim remem- brance of the tones of his voice, took entirely the place of the first alarm, which had so completely vanished, but that the Regent did not recollect that those tones which awakened strange reminis- cences were the echoes which lingered in his own heart of the accents of Linda de Chevenaux, when first he knew her, and believed he loved her. ‘‘ Speak then,” he said. “I listen to you.” “And your Royal Highness then grants me the interview?” ““You are pertinacious, sir, upon this point ; No. 50.—DarK Woman. Bg sk sarirtannrteneene veces inertia raping enemy “ptm pete eee att GCG EN LE NOt A Si NN OLE RE CC LOLOL CLL LALO LAT PNT THE DARK WOSLAN. 893 | | M54 /, SILLA ee Ly yy ZZZ IP, 2 yp ld ==. A EL: LS, We, 44 ed ha Y pe Iae: WPA U4 ¢ ELLIE Y MAAS) ‘ay WRN re ree ee but if you wish me to say it in so many words, consider it as said. Well, sir, I grant you the in- terview.” “Then your Highness pardons the Countess esha for the means she has adopted to procure it ” “Ah! I see. Icomprehend now. Very well. Be it so. Not that I think the Countess de Blonde would be deeply affected if I were to withhold my pardon. Now, sir, speak! What is your secret ?” Allan shuddered, and was silent for a moment. He knew that he was about to pronounce a name’ which might at once change the amiable feeling with which the Regent seemed inclined to listen to him into gall and bitterness. But time was running onward, and he felt that that name must be uttered. “Your Royal Highness,” he said, ‘‘ remembers Linda de Chevenaux.” The Regent uttered a sharp cry of anger, and reentry emetic rere teen ttt hep nn ‘ stamped on the floor, as he said, ‘° What? An emissary of hers? Of that persecuting, criminal woman, who has well merited her epithet of Dark, because her deeds should shun the light!—of that woman who , “Oh, your Royal Highness, forbear—forbear ! For itis of her that I must speak.” “Then, sir, your audience is over—the audience that I have been cheated and cajoled into giving you. You were so full of respect a short time since that you were willing to retire into the adjoining apartment. Do so now, sir. Your audience is-over. I will listen to no expostulations or appeals having reference to that woman.” “Oh, your Highness, speak not so!” The Regent waved his hand, and continued. ‘‘ Having reference, I say, to that woman, who, by a series of petty persecutions, has done every- thing she can to annoy and vex me. Go back to her, sir, if you will, and tell her J will hear nothing from her.” ‘“T do not come from her. from her.” ‘Then why are you here ?” ‘* Because i ‘Because what, sir? Why do you not speak freely? Make the most of your audience, since you have it. What have you to say ?’ “Your Highness is aware that Linda de Che- venaux entertains an impression, amounting, in her case, to a perfect faith, that she is your High- ness'’s lawful! wife.” The Regent clapped his hands together, and Janghed derisively. *The old story —— the old story!” he said. ‘And do you, sir, whoever you may be, entertain this impression and perfect faith ?” Alas, I do not!” Then you are a more reasonable man than J expected to find you, considering who you associate yourself with. What, now, is it that you desire of me?” ‘*An answer from your Highness’s own lips— an answer such as you would give to heaven— such as you would give to your own heart and conscience, if the world, and all its pomps and dignities were passing from you;—an answer to the one question which I will clothe in so few words that your Royal Highness shall not com- plain T needlessly weary you with supplications.” * What question ?” “Did yvour Royal Highness marry Linda de Chevenaux ?” “This is intolerable.” “Did your Royal Highness marry Linda de Chevenaux ?” _ “Sir, that repetition sounds like a threat." - “No, no! -It is but a supplication. I implore you to answer me. Here, at your feet, I implore you still to answer me.” “J know not,” said the Regent, me to do so, but I answer you thus: marry Linda de Chevenaus,” “ Alas! alas!” ‘“‘Are you content, sir?” “One moment. She may speak from out the bitterness of her heart, or from some wild and dreamy fancy that insanity has given birth to, but there is a strange coherence in her words. She states that your Royal Highness supplicated I bring no message / ry pant: induces T did not long and wearily, and that at Jength, finding that | nes ter oe en rene certs miracned eaten THE DARK WOMAN. the propositions a Prince thinks it no slur upon his honour to make to one beneath him in degree met with but scorn and refusal, your Royal Highness proffered marriage.” “Pshaw! This is idle!’ cried the Regent. ‘I doen't know why it is J think yon worth convincing, but, if you know anything of the world: at all, you must know that—what shall I call it ?— love has its stratagems.” “Which wreck human hearts,” “You are answered, sir.” Allan Fearon continued i in alow, plaintive voice: ‘Linda de Chevenaux states that she loved the Prince, and that when marriage was proposed, the future appeared to her but like a glorious dream, and that the ceremony which united her to him who was then her heart’s idol, did take placa.” The Prince spoke hurriedly. ‘““An idle, vain ceremony! You know—she knows—all the world knows—that the liaisons of princes, although they may be sanctified by a seeming Inarriage, pass for nothing legally. There is no claim whatever—not the shadow of a claim; and had the marriage been as solemn as every priest in England could have made it, the consent of tne Crown could alone have stamped it with legality.” ‘‘Ah! your Royal Highness, Linda de Cheve- naux states that such a consent was produced to her.” ¥ ae Bes ‘* She swears it, on her sonl!” ‘‘And if it were? A few idle words upon a scrap of paper too readily conyinced the willing Linda that she might embalm her conscience, and sy ‘Idle words, your Highness? Now, indeed, I ask the question which has tremble@ on my lips. Did that consent come from the King? Or—or— was it—was it——” There was a complete stillness in the apartment, which was broken by the Regent, whose voice sounded strange and hollow, as he turned his back upon Allan Fearon. ‘If it be necessary,” he said, ‘to put a stop to all these persecutions, and to all the vain hopes and surmises which Linda de Chevenaux may cherish herself, or implant in the breasts of others .who may fancy her cause and her fortunes worth the clinging to,— if it be necessary, I say, to crush all these vain imaginings, and to nip some popular scandals in the ‘bud, I say to you, and you can say to her, that that consent did not come from the King, and was cast into the fire an hour after the mock ceremony.” ‘‘Then she was deceived, mocked, and betrayed, your Royal Highness!” ‘*Choose your own terms, sir, and please yeur- self,” ‘‘ Another question.” “Indeed? Are you the knight-errant of dis- tressed damsels? Whatis the next name upon your muster-roll of claimants?” “Your Royal Highness, Linda de Chevenaux - became a mother.” “An!” “ But she looked not into the eyes of her child. It was torn from her; and while she, like a cast- off garment, was thrust aside to perish, and her complaints and wailings to exhale within the air of a mad-house, the child perished, or was con- { ; . | - a a i enna” | signed to that care which is but twin-sister to neglect. And now, since your Highness has ad- mitted that the mother was deceived, betrayed, and cast aside, for some fresh caprice, the question is, what has become of tie child ?” “ The ehild ?” **' Your Highness’s child—the child of the de- ceived and wronged Linda de Chevenaux—that child, born of the mock marriage and the forged consent of the King.” > “You rave, sir—you rave! I know nothing This is a subject upon which Linda“de*Chevenaux has already tried to tortur me, . sf ike nothing. { have no means of knowing,” ‘Nor of i inquiring x -* * Nor of inquiring.” “But, your Highness, if it fare pupls that, any one could tell you with truth that thechild lived—that any one could tell you where to find the boy, now grown to bea mafi, and. able to reflect and ask himself who could be his.fathér— if any one could tell your Highness” iid what would you do?” on “The boy is dead—no doubt, dead. Ypiinde are not left in ignorance of claimants of that” de- seription. The boy is dead.” ~ egy, * Listen, your Highness, From hand*to hand the child passed, and appeals were made to your Highness for its support. I do not. say they reached you. for kings and princes are hedged round with flatterers, and many a cold- iniquity. They seem to perpetrate lies more upon. the’ con- sciences of those about them than upon their own. But be it as it may, no help ¢ame; and so, within a hundred yards of this your royal palace, your son, and the son of Linda de Cheveniaux, was abandoned beneath the canopy of heaven, to’starve, But this is a great nation, and London too densely peopled for death from such a éausé’ to’ ensue, unless the abandoned wretch crawled into. some desert corner. comprehended in the gracious word so harshly. The child grew up to boyhood—the boy became a youth—the youth a man—and then the tale was told him of his origin; and from that’ moment, along with the despair and sadness.which must ever reign in his breast at thought of his mother, came the yearning to see his father.” -, _ “ His father 2?” ‘‘ His father, the Prince—his fatter, the Regent of England — his father, the destroy ec? ef. his mother!” ey ‘* He lives, then ?” said the Regante juts 3. a; “ He lives!” 58 Res ‘And you know him ?” “ Myse/f—and many tears and sififiriee et, Achy the man!” The Regent drew a long breath. He paced the room rapidly twice, “Tt may be,” he said, “this is all a trick—a delusion: it may be that you play with my—my feelings!” “Your Highness feels I do not.” The Regent did not seem to hear him speaking, and continued : “ Jf—if, however, all this be true, tell him-—-that is, let him—say to him that I will see him!” “Father !” cried Allan Fearon. “Good heaven !” “Father! father! I am here !” The wailing child felt upon* the, cold charity of those in authority w ho fulfil thé duty. At A en THE DARK WOMAN, | . insets narA Ahn tr mn ree at te nen me The Regent reeled back'’a pace or two; and then, with a deep sigh, he dropped into a chair, and clasped his hands over his eyes. Allan burst into tears. The little lamp now, in reality, began to give unequivocal signs of dissolution; and the darkness began, in truth, to thicken about the father and the son. It was Allan who broke the terrible sileace—a silence far more terrible than any words could possibly have been. “Father,” he said, “you will forgive me—you which is so new to my lips—which sounds, as I utter it, as if it brought me nearer to heaven! Father, ‘father! God has alone, to this time, been lay only father !” . ‘ The Regent groaned. ‘‘ You sufier,” added Allan. ‘The past comes all before you now, as fresh as though it happened all but yesterday ?” “Tt does—it does!” , * Bat do not think—oh, do not think, father, that one word. one tone of reproach stigil now pass these lips! You have permitted me to call you father, and you shall be to me so sacred t “ No, no! Ihave deeply wronged you! Can you ever pardon me ?” “Oh, yes! As I hope for heaven's pardon! I have but one wish—one aspiration! . It is that you will call me son!” The Regent rested his head upon his hands and moaned, “Father! father! + SS Sap ong did |”* And—and n he Regent rose, Did you hear me ?” ” He tottered, rather than “My son!” Allan, with a shriek of joy, fell upon the breast ‘of the Regent. one CHAPTER CV. FATHER AND SON, Han this modern sybarite—this Prince of many passions—this Regent, with a reputation for luxu- ries among which were not enumerated those of feeling and compassion—had this Sardanapalus of modern times, after all, a heart ? Did all his past life come before him at that moment, mingled with the bitter agonies of self- reproach ? ? Or was this recognition of his son, in the person of Allan Fearon, but a faint gpasmodie feeling, soon to pass away, to be succeeded by the heartless indifference of the sensualist ? ‘We shall see. Allan Fearon forgot all the past, in the happy sensations of that moment. He wouid not ask himself if that father’s arms, in which he was for - an instant clasped, were unworthy. The sensation was too delightful to feel, that there was one to call him “son,” and that, after all, he was not that waif and stray on the great ocean of the world that he ever thought he would be. The little light went out. The father and sou were in darkness. will pardon me, if 1 repeat too often that name walked, towards Allan, and stretched out both his ; arms, | THE DARK WOMAN, Was not this a relief to both? Was not Allan glad that the Regent could not note the tears which fell from his eyes? Was not that great, proud Prince pleased to think that, in that darkness, the quivering of the lip, and trembling of his hands, as he spoke to his long lost son, were invisible? “Now,” said Allan, after a pause,—“ now, sir —now, father, I will leave you; and never again, amid your state and dignity, your pleasures, or your high political concerns, shall you be distracted by the uncalled-for presence of your son.” “‘ Stay, stay !” said the Regent. ‘‘ One moment.” “‘T am yours, in duty, to command.” The Regent spoke with difficulty. His words seemed to come from deep back in his throat, and | each with a spasmodic action that was painfal to listen to. ‘‘T do believe you are my son. You: may think perhaps that I shall require further evidence— that I have listened perhaps too credulously. to what you have told me; but there are some things that bring such strong conviction with them, that at once we believe their truth. Yes, at once we believe their truth.” “Then you do not doubt—you will never doubt that I am your son 2?” ‘“‘ Never, never !” “Thank heaven !” ‘¢ But now hear me. Your mother, Linda——’ “ Ah, sir! it is of her that I would speak.” “Let me speak of her. She is impressed with this wild, strange, insane idea of being my lawful, legal wife. herself. You are my son—her son. You com- prehend? You will save her, and you will save me from a fruitless contest in the future. You shall have an income, competent and suitable for every comfort, and every luxury; and if I, your b father, might advise you, I should say at once,,. take her from England, quiet her mind as best you may, and convince her that the zgnus fatuus of rank she follows, will but lead her into a morass of despair.” “T will do all that,” said Allan, sadly. ‘TI feel that the past cannot be‘undone. I know that the future, to her, must be serenity as she is, or death. Father, I will do all that.” ; “You will be twice my son, and from this moment my heart will be all the lighter that I have seen you, and feel conscious of your worth. My almoner shall communicate with you where you will; and although the world knows well that the exchequer of the Regent is never very flou- rishing, a few thousands a-year shall not be wanting for your use.” “Not for me—not for me. I am more than content. Father, you have acknowledged me, and I am content.” “ But you must live,” “‘T have health, and I have strength, and I can labour.” “But the son of the Regent—my son—I who may be at this present moment King?” “That shall be our secret, father. I will not cast the shadow of mine or my mother's sufferings over the throne of the King of England. There is now peace, forgiveness, and something akin to happiness in my breast. I will take those blessings with me and begone.” en rn meen trhaeateatneenteen teenie eee tee ee She persecutes me — she persecutes’ “No, no,” said the Regent, “this must not be. Men call me selfish, a voluptuary, a votary of pleasure, careless, thoughtless, what they please; but I was never mean or illiberal. You are my son; and although no royal state or dignity can appertain to you, you must allow me to place you in that position which shall make you feel that you are among the first gentlemen in England.” ‘‘ No, father,” “You refusé my ‘bounty: 2” #.'¢ Tetome, refusing ait, ‘preserve my self-respect. Phere i is anvite Gams th than ‘gentleman’ the world might call me, ‘were I to consent to become the pensioner of evén*my’ father, the Regent.” “But that, rg Ba said just now, will be our secret.” _.,4° *£ * Now Oy. nd “As I came nameless, but not hopelessjlet me..go with the feeling at my heart, that if, 1 owe.my being to my father’s errors, he has, still called me son, and blotted out the memory of the, past.with,tears.” ‘Alas,-alas!” said the Regent as he paced the room.» Why is not this my child? Why is not this the Prince’ that I could present to England instead of the’.wilful; disobedient daughter, who has already shadowed forth a retribution,—who has already But, mo, no! I must not speak thus—I.ought not.” “Do'nét, father. . Let the Princess Charlotte be happy';and-now, most respectfully and happily, I will-take my-Jeave.” “For your mother’s*sake, boy—to reconcile her to peace, to serenity,,.to me—let me beg of you to accept: the bounty that I cffer you, and to retire “with her Somewhere, where, forgetting and for- giving, you may both ‘think with calmness upon George of” ‘England. i “My mothervis rich.” “< Indeed !” Sey eg; “father.” From some strange sources, I ‘know; not? whit : she seems to possess abundant " ‘wealthy and luxury.” h! I know. I had forgotten. She leagued herself, with’ men of crime—the very outcasts of iniquitys tand no-doubt the ill-gotten wealth pro- ~ duced by . their offences, makes a glitter i in your eyes. hy, now I bethink me, there is a price upon the head-of this—this ——” _“ This“what, father ?” + Dark Woman, as she calls herself.” a Abjys ssir!, you know that name?” “Wy ‘do, indeed, and more than ever, now, I urge youto; appeal to her every sense of prudence and self-preservation, to leave England, where even I could notsprotect her. Good heaven, boy! do you want to see your mother in the hands of the executioner ?” “Oh, horror! horror !” “Could I save your mother, condemned as the Dark Woman, because she was once to me Linda de Chevenaux ? Take her away—take her away. Far away, at once, and for ever. Take her away, and save us all three from heart-sickness, and endless reproach.” ‘But will she come with me?” “With you—her own son?” “Listen, sir. My acquaintance with her may be reckoned by hours. It is almost as brief as my intercourse with yourself. Within three short days I find a mother and a father both. Already have I spoken to her somewhat to the purport ol i te tte eres A RAIA AYA AHA Rm inser Aeron Gen asm eee werner taint tat wy ¥en eA eyntrelvensnetp enon tear hen lS Oe er eS OO LT TE CTS A: SG COOL CTL OF CELL: Se LA CO SY LE. THE DARK WOMAN. 397 et your wishes; for I had not nursed for years the | I was—namely, the husband of your dear sister solitary fancies which have peopled her teeming brain. And so, sir—so, father—I guessed the cruel truths that you have uttered to me.” ‘And you told her so ?” Sli did.” ‘© Well, and she ?” “There was frenzy in her look. She would not listen—she called me Prince—she spoke of stars and diadems, and crowns, and thrones ;@and/ al- most chased me from her presence with disdin.” ‘‘Mad! mad! mad? said. ee f pagent — Sir heaven, she is mad!” rhe “It may be so, father. © ¢ Ml ‘““¢'The brain o’erwiought, «: ., © Preys on itself, and is dostroyad by theught”” _ “Then,” cried the Prince, ‘I: know not what to do. She is capable of taking. even my. very, life. She penetrates into the” very centre of the Palace. She has some means” ‘of invading “my privacy when she pleases, | There’ are traitors- about me, who sell me to her in bed or at board. There is not a staircase—not\a corridor—not, an apartment in all St. James’ By. where I may not look for her,” “Sir, you astonish me.” “You did not know it?” “On my life, no!” “Then, my son, I tell. yon it is true. Save me from her. She distracts me. Go, my son. Take your father's blessing with you, -and» lay ‘to’ your heart the consolation that you : arevof service to him. I shall never forget you.” “T will try, father; but what»you tell me confounds and perplexes me.” * | “Stop a bit. What's your name Te “T am called Allan.” ‘ “Ab, yes; to bs sure. Atlan. Fearon, But that will not do; it has a plebeian sound with-it. Cannot you call yourself. Mr. Chévenaux? Or suppose I make a knight of yout. Sir Williem— George--Thomas Chevenaux, or what you may. A knight —a gentleman — two thousand a~year. Come, my boy, what say you dee ‘Father, 1 am married.” PR “That's a pity. You might havea, well.” ‘*T have married well, father.” “Ha! ha! Some fair dame. witht” estates and titles ?” See ““No, father. A poor girl, who..was eatning-her subsistence by the labour of her hands. i The Regent was silent. . ‘‘And yet she is so loving, and. so loveable—so full of grace and gentleness, that even her beauty, reflected on her younger sister, rath bs bieriat, a monarch.” “What do you mean ?” : _ My wife is the sister of the Goantons de Blonde.” An exclamation burst from the lips of the Regent, but before he could utter a word, the sharp click of the unlocking the door came upon their ears, and a broad gleam of light shone into the apartment. Annie appeared on the threshold, with a wax candle in her hand, and an inquiring look upon her face, ‘I’m sure,” she said, ‘‘I heard my name men- tioned; and if so, Allan Fearon, that was con- trary to agreement.” “I was merely explaining,” said Allan, “ who f z | R . officers.of the Court. be a passport to my presence at any time. Marian.” * Was that all, George ?” ‘* All,” said the Regent faintly. Allan bowed very low. “T will now leave you, sire, and my best wishes ever attend you.” Annie held the light, and looked from one to the other of them in surprise. The Regent held out his ‘hand to Allan, who pressed it respectfully to his lips. ‘Farewell, your Royal Highness!” “Farewell; but you must let me see you again.” oe “If you command me.” “‘T do most strictly.’ “Then your Royal Highness shall be obeyed.” “Stay. Take this ring. All the Court knows the ruby that was presented to my mother by | Marie Antoinette, and given by her to me; it will Ask for the’ Lord Chamberlain, or any of the great Show, then, that ruby, and they will bring you.to me, or tell you where to find me. Now, farewell, and remember |” . *T will remember.” ‘Annie’s eyes opened to their fullest possible width, and she looked from the Regent to Allan, and from Allan:to the Regent, in intense surprise. ‘* You seem to be mighty great friends, both of you,” she said. “Farewell, Countess!” said Allan, as he passed her, “A thousand thanks for your kind services to-night.” _.. “Who waits?” cried the Regent, as he stepped into the Titian Gallery. A hurried footstep approached, and Willes said, as he bowed low, “ fi am at your Royal Highness’s service.’ ‘* Show: this Bentlomapeemne friend—the way “out.” Willes bowed again, and, with surprise in every feature, and in every gesture, marched down the Titian Gallery, followed by Allan Fearon. Annie seized the Regent by the arm, and almost dragged him_across the gallery into her own rooms, wherershe thrust him into a chair; and holding a light alarmingly close to his eyes, she cried out, ©“ Now, what's the meaning of all this? I must know, and I will know. So it’s no use yon saying you won’t tell me. What is the meaning of it all? Pm amazed, frightened, curious, pleased, and angry, all at once.” “ Annie!.“Annia!” » “ George !' George!” ‘Permit me to “ST']] permit nothing at all, until you tell me wink it means. I know I made you have this interview with Allan Fearon, beeausa he wished it, and I had promised him. I thought you would be like a raging lion, but I didn’t care for that.” “Really, Aunie “What has he said? What has he done, to make you all of a sudden so pleasant, and call him your friend, and ask him to come again, and give him your ruby ring ?” ‘Well, Annie, the fact is——” “Go on!” The Regent rubbed his chin. Annie stamped twice with her foot. “The fact is, Annie, yOu know he came to ” nn en oe me pr earn ne ot ‘ THE DARK WOMAN. 398 — thank me, and to say that he had married your sister; and when [ heard that, I said to myself, “What! the husband of Annie’s sister? Can any one be more welcome?” ‘Annie gave the Regent a sharp rap on the head with the candlestick. “Don’t tell lies.” “What? Annie! Countess! ‘Come, out with the truth, What was it? I don’t believe a single word of what you’ve been saying up to now.” ‘“‘ Then it is impossible to speak to you. I have no more to say. He remarked what a good girl your sister was, and that you took a little after her.” ‘‘No, I don’t. My sister may be a good girl, but nobody knows better than you that I’m a bad one. Come, tell the truth. { must and will know all about it,” “ Annie!” “Well? What's that ?” «‘ Ah! some one knocks at the door,” exclaimed Annie. A low, continuous tapping announced some one on the outside of the door. ‘: “Comein. What is it?” cried Annie. “Your Royal Highness’s humble servant,” said Willes, as he crept slowly into the room with ‘a 17? beau‘iful golden salver in his hand, on which lay | a letter. “ For me ?” said Annie. ‘No, Coutitess. For his Highness the Regent. It appears this letter is sealed in some. private manner, which they know of in the Chamberlain’s department, as an authority to forward it at once to your Royal Highness. It was sent to Windsor, but crossed your Highness on the road. A mounted messenger has just now arrived at St. James's with it.” ‘‘ For me?” said the Regent. He took the letter, and turned it over slowly. A shade of displeasure passed across his face. broke the seal, and stepping to a side-table, on which burnt some half-dozen wax candles in a silver candelabrum, he read the letter. Sir Hinckton Moys’s letter! A marked change came over the face of the Regent. “You're disturbed, “What is it?” “ Nothing.” By a rapid action of his fingers, the Regent crushed up the letter into a ball, and then glared wildly about him, with passion on every lineament of his countenance. ae “ You are disturbed.” ; The Regent stamped his foot passionately. “Curses!” he cried. ‘ Who am I to trust ?” “Me,” said Annie. ‘“‘Ha! ha!” laughed the Regent, with a loud, sneering laugh as he dashed out of the apartment, and slammed the door behind him with a violence that echoed far and wide through old St. James’s Palace. Willes shrank back aghast) and his very lips turned white with fear, A bright flush spread over the brow of Annie, aud she looked excited and indignant. ; 2 George, He’ said Annie. CHAPTER CVI. ALLAN FEARON TAKES COUNSEL FROM HIS GOOD ANGEL, ‘ Marran! Dear Marian!” exclaimed Allan, when he reached home, after that most agitating and strange interview with the Prince of Wales. “ Peis you who must think for me, and advise me whatgo do, for my brain whirls with excitement, and I am incapable of cool ard calm reflection.” Marian Held Allan to her heart. She could see “that he ha#degone through some scene, that would leave its indelible traces on his memory; and she welcomed the gush.of feeling that brought flood of tears tobis eyes. Thew they held ‘a long and anxious conference —a conference that lasted almost to the dawn of thanewday. . What was, he, Allan, to do to save his mother —to save her from herself ? That was the question. They neither of them doubted, for’ & a moment, the absolute truth of the statement that had been made by the Regent in regard to the true slate of the case; and the. circumstances of the pretended marriage to him of Linda de Cheyenaux. She had been ‘the victim. He had.been-the betrayer. But the past twas irrevocable. The future, however, might; dr, might not, be full of terrors for the Dark- Woman. As often as that terrible title of his mother's occurred to Allam Fearon, it brought with it a euld shudder, which shook him to the inmost heart. It was too fearfully suggestive. “But ifepoor* Allan himself was unable to come to a‘determimation, Marian brought a calmer judgment to bear upon the circumstances which plunged him into such a state of excitement and apparent despair. She advised him. She, his better angel, spoke words of soothing wisdom to t his vexed soul. ‘“‘Ailan, you will see your mother. You will tell her that you have had the interview with the Regent that you sought, and that you have heard from, his own lips the real truth of the sad story of Littda de Chevenaux.” “She will not believe me, Marian. not belieye him.” “But you will have done your duty, Allan.” “Ah, yes!” “‘ And that feeling will support you.” “That, and your love.” Marian was deeply touched at these words, and the tears started to her eyes, as she said, ‘* Allan, dear Allan, 1, too, will go with vou. I will see your mother, and we will both speak to her— both plead to her to save herself from the con- tinued torments of this life of wild impulses and desires.” * You will, Marian ?” “Can you ‘doubt me?” “Oh, no, no!—a thousand times, no! We will go to her together, my Marian, and, gathering She will © strength from each other, we will yet try to save - her.” It was about eleven o'clock in the day when Allan and Marian left their-home down by the baal || | THE DARK WOMAN. river's side, in a hackney coach, towards Hanover Square. In that coach they had with them the young child who had been committed to their care. Marian would not Jeave her alone in that silent, dismal house, and the hackney coach, therefore, was bired, as the means which would enable her to wait for them while they held their conference with the Dark Woman. The page Carlos, as the Dark Woman named him, now knew that Allan was to be admitted; so no scruple was made about Marian accompanying him, and they were both shown into that saloon where so singular a scene had taken place between the Dark Woman and her old associates, Shucks and Brads. Marian sat down, somewhat in the shadow, between two of the windows; and Allan waited, with an excited, nervous look, for the appearance of his mother. Perhaps, if Allan Fearon had been as fully aware as the writer of these chronicles is of the various strange events which had taken place in that gorgeous mansion in Hanover Square, in connexion with Shucks and Brads, the two house- breakers, he might have found some additional reasons to urge his mother to abandon her pursuit of what she called her rights, and retire into that privacy which alone could secure her safety and peace. But he had no such knowledge. He did know, however, that Linda de Cheve- naux, in her character of the Dark Woman, was amenable to the law, and he trembled at the knowledge. What would be his feelings if, after all, that newly-discovered mother were to die the death of a criminal—that death which he, in his innocence, had so narrowly escaped from ? The thought was, indeed and in truth, a dreadful one to poor Allan. He could not help pressing his hands upon his eyes, and uttering a deep sigh. Marian heard him. “ Allan, Allan!” she said, gently. “ You suffer. You feel even now that this interview may be too agitating for you.” “No, no, dear Marian-no! Iwill go through it—I will do my duty.” “Or shall I alone see this woman, who. has suffered so much that both you and JI, Allan, would fain save her from suffering more ?” ‘‘Hush, dear Marian! She comes.” It was rather instinctively, than with any pre- arranged wish to conceal herself from the Dark Woman, that Marian now shrunk back far into the recess of the window, and drew the silken curtain between herself and the room sufficiently to hide her presence—at least, for a time—from any one who might not look too curiously in that direction. Then the door opened sharply, and the Dark Woman appeared. There was a look of great excitement upon her countenance—excitement accompanied by an ex- pression of intense uneasiness, as though sleep had been, for many hours, a stranger to her eye- lide. How could she sleep ? At sight of Allan, a faint smile played about her lip. ne et ee AF ee a mennameinen AI ~ ier mamta are eemty es ste a I, WS SE ERAS SSS gi a arene eco aren seen iin pe pee arm - 599 “An! my son, you are here, My son!—my Prince!” “ Alas, mother!” “Why do you cry, ‘Alas ?'” “To hear you utter that word—that title.” There was a flash, as if the lightning of a coming storm shone from the eyes of the Dark Woman. “T give you that title, my son, because it is your right—your own.” She had advanced, and placed a hand upon each of the shoulders of Allan; and she leoked long and earnestly into his face. The traces of tears, and of suffering, and want of rest, were there, too. “You, my son—you, likewise,” she said,— “you think away the long hours of the night. You likewise begin to feel.” ‘For you, mother,” ‘For me?” “Even so. Oh, my mother, T have much to say to you, ifI can but find heart, and breath, and words, in which to say it.” ‘*And why should not you, my own son, say to me what you will? You, my son—my Prince.” “Mother! mother!” Lhe Dark Woman bent upon Allan a look of strange inquiry. ' “What is this?” she said. ‘ Why is it that that title, when pronounced by me, seems to sting you like a serpent? Why is it, that when I call you Prince, you wring your hands, and distress and sadness appear in your face?” “« Because— because a ** Well, I listen ?” ** Because, edad ly I have seen my father.” “Ah!” The ery that the Dark Woman uttered was one of great agony of soul. ‘You have seen him ?” “T have.” “The Regent?” “The Regent, mother. Last night I found my way into St. James’s Palace, and saw the Prince Regent.” “ You—you only saw him ?” “T spoke to him. We have had an interview together, which lasted the better part of au hour,” ‘Oh, heaven !” ‘** Be calm—oh, be calm, mother, and I will tetl you all. Iam here, now, to tell you all. It is» my errand of this morning to do sc. But you will listen to me calmly, for your happiness, and much of my happiness, will hang upon the words which shall pass between us at this interview.” The Dark Woman sunk into a chair, She looked rigid and stony. ““Speak!—speak! You have seen the Regent— the Prince Regent—your—your a “ Wather!” said Allan, gently. ~The Dark Woman clutched him tightly by the arm—so tightly, as almost to be painful. “One word, my son—ons word.” ‘ Speak, mother.” ‘You will answer me truly ?” “On my soul, I will.” . * Did—did he—acknowledge “ Ah! I comprehend you, mother. You would ask if the Regent acknowledged me as his son, and I answer you that he did.” ees ee +e rh tA pet he nh i THE DARK WOMAN. The Dark Woman uttered a scream of intense excitement, and let her head droop upon her hands, as she swayed to and fro, uttering deep sobs. ‘Mother, mother,” said Allan, ‘‘ you promised me that you would be calm.” “‘Soon—soon. But there are things that strike upon the human heart, and will not allow it to beat with calm serenity. Soon—I shall soon be calm again.” Allan did not speak for some few seconds, but during their lapse he looked towards the window, in the recess of which was Marian; and he could see that she was regarding the Dark Woman with an expression of great commiseration. Then Allan spoke again. ‘‘ Mother,” he said, ‘‘now that you know the Regent has acknowledged me, you will be able more serenely to hear all that passed.” ‘* Yes—oh, heaven, yes!” “Then, mother “Stop! Let me hold. your hand in mine, my child. I feel more human now.” The Dark Woman held the hand of Alian, and she looked up in his face through tears while he spoke, ‘You know, mother, I told you that I would seek an interview with the Regent.” “You did.” “T felt that I could not rest until that interview had been obtained, difficult as it seemed to bring abont.” “That is a mystery. How did you, my son, unaided by me, penetrate into St. James’s ?” “Annie Gray vi “Ah! Iknow now. The Countess de Blonde, as they call her.” “‘The same, She is the sister of my wife.” “I know. I comprehend ail now—all but what passed between you and the Regent. Where did you meet ?” “Ina long disused suite of apartments, that open from the Titian Gallery by a door, above which is carved the royal arms.” “T know it. There is a story—a legend—con- | nected with those rooms, and the reported personal contest between James the Second and his son.” “JT heard as much. It was, then, in those rooms, mother, that I met the Regent. I told him all,” All?” “Yes, mother, all I had to tell him—all that I knew to tell him, I told him your sad story, and who and what I was.” “ And he?” “He was at first loth to believe me, but nature at length spoke in his heart.” “Ah! Then it is possible that even he has a heart.” “And he acknowledged me as his son.” “The Prince? His son, the Prince?” “Mother! mother!” “What riddle is this? You are the son of George, Prince of Wales, or you are a nameless creature, breathing the air of heaven, but claiming natural kindred to no living soul. Speak! What is it that I seein your eyes? What terrible words are those that hover on your lips?” “Mother! mother!” It was poor Allan’s turn now to be deeply affected, and to rest his face upon his hands, and to tremble with emotion, The Dark Woman turned a shade paler. She compressed her lips, and the rigid, stony look came over her again. “Goon! goon! I ain listening.” Then Allan gathered courage. He felt that what he had come to say must be said, sooner or later. He would say it now. “Mother, the Regent acknowledged me as his son in nature.” ‘* His—son—in—nature “Yes. But—but, mother, he denies that there was a legal marriage.” The Dark Woman burst out into a terrible laugh. It was a laugh that chilled the heart's blood of Allan Fearon. “Ha! ha! ha! His son innature! ha!” “Oh, mother, mother! now!” “Ha! ha! His sonin nature! Then is nature infinitely obliged to him. Ha! ha! Oh, yes, I am calmer—quite’ calm, you see. I listen still. 5)9 ¢ Ha! ha! You are not calm Let me hear all. What more is there to tell me?” “ Alas, mother, there is little more!” “Little more? Go on!” ‘“‘The Prince Regent, along with the acknow- ledgment that I was his son, and you my mother, spoke regretfully of the past.” ‘The Dark Woman burst into another peal of terrible laughter, which she checked with a startling suddenness. Allan shuddered, but he proceeded, ‘¢ He spoke, did the Regent, in accents of remorse and regret for the past; vut that past is irre- vocable, and what could I, his son, say or do in regard to it? He is wishful that both you and I should accept from him such reparation s “‘ Reparation ?” “Yes, mother, Such reparation as it is now possible for him to make.” ‘‘Raparation? We want no reparation. Who says that I want reparation? I want right. I want right, and I will have it.” “Right, mother ?” “Yes, I am the wife of the Regent.” * Alas! alas!” “ And you are his son—a Prince of the Royal House of England. We want no reparation—we want no favours. We shall be the dispensers of favours and honours.” - “Mother,” added Allan, ‘the Regent declares that the marriage was a nullity—that the Royal consent was never really and truly given, and that now nothing can be done, but that he should strive to make the remainder of your life as calm, and as peaceable, and as happy, as the remem- brances of the past will allow it to be.” “And you?” “J, mother?” — “And you, I say? Do you side with the de- stroyer? Do you believe in the shame of your mother, and in your own dishonour ?” “Tt isa sad tale, but an old and common one.” ‘“‘ You do believe it?” ‘“T cannot help but do so.” “‘ Degenerate — ungrateful — despicable heart! Oh, is it for this that I have struggled, and kept myself in life? Is it for this that I have warred with the world—that I have fought for, sinned for? Oh, heaven! Let me die now—let me die* THE DARK WOMAN. now, and at once; for my hopes are blighted by the scorching lightning of a son’s debasement.” ‘“‘No,” said Allan, who, now that the worst was told, began to gather a certain courage to face the wild excitement of the Dark Woman,—‘ no. There is no debasement—there is no ingratitude. I, nor you, mother, can alter the past. It is the present and the future that alone belong to us. I urge you to give up the vain pursuit of what I am convinced is but a phantom of the imagina- tion.” “ What?” “Yes, mother. I urge you to forgive the Regent—to no longer persecute him and yourself —yourself, too, most of all—by a claim which has no real foundation; and I urge you to give to yourself and to me that peace which may be ours in the time that is to come.” “Never! Never!” Allan bowed his head sadly. No. 51 —Dark Woman 401 en ad **Never!” added the Dark Woman,—‘“ never! I will fight on until the last. Leave me.” ‘“No, no! mother, hear me still. Reflection will come to you. You will think yet differently of all these things. Ihave told you that I have a wife. Let me tell you now, that she will be to you, if you will let her, a loving daughter. Come with us, and in some quiet, happy home, find the peace which even a throne, were it really yours, could not offer you.” “Ha! ha!” “Oh, mother, come with us—come !” “fa! ha! Mad, mad! You are mad, orl. No, no! Itis you are mad. I, too, will see the Regent.” 6s You Pie “EvenI, His wife! The Princess of Wales— Linda, Princess of Wales, will visit the Prince— George, the Prince.” “Marian! Marian!” cried Allan. ‘Come and i a nc i ee ee eae 402 help me—eome, my Marian; and with your per- suasions added to mine, let us hope yet.” “*T am here,” said Marian. She came forward from behind the silken cur- tains. The Dark Woman drew herself up proudly. “Who is this seeks an interview with us?” she said. “My wife, mother.” “ Your wife ?” “My Marian.” “Then, my son, as this young person is not noble—as in her veins there flows not the tainted blood of some petty German despot—you must re- pudiate her; and if she hasason, he must call upon her some day to retire from a strife with you for her rights, and to seek peace and serenity for the remainder of her life as best she may. Ha! ha! ha!” With a wild burst of sneering laughter, the Dark Woman dashed from the room. The door closed behind her, and Allan and Marian were alone. “Oh, Marian, this is fearful,” said Allan. “ You have heard all. What have I said that I should not have said? What left unsaid that could have changed her heart ?” “ Nothing, Allan—nothing.” “* Alas! What will be the end?” “The end is with heaven, Allan!” “Tt is—it is, Come, Marian come. This is no place for us now. I know what my duty prompts me to do. She says that she will see the Regent. Ought I to warn him?” ‘No, Allan.” “No, say you?” ‘It is my thought, dear Allan, that you are not called upon to interpose actively in all these distressful affairs, which will find some natural: end. Let her seek the Regent. The present frenzy that possesses her may find a vent, and pass away with such a meeting.” ‘* Be it so.” “Home now, Allan—home; and let us thank heaven which has so graciously bestowed one upon us,” “Yes, yes! Thank heaven !—thank heaven !” Allan could not but be deeply affected at the interview he had with his mother, but what could he do? She would not give up the cherished dream of her life. No arguments that he could use would induce her to do so. Time alone must now solve the mystery of the life of the Dark Woman. — CHAPTER CVII. SIR HINCKTON MOYS HAS A REMARKABLE ADVENTURE IN THE PARK, TE Dark Woman, after she had left the apart- ment in which she had held so agitating an in- terview with Allan Fearon, was in no mood of mind to see or to converse with any one. She shut herself up in one of the upper rooms of the house, and was not visible for some. hours. Then she rung for the page Carlos, and when the young girl who played that character in the establishment of the Countess d’Umbra made her CS pee oe THE DARK WOMAN. appearance, she was startled at the terrible aspect of her mistress. During all the service she had given to the Dark Woman, that young girl had never seen so terrific an expression upon her face as she now saw. Carlos shrank back in terror. The Dark Woman bent a searching glance upon her, and said, in sharp, deep tones, ‘‘ What now, minion?—what now? Are you, too, intent upon betraying the hand that feeds you?” “ Oh, no, no, lady! But——” “ But what?” “T could not help thinking that you looked ill.” “ T1?—ill?—I ill? Ha! ha! Oh, no! I shall never be illagain. If what I have seen, and what I have heard, will not kill, why I am proof against the world!” ‘“* Yes, madam.” “‘ Go to the man who sits in the hall.” ‘¢ The hall-porter, madam ?” “ Yes. Go to him, and say that occasionally there will pass in and out of this house, a person— a@ woman, dressed in a grey cloak; and that he is to allow her, without question or hindrance, to make her way in and out of this house at her pleasure.” *¢ Yes, madam.” be Go 1” The page gave the order, much to the surprise of the’ hall-porter; but that surprise was much increased when, in about half an hour, such a person as had been described, in a grey cloak, and a slouching kind of bonnet, that concealed a great portion of the face, came through the hall, but not from the street. It was from the upper part of the house that this most mysterious grey personage came. The porter involuntarily stepped forward a pace. The grey figure paused, a moment. ‘‘ Your orders!” it said, in a deep, strange voice. ; The porter shrunk back, In another moment the mysterious personage had left the house. ‘ This was the Dark Woman, and if any one had had the courage as well as the curiosity to follow her, they would perhaps have succeeded in dogging her footsteps to Frith Street, Soho, where, at the door of the astrologer’s house, she paused. The Dark Woman took arapid glance right and left, to see if any one observed her; and then feeling satisfied that she was alone, she by the aid of a small key opened the outer door and entered the house. It was not till past ten o'clock in that same evening that the figure in the grey cloak again emerged from the astrologer’s house in Soho. Then the Dark Woman took her way towards St. James’s Park and Palace. But there was work to do in the Park that night for another personage of our dramatis persone as well as the Dark Woman. That other personage was Sir Hinckton Moys, the still disgraced courtier. This man of many resources and hazardous adventures had the greatest hope that the letter which he had written to the Prince of Wales would be precursive of something favourable to his interests. In fact, he lingered about in the OP AN Re SG RI THE DARK WOMAN. neighbourhood of the Palace, taking care never to be absent from his lodgings for more than an hour at a time, in the hope that he might be sent for by the Prince. But that hope waned very much as the day advanced; and he had almost given it up in despair, when, towards the dusk of evening, his valet came running after him with looks of exul- tation, along Pall Mall, and placed in his hands a billet, one glance at which was sufficient to assure Sir Hinckton Moys that it came from the Regent. Sir Hinckton darted into a court, in order that he might read the important missive more at his leisure. By the dim light of one of those oil lamps which were but slowly being superseded in London by gas, Sir Hinckton, with eyes of exultation, glanced at the superscription of the note. “By Jove!” he cried. “It is under his own hand. The cloud disperses. I shall no longer feel the weight of a displeasure which, when it has once passed away, will allow the sun of royal favour to shine ten times more brilliantly than ever upon my fortunes.” Somewhat nervously, for a man of his calmness and impenetrability, Sir Hinckton Moys opened the note. | It contained but the following words :— “The Regent will see Sir H. M. at Carlton House, to-morrow, at mid-day.” Sir Hinckton Moys had too often seen the handwriting of the Regent not to feel convinced that this was an autograph letter. He need not necessarily have felt flattered at that distinction, for, in good truth, the Regent had written it himself simply because there was a certain something disgraceful in communicating with such a man as Moys; so that he could neither trust Willes nor Colonel Hanger, whom he had taken again into favour, with the writing of the note. But Sir Hinckton Moys was satisfied. The cruel and insidious letter which he had written had all its effect upon the jealous mental organization of the Regent. Perfectly well did the disgraced courtier know that the Prince was ever ready to hear accusations from one person against another, and that it was a principle of his nature to give, at all events, some credence to any tale that was brought to | him, to the detriment of those about him. The air and manner with which Sir Hinckton Moys stepped out of the little court, in the recesses of which he had read this welcome epistle, were full of triumphant exultation. He cast a glance over the way at the Palace, which had a world of meaning in it; and he clenched his right hand, as he muttered to him- self, ‘‘ We shall see—we shall see! Fair, frail, and fickle Countess de Blonde, we shall yet see whieh of us maintains a position longest at the Court of St. James’s! You have triumphed for a moment, but my time yet has to come! I fell but to rise again; but when you fall, it shall be once and for ever !” Sir Hinckton Moys went home to his lodgings, and attired himself in one of his gayest suits. A gold-hilted sword, which the Regent had once presented to him, he felt strongly inclined to SS ed ' by the gate in Spring Gardens. A AN NE i ti TN NARA 403 wear, but that such weapons had gone out of fashion, as a part of the ordinary costume of gentlemen. But Sir Hinckton Moys was so elate, that the was desirous that evening to cut a figure; and as the idea came across him of paying a visit at Buckingham House, he ordered his valet to select for him a military uniform. This Sir Hinckton Moys was accredited to wear, for he held a commission in the army. The period had not then passed away, as it has now never to return, when the authorities gave away commissions to civilians, who not only never were attached to any regiment, but knew nothing whatever of military affairs. The commissien bestowed upon its owner the honorary rank of captain, and the practical pay of one. Sir Hinckton Moys held one of those commis- sions; and, therefore, could attire himself in military costume when he pleased. Behold him, then, issuing forth into St. James’s Park with the gold-hilted sword by his side, in- tending to take a turn or two in the principal Mall, before finding his way to Buckingham House, where he had no intention to arrive until after the Princess had dined ; for, at those dinners at Buckingham House at the period at which we write, a strange collection of persons made their appearance, Briefless barristers, who pretended to have found out strong points of law in favour of the Princess. Half-pay military men, who, to listen to them, one would suppose possessed the strategic power of commanding London with a handful of men, in case some popular demonstration in favour of her Royal Highness was required. Disabled politicians, who had tried the floor of the House of Commons, and failed in acquiring the least shadow of influence; but who, at Buck- ingham Honse, talked as though they were the necessary members of future Administrations Sir Hinckton:Moys had no desire to mix him- self up with these persons, who made a ladder to their own fortunes and ambitions of the unfor- tunate Princess of Wales; and who, as is well known, at her hour of need, one and all forsook her. And so the new-blooming courtier, who felt that his fortunes were blossoming afresh every time that he touched the note which the Prince of Wales had sent him, strolled leisurely along the Mall with the air of a conqueror. But Sir Hinckton Moys was far from having St. James’s Park to himself. At about half-past nine o’clock, he was very much struck with the appearance of a couple of persons who had made their way into the Park These persons were arm-in-arm; and it was a fortunate thing for them that such wag the case, inasmuch as it was evident that, but for such mutual support, they could hardly have kept a tolerably even course. They were richly attired, and valuable jewellery sparkled upon their persons; but there was that indescribable air and manner about them which | betrayed how very recently that rich attire had a made acquaintance with them. One glance at their faces, and another at their hands, would in a moment have dispelled the idea — 404 RR RE NR AT if NE EEE PRN IE Gp VAIN STE ER A ATOR OE wt aw THE DARK WOMAN. that they might be gentlemen on a frolic after one of those deep potations which it was the custom of the age to indulge in. When one of these gentlemen lurched to the right, by some dispensation of Providence, the other one lurched to theleft. When one stumbled, the other at that particular moment was tolerably firm upon his feet; and so giving and receiving support, but occupying a very large space— nearly, in fact, the whole of the Mall—in their devious course, they walked in a most independent fashion in the Park. Sir Hinckton Moys had to avoid them as best he could. ‘‘ Hurrah!” said one; ‘‘ this is the way to do it! Why, Brads, my boy, how uncommonly easy it is to be a gentleman!” “‘ Who said it wasn’t, eh?” said Shuckss, who had got a little disputatious in his drink. ‘* Who said it wasn’t? All you've got to do is to hire a tailor and a wine-merchant. You put on the fine clothes, and you get drurk, and there you are!” “That's about it,” said Brads. ‘‘ We're in luck’s way, old fellow!” * Rather, I should say; but I tell you what it is. I shall send some money to Jack Singleton, because he mayn’t have been so lucky on the road as we've been on the square.” “© What do you mean by ‘ on the square,’ eh?” “Why Hanover Square, to be sure.” “*Pon my life, that’s good. On the square! Ha! ha! How thirsty I am, ain’t you?” “I'm getting a bit that way; only, you see, all the nobs take a walk in the Park, and as we are nobs now, I don’t see why we shouldn’t—only it’s so odd to me the trees won’t stand still!” “TI was a thinking the same. But here's a seat. I wonder if the nobs ever sit down in the Park ?” “‘ To be sure they do.” The question of the nobs sitting down or not, solved itself; for Shucks and Brads, owing to the wreck which their deep potations had made of their eyesight, came against one of the Park seats much sooner than they expected. Shucks managed to roll on to it, but Brads fell to the gravel at its feet. “Give it him!” said Brads. ‘ Somebody’s floored me, old friend; who was it ?” “‘ It was nobody but yourself.” “‘ Myself? Come, that’s a good’un! Did you ever see a man knock himself down? But it was you, you rascal! It was you, you rascal! As soon as I got near this bench, the back of it moved, and hit me in the stomach, and down I went!” “Go along with you!—get out!” “ Get out, yourself! Did you ever see a bench hit a gentleman in the stomach of its own accord? You must have done it.” “ Brads,” said Shucks, with great gravity, “ you're drunk!” “Drunk? drunk? .Me drunk! Oh! oh! that’s a good ’un; andif I am, you put something into my liquor! You know what a rascal you are, Shucks—a robber and a rascal! And now that I’m a gent—gent—gentleman, I don't mean to associate with acr—cr—cracksman! Go and be hanged, as you ought!” “Go to the deuce!” said Shucks. of yourself !” Shucks, who was certainly the soberer of the “Take care two, but still not sufficiently so to make dus allowance for his companion’s captiousness, con- trived to walk away by himself; but Brads, after an ineffectual attempt to follow him, was fain to sink back upon the Park bench, while the whole of the trees seemed to be dancing a roundelay about him. Sir Hinckton Moys passed these men with a contemptuous stare; but how little he suspected that each of them had in his pocket a document, which to him would have been most curious and interesting —that document which, in duplicate, they had extorted from the fears of the Dark Woman, on the occasion of their burglarious visit to the mansion in Hanover Square. Brads fell fast asleep on the bench in the Park, and Sir Hinckton Moys pursued his way towards Buckingham House, When there, he had a private interview with the Princess of Wales— that is to say, so far private that no one was present but the Marchioness of Sunningham. Sir Hinckton Moys did not actually exhibit the letter of the Regent, but he was quite oracular and prophetic about his future prospects. ‘Be assured,” he said, “that I shall quickly resume my old station at the Palace, and then I shall be able to be of infinite service to your Royal Highness.” If the Marchioness of Sunningham suspected, for a moment, the double game which the wily cour- tier was playing, she was quite content to keep such suspicions to herself; for she, like every one else about that unhappy Princess, was but using her as a stepping-stone to her own objects. “Your Royal Highness may depend,” added Moys, “that I shall keep you well-informed in regard to everything that takes place at St. James’s; where if you have many persons who are not to be called your friends, you have persons who merit the name of your implacable foes.” “Indeed! I can guess them,” said the Princess ; “and I am not slow to mention my own daughter as one,” ‘‘ Nay, madam,” said Sir Hinckton Moys. “I meant not to allude to the Princess Charlotte, The persons I meant were the Countess de Blonde, Willes, the Regent’s valet, and the notorious Colonel Hanger.” “‘ And is it possible,” said the Princess, ‘that the enmity of persons like those can be of import~ ance to the wife of the Regent of England ?” “The Regent’s mistress, his valet, and his con- fidant, are the three persons who influence his actions ; therefore, you will perceive, madam, that in having them for your foes, you have the Regent ever as an enemy, who will place the worst con- struction upon everything you say, and upon everything you do!” “Putting it in that light, I feel that you are correct,” ‘‘ This is not an opinion, your Royal Highness. I speak of facts ; and if those three persons could only be displaced from about the Regent, I do believe these odious accusations which are made against you, and with which the world is becom- ing familiar, would fall to the ground. Your Royal Highness will, therefore, perceive that working as I am strenuously for the removal of those persons, I am consulting your real in- terests.” Ee Ot nee eT ne nee ee nT THE DARK WOMAN. “Tcan too well perceive it; and believe me, Sir Hinckton Moys, that if all ends well, and I can truly call myself Queen of England, I shall not be unmindful of those who at this juncture of my afiairs lend me their aid and counsel.” “ OF that, your Royal Highness, I, in common with all who have the honour of the entree of Buckingham House, am well assured. To-morrow evening I hope to bring to your Royal Highness more ample proofs than I can at present that I am working in your interests; and, in the mean- time, I am sure your Highness will carry out any suggestion that is made to you for assistance in the common cause.” “ That I will do most cheerfully.” “Then will your Royal Highness consent to see @ person whom it is necessary to detach from the cause of this Countess de Blonde, who is so great an enemy ?” “IT see so many persons, that any one recom- mended by yourself comes with an additional claim to my attention.” _ “This person is named Fearon. It will be only necessary for your Royal Highness to grant an interview of a few moments’ duration to him, and to tell him that if he will attach himself entirely to your service, in a spirit of antagonism to the Countess de Blonde, you will give him an appoint- ment at some future time in your Royal High- ness’s household. He is but a common fellow, and your Highness will speak to him as to a lackey.” ‘Alas! if seems,” said the Princess, ‘‘ that all my enemies, and all my friends, are to be persons whose position and character . The Princess of Wales paused, for she saw how awkwardly she was stigmatizing the somewhat notorious Marchioress of Sunningham, and the well-known debauchee and courtier, Sir Hinckton Movs. ‘‘Madam, we quite understand you,” said Sir Hinckton, coming to the rescue. ‘‘The Mar- chioness and myself know perfectly well that you meant no reproach to us.” “None in the least,” replied the Princess. only spoke generally.” “ And we took your Highness’s words as such,’ said the Marchioness, with a smile, ‘‘I can an- awer for Sir Hinckton Moys.” “And I for the Marchioness of Sunningham,” said Moys. The hour was getting late, and Sir Hinckton rose to take his departure, which he effected with all that courtier-like style, that a residence in St. James’s had enabled him to acquire. The shortest way to his lodgings was through the Park; and as he walked down the Grand Mall, no man was better satisfied with himself on that night in London than he. , A kind of curiosity came over him, as he neared the bench on which he had seen the elaborately- dressed personage fall asleep, to see if he were there still. And there, sure enough, lay Brads, still slumbering off the effects of his deep pota- tions, and occasionally muttering disjointed sen- tences and words in his sleep. The Park was quite deserted ; and the curiosity, which he would have found a difficulty to define to himself, came over Sir Hinckton Moys, and induced him to pause and regard the, to him, slumbering stranger with attention. “Ty Brads kept muttering the remembrances of the last four-and-twenty hours; and Sir Hinckton Moys had not heard many words of them, before they awakened in his mind an interest which in- duced the most eager desire to know more. “Bring some eff-and-eff,” said Brads. ‘Two pipes, and some ef/-and-ef/. Now, my lady, down with the cash. Oh, yes, we'll come again! I tell you you're drunk, Shucks! Did you ever see a bench hit a gen—gent—gentleman inthe stomach of its own accord? Know you?—to be sura we know you. The Dark Woman-——the Dark Woman!” “ Ah!” said Sir Hinckton Moys, as he elevated his eyebrows with astonishment, ‘‘ what does this drunken sot know, or mean to say, of the Dark Woman ?” “We'll have another bottle,” said Brads. “If you want to show you're a gentleman, get drunk —how else are you to do it? Now, my lady, make yourself at home. You know you're the Dark Woman, though you do call yourself the Countess—the Countess——-What the deuce do you call yourself ?” ‘““ Indeed!” said Sir Hinckton. ‘ Will this idiot’s memory fail him at so critical a point? I have heard that drunken stumbling men, who babble in their cups, may be prompted to speak all they know by some judicious companion. We will try it.’’ Sir Hinckton Moys slid himself down into the seat by the side of Brads, and in a soft voice, close to his ear, he said, ‘* The Dark Woman—the Dark Woman and the Countess all the same.” “To be sure,” said Brads; “give us another glass. I tell you what it is, Shucks, you're a fool, and getting drunk as fast as you can.” “‘Oh, my name is to be Shucks, is it?” said Sir Hinckton to himself. ‘So be it. Hem!” Assuming somewhat, then, of the tone and the manner of Brads, Sir Hinckton Moys added, “To be sure. We'll get as drunk as lords; and the Dark Woman, I dare say, likes a full bottle.” ** No, she don’t,” said Brads. ‘' You know that as well as I do, You're a fool, Shucks. Now, my lady, some eff-and-eff, and two pipes. Upon my life, it’s enough to make one die a laughing, ain’t it?” “ Quite,” said Sir Hinckton. “Only to think, old pal, that we should be cracking that crib in Hanover Square, and find after all it belonged to the Dark Woman.” “* Capital—odd, but capital.” ** And then how we got that writing out of her. You're a genus, Shucks, you're a genus after all.” ‘Ah, the writing!” “To be sure!” “What a memory I have! The writing ?— the writing? What writing ?” ‘“‘ Now that’s too bad. You pretend you don’t know what writing. Why the writing, to be sure, we got from the Countess, who is all the same as the Dark Woman.” | “Oh, certainly! To be sure—to be sure! You have it.” ‘“‘ And so have you.” Sir Hinckton Moys was puzzled. they both have it ? "Now you're joking,” he said. it, old friend, how can I have it ?” “Well, of all the stupids! Why you're drunk How could “Tf you have 406 THE DARK WOMAN. still. Didn’t you make her write it out twice, on two bits of paper, and you takeone, and me the other? And you pretend now to forget.” “ Ah, to be sure. What a fool I am!” Be That you are.” “ And what a stupid head I've got, for I forget now, at this present moment, what the writing’s bout.” “ Read it, then.” “It’s too dark. Why you can hardly see your hand before your face. What was it about ?” “Well, I never! You hadn’t used to be so stupid, Shucks, Didn’t-it say that she was the Dark Woman, and the Countess de Launy; and that now she was the Countess de—de—de ** What ?” ‘Oh, you know, in Hanover Square. ten—you know well enough.” “Not quite well enough,” said Sir Hinckton Moys in his own tones. “And if you don’t im- mediately deliver to me the paper you speak of, I will call a constable, and have you hauled off to the watch-house. By your own account, you are a housebreaker: and as I ama gentleman con- nected with the Court, and in authority, I will have you hanged, as sure as you are here—stupid drunk, upon a bench in St. James’s Park.” Brads was so struck with astonishment and dismay at this sudden speech from the person he had believed, up to that moment, to be his companion, Shucks, that he could utter not a word; but sitting bolt upright on the seat, he tried ‘to look into the face of the man who threatened him, amid the intense darkness that was between them and about them. Number CHAPTER CVIII. THE DANGER OF THE DARK WOMAN IS MUCH INCREASED BY BRADS'S ADVENTURE IN THE PARK. Braps was getting sobered. The mental shock he received from the sudden’ discovery that, in his half-drunken, half-sleepy state, he had been conversing with a perfect stranger, instead of, as he had thought, with his friend and associate, Shucks, overcame the physical effects of the excess in wine of which he had been guilty. Another moment, and the housebreaker was himself again. But that moment had not been sufficient, yet, to enable him to come to any conclusion in respect to who was his antagonist. The darkness in St. James’s Park, on that night, was 80 deep, so intense, that any human form could only be seen in its dimmest outline—feature, colour, or expression, were out of all question to mortal eyes. But Brads now did not require to know more than he felt he actually did know. He was face to face with an enemy—an enemy to whom he had uttered imprudent revelations— an enemy who had taken advantage of what he had put into his mouth “To steal away his brains.” That was enough for Brads. With a yell of rage, he flew at the throat of Sir Hinckton Moys; and so sudden—so completely unexpected—was the attack, that the courtier staggered back, and nearly fell before the rigorous onslaught of the housebreaker. “Villain!” he gasped. ‘* You are a murderer as well as a thief!” “Villain yourself!” said Brads. “I fancy you know a wonderful deal too much to live any longer. Your wit will choke you. Ha! ha!” Sir Hinckton Moys staggered back, for the hand of the practised member of the gang of Paul’s Chickens was upon his throat; and he would still have fallen, but that he came against the slender stem of one of the young trees that were just then newly planted in the Mall, to fill up the place of some of the ancient elms that were falling to decay, That young tree saved the life of Sir Hinckton Moys! ‘‘ Watch! watch! stifled accents. But Brads held him tightly. “No,” he said, “you won't again steal on a fellow when he has had a drop too much, and get him to say enough to be hanged for.” Something dug into the side of Sir Hinckton Moys awkwardly. and painfally. What could it be? Ah! a new thought crossed his mind. What could it be but the handle of that sword which he so providentially wore that night? ‘The blade in its sheath was forced against the trunk of the tree, and the hilt was digging painfully into os side. Sir Hinckton felt his strength fading from bith, There was a suffusion of blood about his eyes—a dreamy confusion in his brain. Brads was strangling him. And he meant to do so. The housebreaker’s grip upon his throat tightened, or seemed to tighten, rather than relaxed. A few brief moments more, and Sir Hinckton Moys must have fallen to the ground without power to move. But his hands were at liberty. He had fought with them against Brads. He had struck him about the head, about the arm, which, rigid as a ~ bar of iron, held him by the throat. Those blows, and those struggles, were growing feebler. “Ha!” laughed Brads. “‘ You are a dead man! Ha! You should not come in my way, my fine fellow |” Then Sir Hinckton Moys ceased to try to release his throat from that iron clutch, and he nervously felt for his sword-hilt. The darkness prevented Brads from seeing what he was about. Pressed against the tree, as the sword and its scabbard were, Sir Hinckton Moys found that it occupied a probably horizontal position, and that consequently there would be much difficulty in drawing it. Bit by bit, inch by inch, only could he get the blade from the scabbard ; and finally he held the weapon himself by the very point. Then, with a desperation that only found strength of action in the peril of the moment, the courtier let the sharp blade run through his fingers until he felt the hilt. He could not speak now. The sense of suffo- cation was terrible. There seemed to be pounds and pounds of lead upon his lungs. He heard Guard!” he cried, in half THE DARK WOMAN. 407 once more the hoarse laugh of his opponent, who made so sure of victory—so sure of the death of his unknown enemy, so long as he kept his hands upon his throat only for half a minute longer, and he felt that he would have a dead man at his feet. Then there was a terrible cry. Sir Hinckton Moys had drawn his right hand as far back as he could, and the sword-point touched the breast of Brads. One sharp and terrible thrust, and the keen, slender weapon went through the body of the housebreaker up to the very hilt. There was another cry. And then another. The one was from Brads. The other was from Sir Hinckton Moys; and they both proclaimed a despair and a victory. Brads had taken his hand from the throat of Sir Hinckton Moys, and staggered back with a yell of agony from the wound he had received. Sir Hinckton Moys had uttered an answering cry of exultation, and, at the same time, of des- pair; for, at the moment, he felt his senses leaving him, and he thought himself at the point of death. Brads fell backwards with the death wound in his heart. The sword blade at its point touched the ground first, and it was forced back again through the wound, followed by a gush of blood. The house- breaker beat the ground on each side of him for a few seconds with his clenched hands. Then he drew up his feet with a convulsive movement, but only to shoot them out straight again with a vehemence that threatened a dislocation of his joints. There was then one deep-drawn sigh, and Brads the housebreaker lay a_ blood-stained corpse in St. James’s Park. Sir Hinckton Moys, too, had fallen. It was something of a swoon that had come over him. And yet, although in the agony and despair of the moment, he bad thought that death was coming over him, suck was not the case. The faint feel that he experienced was rather that recovery of the disturbed circulation which was taking place in consequence of the absence of that terrible throat grip than anything else. Sir Hinckton Moys could not be said to have actually swooned or fainted, since he never lost consciousness wholly; but he lay for full ten minutes without being able to gather strength sufficient to struggle to his feet. Slowly then, but surely, he felt himself reco- vering. What a delightful feel was that! He heard a clock strike. The Palace clock. It was twelve—midnight. He knew that at that hour a military patrol would come round the Park. He made an effort to rise. It was far easier to do so than he had fancied it would be. He felt that his throat was painful and swollen, but that was all. Sir Hinckton had scarcely a clear notion of what had become of his adversary. The whole action with the sword had been so mechanical, that he could hardly say to himself that it had been effective. He struggled to his feet. “Better,” he said. “I am much better. SE CRAB ee ee ert gt (om SEY met ceneamrenereiectt Where is the villain who so nearly made an end of me?” Sir Hinckton Moys rather started now, for a strange, faint light began to shed its influence around him. He glanced up at the sky—there was a rift like a mountain gorge in the dark clouds through which the young moon was faintly sailing. It was still veiled by some light, fleecy clouds, but it made its influence felt notwithstand- ing. Sir Hinckton Moys could see about him. At that same moment, too, he heard the tramp of horse’s feet. The cavalry patrol was coming. The courtier was eager to be gone; but he was more eager still to possess himself of the paper which had been mentioned by the housebreaker, and the demand for which had so nearly cost him his life, By the faint light of that young moon, Sir Hinckton Moys could see the form of his late opponent lying before him in death. The gold-hilted sword, with its blade dimmed by blood, was resting across him. ‘“‘T have done for the villain,” said Moys,—* 1 have certainly done for the villain.” But even as he spoke, he made assurance doubly sure, for he picked up the sword, and passed it twice through the insensible body of the house- breaker. “Dead! dead!” said Sir Hinckton. can be no doubt about that now.” The patrol was rapidly approaching. Sir Hinckton Moys stooped over the body, and tore open the coat and vest. There was a small inner pocket, from which protruded the corner of @ paper, “Ah, itis here. I have it.” Sir Hinckton Moys did not permit himself to doubt, for a moment, but that this was the docu- ment he sought; and hastily concealing it in his breast-pocket, he turned, and plunged amid the shadows of the trees close to the wall of Carlton House. The patrol in another minute reached the spot. It was one of the horses whose keener senses took alarm at the dead body of Brads, otherwise the patrol, in the semi-obscurity of the night, and the careless routine of the duty they were per- forming, would have passed it by. But the horse reared. Then its rider, who was the sergeant of the party, saw that there was a something marvellously like a dead man lying in his way. The rapidly escaping Sir Hinckton Moys saw the patrol well. He heard the word given. “ Halt !” “They have found him,” he said,—“ they have now found him. Ah!” A bugle was sounded. Sir Hinckton Moys knew perfectly well what that meant. It was a signal from the patrol, that something had occurred which made it de- sirable no person should be allowed to leave the Park. He was a prisoner, then, so far as one could be so called in so large a space. - But Sir Hinckton Moys had his resources. His departure from the Palace had been so recent, that he still possessed not only that seal which we have seen him use in a commnanication “ There cally performed by the patrol. 408 which was to reach the Regent’s eye, but he had something more important still—a key to the private garden door of Carlton House. What need he care for patrols, and the signal to close the Park gates, when he could, so easily make his way into the Palace of the Regent? And yet the position that Sir Hinckton Moys occupied, in regard to the Prince of Wales, was too equivocal to make it exactly desirable that he should throw himself in his way. Upon this consideration, the courtier paused a few moments,.in the hope that there might not actually be a necessity for his entering the precincts of Carlton House. ; The Park would no doubt be searched, but that would be a careless operation, and only mechani- What cared they that a murdered man was found in the Mall? It was possible, then, that Sir Hinckton Moys might manage-to keep himself secure, in the shadow of the garden wall, and in the deep gloom cast about them by the ancient elms. Besides, if he were seen, known, and challenged, who could accuse him of murder ? Sir Hinckton was quite aware that it did not follow because he was in the Park that he had done the deed of blood; but he did not want to be associated with the act, either as a suspected per- petrator of it, or as a witness. Therefore he hid. Therefore he listened with all his power of hearing, to come to some conclusion as to what he ought to do. There was the glare of lanterns in a few minutes from the direction of Spring Gardens. The voices of some half-dozen people advancing struck upon his ears. They were not the military. Had they only been conducting the search, not a word would have been spoken, and the ~ uniform that Sir Hinckton Moys wore would have entitled him to their respect. The civilians, who bore the lanterns, would have no such feeling towards him. They might be officers of the police, for all he could say to the contrary. Sir Hinckton Moys made up his mind. He fitted the little key to the hole of the private garden-door of Carlton House, and opened it. Another moment, and he was completely safe from all pursuit or molestation in the Park. But he felt nervous, for he could not take upon himself to say that he might not encounter some of the officials of the Palace in the garden. Sir Hinckton Moys had heard of such things as appointments, and assignations taking place in that garden at all times of the night. Nothing could be further from his wish than to be recognised by any one in the service of the Regent. How different was this feeling to the haughty insolence with which he had been wont to traverse at all and any hour those garden walks, when he was the favourite and confidant of the Prince. He intended, as we know, to be so again. But the time had not yet come. The garden was rather profusely wooded. Each year the flowering shrubs were renewed if missing from the Royal plant nurseries at Kew, so that there was plenty of shade to be found. The young moon, to be sure, would cast aslant the paths here and there broad beams of pale ee one tn AA TOC ANCOR at ett tent ah aye de etna Ninna irene hates heath tes ictearnctinltsihes Dy THE DARK WOMAN. light; but then they only tended to make the surrounding obscurity the more profound. Sir Hinckton Moys did not wish to stray far from the gate, and he kept his key in his hand. Suddenly, however, he felt the necessity of plunging deeper still into the obscurity of the shadows of the trees and bushes, He had heard a voice. Then he heard a footstep. Who could it be—or, rather, who could they be ?—for it was not at all likely that any one was at that hour soliloquising in the garden of Carlton House. ; Sir Hinckton listened intently. The voice sounded nearer. The footsteps came nearer. “Ah!” said Moys to himself, | “* The Prince!” He had heard the voice of the Regent. But who was his companion ? That was to Sir Hinckton a more interesting question than the discovery of the Regent’s own presence in the garden. For a few moments, the courtier was puzzled ; for, well as he knew all the persons who com- posed the Court of the Regent, he could not detect who it was that now accompanied the Prince. The person, be he whom he might, either spoke so low that his voice failed to reach the ear of Moys, or some accidental circumstance wafted the sounds in a contrary direction. But the Prince and his associate momentarily approached the spot where Sir Hinckton was concealed, and he heard them more distinctly. The Regent was speaking. The voice in which he spoke was somewhat. hurried and anxious. | “T am quite abroad,” he said, ‘“‘about the whole matter, and really know not what to think. I wish those who call themselves my friends would really, after all, not be quite so zealous.” “Ah!” said the Prince’s companion, in a slow and rather drawling tone,—" ah! that is just it, George. You no sooner feel at all comfortable, than some confounded fellow is sure to come to you with a hundred reasons why you should be miserable.” “ Just so—just. so.” Sir Hinckton Moys knew now perfectly well who was the councillor and companion of the Regent in that moonlight walk in the garden of Carlton House. It was the well-known Beau Brummell. The slightly drawling, affected tones could not be mistaken. No doubt he had been supping with the Prince, and they had sallied out into the garden for fresh air, as the evening was rether sultry, The deep winter time had passed away, and the spring was making its appearance with unusual fineness, and the temperature was much higher for the season than should have been expected. “Yes,” added the Regent, ‘‘as you say, that is always the case. I don’t want to know that every one about me is deceiving me, and treacherous to me; and yet there is always some one who is ready to take all the pains in the world to convince me of the disagreeable fact.” “ Always,” said Brummell. ‘People won'tlet one alone.” H ‘‘T would fain, Brummell, have continued to believe that the Countess de Blonde loved me.” ee AN A tn RONEN RN CART 409 THE DARK WOMAN, eerie cart lb |e tne inane . amen ete Pc en nts mini er ttn tee nth in te at nce atin enemas et = S 2 «4 o = ——— ==) m 6 na Bas ae ae ee SSS SSS SSS SSS SS = ] 3 ~— <7 3: 33) “laa = SSS SNE : Pas} cS) = = - f | S fT) e. g 8 o = —— —= Z FF ae | om 2 ° 4 == ——i iP Way a = SSS SS i =] oN =) = a o Se Om gy i a eg ee = =a ~~ °S Car ram} a mn a qt | = aia oS - = — pene | =| 4 2S 9 ~~ ~~ SSS : ese ——— se ro} 3 8 3) S pis SSS = Arr 2 = : ta Liga: ai Z Se oI kK a af = "3 as td ° o i 2 oa = ort aa a = Rae 222258 Ms) 5 3 3°.3 =) ie 3 tH Ss 3 = = S\ 3 OE mo 2 oP 2 ° oO of oe i ie = SEL - ou - eo os & a 5S > he 7% p= 2 Si @ 45 t o = we Os rg ro = 2 co .2 b=) o Aoa ~ 3 rs ° Re pee = beng Mah = Om, 2 —S— sasBbd 35 Ss Se B 8 So em He St baal wr — s nm r=) g w= 23 2 2 2.3 SSak 3 QO wt A ee a . eveeiea EB 3 qa - =| ao FT od Anoy mn Ba oo ES O18 Se amar Oreae 2 a ow & eS) ~ < = os ° 5 = t5 p= foe ee ee — wm 4 = Mos res (od & _— | g wn o et 8 On 7.2. Ds wn Oa. =) = ES oO ery ws a 4 oa pang i g . wan ts e Bow ho Oy oO- a. | S Phyo ir) sin esgggraee = geet gree wero @ “= 4 WD OO or SO = eles ce SEE Oo >a” oO aAgis poo 3 8%. hy a PRM ODA of oR sp ae tk SS ASSO Sa ope se BAAdNF GOMRA LOMO Gar od Ses 22:2 bss 23 SBse Ses ge r..4 ond m a -E 4 A. se elmer ne al ee TTC Ep sage mame sah a aera mean aS? teens tee ing.” “‘ T have made no reply to her.” “ That is well. Now I tell you what I would flo.” “What?” “‘ T would throw Moys’s letter into the fire!” ** You would ?” “ Yos, and the Marchioness’s after it.” But——” ** Well, George ?” “ But if the contents of those two letters should be true, what then ?” : “Ab, there is the mischief. You have once read them, and you cannot forget them, and so that poor Countess de Blonde will go to the wall.” “ If she plays me false ?” “Pho! pho!” “ Tf she loves—intrigues with another ?”’ ee Stuff }?? ‘“ Stuff, indeed! I cannot speak. so jestingly upon the subject, Brammell; and I fancy, now, that I must have thought more of her than I was ever willing to own to myself, or even thought could be the case.” “It is a great pity, then, and you have nothing to thank Moys for. If she loves and intrigues with another, so long as you knew it not, all was well. *¢ ¢ You found not Cassius’ kisses om her lips.’ ’’ “ True—true, Brummell. You are quite a philosopher. That is true.” The Regent sighed. “ But as it is, I suppose you are going to worry yourself and everybody about you, fo find out} what will make you very unhappy when it is discovered.” “IT suppose so. I have promised to see Moys to-morrow at noon, and I must see him. I will not, however, act without abundant proof.” “Then you do not intend to follow my advice ?” | ‘© T cannot,” ‘“‘ Come in, then, for I fancy that by this time something important will await us in-doors.” ‘* Something important? What? what?” “ Why, the mulled claret.” “Oh, ah! Tobe sure! Come in, then.” CHAPTER CIX. THE DARK WOMAN ALARMS THE REGENT IN THE STILL HOURS OF THE NIGHT. Str Hinckron Moys had heard nothing very particular by thus accidentally playing the part of eavesdropper upon the Regent and Beau Brummell, but he was well enough pleased that he had heard what he had, because it gave him an idea of what was the state of mind of the Prince upon the subject. | Beau Brummell, too, he from that moment determined to consider as an enemy. Not perhaps an active, agile foe, but one of those insidious enemies who are apt by sheer indolence—that sort of indolence which is so contagious—to defeat the most deep-laid plans. . The Prince and Brummell slowly returned to “ You have still the power of not so consent- | call me Agnes. sealed dteittinnentaie atten eae ee tae adenine are tne THE: DARK WOMAN. the Palace, and then Sir Hinckton Moys emerged from his hiding place. The Park seemed to be profoundly still now. No doubt the search had taken place, and the dead body of the housebreaker was removed, sc that the blockade of the various entrances would be over. Sir Hinckton stepped towards the garden door, with the intention of leaving by that means the precincts of Carlton House. But he was not destined to do so with such celerity as he intended. On the moment that he was about to put the key into the lock, some other voices in the garden reached him, and he paused, to listen. It might be, after all, the Regent and Beau Brummell still continuing their conference, not- withstanding the allurements of the mulled claret. If so, Sir Hinckton Moys felt a strong desire still to listen. He thought it possible that this second discourse might, like the postscript of a letter, possibly contain the gem of the whole communication. But it was not the Regent. The voice, which, in afew seconds, Sir Hinckton Moys now heard quite plainly, was decidedly feminine. “T declare I am so frightened I don’t know what I say,” remarked the voice. “His Royal Highness must have seen me, if he had only looked to the left, instead of to the right.” ‘‘But he did nof, you see,” replied some one.. That voice was masculine. Sir Hinckton Moys knew it in an instant. ‘“‘ Willes,” he said. “Yet, you know, he might,” added the feminine voice, with pertinacity. “But if be had, it would not have mattered,” replied Willes. A “Well, I don’t know.” . ¢ “ But I know; and I assure you that the Prince is very lenient about little affairs like ours.” “Well, then, what have you to say to me?” “Just this, my charming Agnes.” “’ Agnes, indeed! You take a great liberty to I am Miss Champneys.” “Fa! hal” said Moys to himself. ‘Now I know you, too. You are one of the attendants of the Countess de Blonde—her own special waiting maid, I believe.” “Then, Miss Champneys,” said Willes, “I have something very important to say to you.” “To me?” “To none other.” ‘‘ Bless me, what can the man have fo say ?” “Tt concerns you much.” “You quite terrify me.” - “And yet there is nothing to alarm you in it.” “*T feel better, then.” ““My dear Miss Champneys, I do hope you will let me call you Agnes,” “ Well—you—may.” “Then, my dear Agnes, I think of leaving the service of the Regent.” “You?” ‘Even I. Because I am rich, and because I am a gentleman now.” ‘““T don’t comprehend.” “ And,” continued Willes, without noticing the interruption of Miss Champneys,—‘‘ and I don’t want to retire into private life alone.” RE ROE re en THE DARK WOMAN. LLL LLL DLA NOLL ELC “Oh!” * You comprehend that ?” . “I think I do.” ‘Tam sure you do.” “Well? well?” s* Well, then, my dear Agnes, I want you to retire with me; and I make you an offer of my hand, and my fortune, and my title.” ‘* Your title?” “Yes, my title.” ‘* What title 2” ‘You are not aware, my dear Agnes, nor is the world aware, that his Royal Highness the Regent has thought proper to confer upon me the honour of knighthood.” “Indeed! Then you are——’ “Sir Thomas Willes.” “A lie!” said Sir Hincktorr Moys to himself. “The Regent surely could not, and would nof, knight his own valet.’ “Yes, my dear Agnes,” added Willes, who little suspected that he was answering the doubts of Sir Hinckton Moys, as well as those of Miss Champneys, at one and the same time,—“ yes, my dear Agnes, out of gratitude for my ridding him of that notorious scoundrel, Sir Hinckton Moys, the Prince was so good as to knight me in the private apartments of the Countess de Blonde.” “Ah, you astonish me !” “ And me, too,” said Moys to himself. ‘* But I can easily understand that it was a caprice of the Countess de Blonde’s, to which the Regent yielded in a moment of weakness.” s‘ So you see,” added Willes, “I can offer you a title. You will be Lady Willes—Lady Agnes Willes.”’ “ And you ?” ‘I am Sir Thomas Willes.” * And rich ?” “ Very rich.” “Oh, my poor heart!” ‘¢ Never mind about that. You consent ?” 6 Oh, you insinuating man!” “You mean yes?” ‘Do you wish to force from my lips the actual word, you enslaver ?” “T do,” ‘¢'Yes, then.” “That's settled. Now, Agnes, my dear, let me advise you.” **'To what ?” *¢ To make hay while the sun shines.” **T don’t understand.” ‘You willin a moment. I have, while in the service of the Regent, taken good care of myself, and my own fortunes, He is very careless, and it is quite easy for any one who is about him, as I have been, to enrich themselves to their heart’s content. Now you are about this Countess de Blonde, in the same way that I am about the Regent.” “T am her own maid.” “ Just so. And as our interests will be mutual —as now, indeed, they are mutual—I think you should not neglect your opportunities,” . © Certainly not.” “You understand ?” “To be sure, I do. my opportunities.” “ Ah, indeed!” “There are so many loose jewels about—so I have not at all neglected 421 much money which she never thinks of counting —that—that ” “ Charming Agnes !” **T have looked after myself while in the service of the Countess de Blonde, in the same way that you have looked after yourself in the service of the Prince Regent.” “ Beautiful being !” “ Don’t.” ‘“‘ As wise as you are good.” “Now no nonsense, if you please, Willes. I must go to the Countess now, and so good night. We shall meet again.” ‘“CYes, Here to-morrow night, at about twelve.” “So be it. Good night !” “ Good night !” “Ha! ha!” laughed Sir Hinckton Moys, in a low tone, to himself, ‘This is most charming. Why, it will be worth my while to be here to- morrow. This is the place, I find, to get all kinds of information.” Sir Hinckton made his way once again to the little garden door, not anticipating, for a single moment, that any other possible obstruction to his progress into the Park could take place. His hand was on the lock. In another moment his key would have been turning in it, but at that moment, or just before that moment, he started back in alarm. There was a strange rattling noise in the lock, that sounded marvellously like another key in it from the outside. Moys had only just time to step aside, and hide himself behind a laurel bush, when the door opened. The Palace clock struck one. Sir Hinckton was perfectly astonished. Who could it be that, at such an hour, was. finding a way into the garden of Carlton House, with the same ease that he himself had done so?, . Who else had one of those pass-keys, of which he did not think there were more than three in existence—one in the possession of the Regent, one with Willes, and the third with himself? But it could not be Willes. It could not be the Regent. They were both in the Palace, Who, then, was it ? A figure enveloped in a grey cloak, the hood of which was over the head;—a mysterious figure which entered the garden noiselessly, and closed the little door in the garden wall like one accus- tomed to it. Then, before Moys could recover from the state of surprise into which he was thrown, this figure flitted past him, and was lost to his observation amid the intricacies of the garden. Sir Hinckton clasped his hands together as he said, with ill-suppressed vehemence, “I know who it is—I know now who itis, It is the Dark Woman,” Moys had heard quite enough about Linda de Chevenaux and the Dark Woman, to feel assured. that his surmise was a correct one, But what did it concern him? Or if this strange visit did concern him, or might be made to concern him a any way, how was he to act ?—what was he to i) A few moments’ reflection let Sir Hinckten Moys see that he could do nothing but leave the garden at once, re et er remem 412 THE DARK ee ‘Be it so,” he said. ‘‘This is one of those mysterious visits, of which the Regent has com- plained so bitterly. Let it take place. It matters not, or, if it matters at all, it will perhaps only the | more dispose him to come to some terms with me; for I fancy I shall have to rid him of this plague upon his peace.” Moys opened the little door in the wall, and left the garden of Carlton House. The Dark Woman, little suspecting that she had passed so closely one of her most determined foes, took her way along the garden-paths, to- wards the Palace. > \ Familiar as she was with the route, it was not necessary for her to look to the right or to the left; but she reached a flight of four marble steps which Jed to a narrow door, which she opened with facility by the aid of another key she had with her. It was one of her orders to Willes that this door should never be fastened in any way on the inside, and he had too much fear of her not to obey such an injunction. It was a door which led very directly to that suite of apartments which might be said to connect St. James’s Palace with Carlton House. The Dark Woman had resolved upon a visit to the Regent, but she could not take upon herself to say exactly where he would be found. She rather hoped to encounter Willes, who could give her that information; for, notwithstanding, the kind of fright which had seized upon Willes at their last interview in Hanover Square, and the manner in which, to a certain extent, he had thrown off his allegiance to her, the Dark Woman, was well aware that she knew too much concerning Willes and his antecedents to make it at all safe for him to dispute her commands. This was a proposition, too, which gathered all the more force beneath the roof either of Carlton House or St. James’s Palace. But never had the Dark Woman entered those regal buildings with her mind in so chaotic a state, and her feelings so largely interested, as upon this occasion. Up to that time it had always appeared to her that the only real obstacle to her designs and wishes was the actual discovery of her long lost son, and when that discovery had taken place— when she had not only found him, but found in him all that her most ardent fancy and most vivid dreams of excellence had ever portrayed, she began indeed to think that her life had not been spent in vain, and that she was near the realiza- tion of her most ardent hopes. But how bitter was the disappointment which had swept over that passionate heart! How over- whelming was the crushing despair which now had taken possession of her ! She had found that son, and finding him, at the same time, all that her most liberal fancy had pictured him, she found in him an opponent to her dearest wishes. No wild ambition racked his brain and heart. The quiet domestic affections were, to him, painted in dearer colours than the regal state of a Court. She found him un-ambitious, and she found him forgiving; and worse than all, she found that he was ready to give credence to the common sense view of his and her position, which no doubt, the fearful dreamy hours she had spent WOMAN, in the solitary agony of her confinement in a mad- house had banished from her for ever. But she would not succumb to these circum- stances, She told herself that she would perish in the assertion of what she thought her right, rather than she would forego that right for a single moment. She shut her eyes wilfully and madly to all evidence that was contrary to that wild dream of her fancy. She had believed herself to be the wife of the Regent when, full of hope and anticipation of a glorious future, she had left the home of her youth, depending upon his love. She could not, would not banish that thought; and if its presence were madness, its absence would be death. And now, upon a different errand to any which had actuated her upon any of her previous visits, she had rade her way to the residence of the Regent. Formerly it had been to demand of him her son; now it was to demand of him a recognition of what she considered her own rights, and that son’s rights, to dignities that would raise them on a level with the Crown, Paler and more spectre-like than ever, the Dark Woman made her way in silenee through the passages and apartments which lay between her and those private rooms, where she expected to find the object of her search. It was only now and then that some faint sigh, almost approaching to a moan, escaped her; for she felt that she was almost setting her life upon the hazard of that interview, and if ever insanity had taken possession of her brain, its darkening influence was that night gathering strength. As she gained one of the long galleries which were on the side of Carlton House, communicating with the Palace of St. Jamess’, she heard a foot- step in advance of her. It was approaching the direction where she now paused, and she hid herself in some deep shadows, cast by a row of columns supporting a portion of the roof. The light was very dim in the gallery; for although the passages and thoroughfares, so to speak, of Carlton House and St. James’s were lighted by oil lamps during the night, the illumi- nating power was very small. It was asort of twilight only that the Dark Woman found herself in, as she heard the approach of the footsteps hurrying towards her. She thought, at the moment, that fortune was favourable to her. It was Willes. The Dark Woman laid her hand so suddenly upon his arm—springing out of the shadow in so spectre-like a fashion—that Willes, whose thoughts | at that moment were anywhere but with her, uttered a cry of alarm. ‘‘ Peace!” cried the Dark Woman. the meaning of this folly ?” ‘‘Madam, madam, is it really—can it possibly be you?” “Since when have you doubted my identity Dare you, creature of my bounty and forbearance as you are,—dare you, for one moment, seek to shake off your dependence upon me, and my authority over you?” % ‘*No, madam, no! Certainly not; “But what? Speak out!” } 6“ What is but——” ne Sa ae el lal atin a anne — : nn reenter rae ee ree enna renee ee a — i ni eee eee. —~ NE SN RRNA ES NA NTI IRI ENO PY ITE ENE INA APA I CNSR RA Pen ane ph hen ye THE DARK WOMAN. 413 ‘‘T was taken by surprise—the lateness of the hour.” “What are hours to me? Tell me, where is the Regent ?” “T’m afraid, madam——’ “‘ Afraid of what? You do not hesitate in this fashion when I am loading you with benefits, and dazzling your eyes with rich jewels!” ‘“‘Madam, I was only going to say that I was afraid the Regent was asleep.” ‘* Where 2” “Tn an arm-chair. The fact is, madam, Mr. Brummell has supped with him, and after taking some mulled claret they came in and had some more.” ‘Came in from where ?” “From the garden.” “ Well; and has this fluttering fool of fashion left 2” “Mr. Brummell you mean, madam?” The Dark Woman made an impatient gesture of assent. “Oh, yes; he has left, and then the Regent went to sleep, and I fancy it will not be easy to awaken him.” ‘That will be my business! Ah, you hesitate?” “No, no, no! If you will follow me, madam, I can show you where he is; but, indeed, of late I begin to have a thousand fears!” “Of what?” “That I shall be found out some day or some night, and then heaven only knows what will happen!” ‘What is that to me?—but still if it will arm your selfish fears, I tell you now that in all human probability this will be my last visit to the Regent. I have that to say to him, and he will have that to reply to me, which will at once proclaim peace or war between us for all time to come!” “Indeed, madam ?” Tt isso. Now lead on, and from this night rest in peace!” There was a high tone of excitement about the Dark Woman which terrified Willes much. He feared she meditated some deed of violence, which would not only compromise her, but all persons who in any way had been instrumental in aiding her in her entrances to the Palace. A terrible fear took possession of him. What if in her wild excitement she contemplated the assassination of the Regent? Would it be pos- sible then, in the political and social convulsion that would take place, he should escape? Would it not be much more likely that he would be sub- jected to the fiercest persecution as an accessory ? A cold perspiration of fear broke out upon Willes’s brow. He looked imploringly in the face of the Dark Woman. He clasped his hands, and pent forward abjectly. His tones were tremulous with fear and agitation. “Oh, madam—madam, what good can be done? What good to you—to me—to anybody— ‘would the death of the Regentdo? Oh, madam —madam, reflect! You do not seem yourself to- night: you seem to meditate some dreadful pur- pose! Oh, do not—do not!” “What do you fear?” “T don’t know what I fear; but I have a thou- sand fears!” © Take me to him! “T will answer one of them.” “One of them, madam ?” “Yes. I do not come here to kill the Regent.” “‘ Gracious heavens !” “That was your thought.” “It was—it was! Only, when the words are actually spoken, they sound so terrible.” ‘‘Lead on, then, now that this hideous fancy has left your mind,—lead on, and show me where he is.” It could scarcely be said that Willes felt quite assured of the sincerity of the Dark Woman, but he was compelled apparently to take her word, al- though he still trembled excessively, as he con- ducted her to the small supper-room in which he had left the Regent. It was a small, octagonal apartment, in which the Prince and Beau Brummell had supped alone. It was a peculiarity of the Regent that he pos- sessed none of that self-denial that enables a man to come to determinations as a result of his own reflections. He was always making confidences, or rather half confidences, for the constitution of his mind never permitted him wholly to trust any one. And now that he had been disturbed by those two letters from Sir Hinckton Moys and the Mar- chioness of Sunningham—those letters, which in their effect had made him view almost everybody about him with suspicion—he had made one of these half-confidences with Beau Brummell. The reader has already heard some portion of the conference that took place between them, and suffice it to say that in regard to the remainder, it was very much of the same character; and Brummell had left the Palace, after reiterating his advice to the Prince to enjoy life the best way he could, and not trouble himself about its specialities or particulars. The Regent then had thought of visiting Annie ; but was not she, too, compromised by these letters? So he sat down, as he said, to think; but the mulled claret had been strong, and in a few moments the thoughts of the Regent became confused and disjointed. He slept. This sleep had given Willes the opportunity of keeping an appointment he had made with Miss Champneys in the garden of Carlton House, at which appointment the reader has likewise had an opportunity of being present. “Madam,” said Willes, in a low tone, as he withdrew his head from a cursory examination ‘of the small octagonal room in which the Regent was sleeping,—“ madam, his Royal Highness is still there, and if you will permit me now entirely to leave you, you will confer a great favour upor me.” “T want noone. Itis enough. He is here.” Willes made a gesture as though he had washed his hands of the transaction, and then went away as quickly as he could, leaving the Dark Woman’s presence to explain itself to the Regent as best it might. The Dark Woman stood in the doorway for a few seconds, as though she were striving to gather courage to enter and awaken the man upon the words of whose lips her life seemed to hang. She clasped her hands nervously. She muttered to herself. ‘ ‘No, no, he cannot—dare not deny it to me! |S rR rR ES ge ene Te een ACNE fa NE LE Pe ETRE, ORONO SH NR ee ee ey A tg NET eS a a EE 414 THE DARK WOMAN. nn a a) I have one threat to make which will surely move him. I have one last card to play which must bring alarm even to his breast. I will seek the mad King at Windsor, and in some lucid interval shall hear the truth from his own lips. He must —he did give the royal license to this marriage which has turned out so terrible a calamity.” The Dark Woman glided into the apartment. The Regent was sleeping in a low chair, which was so contrived with elbows, arms, and back, and such a multitude of cushions, that it was almost like a bed. _ He seemed to sleep profoundly. ” ‘The Dark Woman closed the door behind her, and turned the key in the lock. Then she paused to listen to some sound that came upon the night air. It was the Palace clock chiming half-past one. | That sound, slight as it was, and penetrating but dimly into that apartment, seemed to have a disturbing influence upon the sleep of the Regent. He moved uneasily. The Dark Woman fixed her eyes upon him, and elevated one arm as though she meant to utter some exclamation that should at once attract his attention, provided he opened his eyes. But the chiming of the clock was over. The Regent drew a longer breath, and once more sub- sided into deep repose. Then the Dark Woman felt the necessity of putting an end herself to that slumber which might otherwise last far beyond the time when she could, with any regard to safety, remain within the precincts of the Palace. She stepped up to him, She leant down so close to him that her breath fanned his cheek. “‘ Awake! awake!” she cried. ‘‘George of Wales, awake! Fate, justice, vengeance call ont to you, awake!” CHAPTER CX. THE DARK WOMAN PASSES A NIGHT IN ST. JAMES'S PALACE. THE Regent heard the terrible sound in his sleep. It seemed to him that some enemy had chased him to the brink of a precipice, and was calling out to him to awaken, that he might feel the full terrors of the situation. But it could only be for a few brief moments that slumber could hold her sway in the presence of such sounds. The Dark Woman did not have to speak again, The Regent with an exclamation of dismay, opened his eyes. Then he thought he still slept. And well might he be excused for so thinking, since the first person he saw before him was a strange figure, attired in sombre garments, and in a threatening attitude. There he was, to all appearance, in a room in his own Palace—a room in which, from its privacy, he should surely have been secure from inter- ruption; but far from such being the case, he found a threatening apparition before him. “ George, Regent of England, awake!” cried the Dark Woman again. Then the Prince knew who it was that thus, with such loud words and threatening gestures, assailed him. “The Dark Woman!” he gasped. Woman, again!” “Yes,” she replied. “Iam the Dark Woman, and dark as Erebus are the feelings now of my heart.” “ Help !” “Ah! One word of alarm!” She drew from the breast of her apparel a long glittering poniard. ‘* Guard !” The point of the formidable weapon was placed within an inch of the throat of the Regent. He turned as pale as death. “*So—so you have at last, Linda, made up your mind to murder me.” The Dark Woman gave a gasping sob as she cried out, “‘ He calls me Linda—he calls me Linda! For the first time for so many years, he calls me Linda! Oh, heaven—oh, heaven!” She dropped the poniard. It fell at the feet of the Regent, who made a movement with his right hand to pick it up. The Dark Woman burst into tears. The Regent let the poniard lie. There was no further danger. He felt that these tears had at once, by their first gush, washed away the desire to murder him, if in reality it had ever existed. “ What is the meaning of this?” he said. “Why is it that Iam ever to live as the victim of those intrusions? Whois it, among all about me, that betrays me?” “Betrays your” “Yes. By allowing you entrance to the Palace. I must—I will know !” The Dark Woman stemmed the torrent of her tears, and with a certain air of dignity, she waved her arm, saying, “‘ That is trivial—that is trivial !” ** What is?” “How I came here. My errand to you over- powers all minor considerations !” “What errand ?” “ Ah, can you affect ignorance?—can you pre- tend not to know?—you who have looked upon him—you who have seen into his eyes—you who have—who must have felt that you were father to that son ?” The Regent cast down his eyes. He fidgetted in his chair—he tremulously patted with his finger upon the table near him. “Listen to me,” he said. ‘Let me, for once now, speak to you calmly and rationally, and do you as calmly and rationally listen !” “T listen.” “Sit down.” “ Who—who? Sit down who?” ** Linda!” r “Linda again. Oh, heaven, since when has this man’s heart been made so gentle that he can again call me Linda?” “Come, come! Let us be rational. Let there be no rhapsodies—no exelamations, I want for onee, and for the last time, to try to treat you like a rational being !” “Yes, I am calm now.” “You sent your son to me.” ‘Your son.” as. “The Dark OEE EDN ON AS OEM NE SNES PIERROT RE ts THE DARK WOMAN. Se nein 415 ‘‘ Well, well.” “T did not send him.” “At all events, he came to me, and I was not disposed to disavow him. You should be satisfied now. In former times, when you made me submit to so much persecution from you, it was on the ground that you wanted what information I could furnish you in regard to the fate of your child.” *€ Our child.” “Well, well, have I not said that I am disposed to acknowledge the boy ?” . **'You have said it.” ‘ ‘And now you must feel that I really had no means of helping you to a discovery of what had become of him, since his appearance before me has been a complete surprise.” ‘Go on.” ‘““T have very little more to say, but that now I hope, and trust, and expect, that by whatever extraordinary means you contrive to make your way into the Palace, your visits will cease.” “My visits will cease.” “You agree to that, then?” et do.” “That is well—that is well! I propose, then, to settle upon you and upon him a competent in- come; and if he would like to go into the army, why, of course, it will be open to him.” “The army ?” “Yes. It is a very honourable, and a very convenient, mode of giving a young man some social rank, and some addition at the same time to his income. I will see the Duke of York about it.” ‘‘One moment.” “Well 2” “You forget.” “What do I forget ?” “That the son of George Prince of Wales, and Regent of England, being by right a prince of the blood royal, holds such a rank, that i ‘What can you mean?” “T mean that I, the Princess of Wales, address you, the Prince of Wales, about our son!” The Dark Woman stowly sat down and looked in the face of the Regent with a fixed gaze, that at once alarmed and angered him. The light that was in the room came from a group of wax candles; and in the quiet atmo- sphere, they burnt with a steady radiance, so that not a movement of the face of the Dark Woman, as the light fell full upon her, escaped the atten- tion of the Regent. She was now cold, resolute, and s3tern. It was only about the eyes that there at times shone a strange, flickering, uncertejin light, which showed how fevered was the mind ‘within. “You rave!” said the Regent. “J rave? I rave, when I speak of our son— our own boy ?” “No—no! But——” ‘Well, say on! Fear nothing 1” “Of course I fear nothing, What have I to fear? I can hardly believe that: now you have found your son——-” “ And your son.” ““Well—well, I have admitted. that, you provoke me by reiterating it. ?” “I was afraid that, having forgotten he was your son for nearly twenty years, it might slip your memory again.” Why do { to me, George of England. “No, no! What wasI saying? You confuse me. Oh, this was it! I fear nothing from you; because if you, the mother, were to contrive aught against me, the father, you would merit and have the hatred of him, the son.” “Ah!” “ You comprehend that ?” The Dark Woman trembled. She seemed at the moment about to clasp her hands with a feeling of despair over her eyes, for there was something about what the Regent said which chimed in terribly with some words that had fallen from the lips of Allan Fearon when he had been urging her to forget, or at all events .to for- give, the past. But she abstained from hiding the Regent from her sight even for a moment. , She had a fear of some sudden action on his part, if she did so, which would enable him to evade the remainder of the interview. “J have heard you,” she said,—''this poor heart has heard you!” “Then you agree? That is, yon consent to —to—take an annuity ?” She looked strangely at him. “Do you persist in the story you told the boy ?” ‘Oh, you have seen him since ?” “Since he saw you.” “Very well, then. I told him the truth, and I hope that you feel as he does, that I have done allI can in the matter, and am willing for the future to behave as liberally as you can wish.” - ‘“‘ George, Prince of Wales, listen to me.” , “‘ You consent ?” ‘Be not too hasty. You have asked me to be calm—I am calm, You have asked me to be rational—I am rational. But while one drop of life-blood warms this poor, suffering heart—while one throb of a sentient nerve lends vigour and thought to my brain—while memory and reason are left me, I never will abandon my claim to be your wife, nor the claim of my son to be a prince, by right of his royal birth.” ‘’Mad! mad!” exclaimed the Regent. ‘*No, Iam not mad. Dare you, can you deny it? Ob, look back upon the past, and then cast your regards upon the present! I, your true and lawful wife, present you with a son, who will be all to you that you will wish—who will be a credit, a pride, and a joy—a son who, when you are King of England, will be as worthy a Prince of Wales as was ever the admiration of a father, and the delight of a nation—a son who, when, in the fulness of time, you, too, must shake off, along with the dust of mortality, the velvet and golden robes of monarchy, will most worthily succeed ou.” ht? No no! All this cannot be.” *7 ¥e 133” “* Woman, it is not!” “Ah! I am not Linda now.” *‘ Because you rave.” ‘ ‘No, no!l—a thousand times, no! Still listen You have, it is true, contracted another marriage. You fancy yourself, or rather the world fancies, that you are yoked to ‘one who you feel is a disgrace, and whom you never loved, even for a passing moment,” Princes have little to do with love in their ‘matrimonial engagements.” Ce Macatee eaters enetanpnnen cil 5 ea eeeted ee een OF ree peer prec freemen ie rRNA SNORE AE AE BTA ES LE BETTIE CETL SLO ALSACE OLS AICI TED, NR Ne ein ~~. ane ee oh Newitt tate ites henna smoidiniir heats ea 416 “But you did love me,” “You ?” “Yes. You cannot say you did not love me. Ah! surely there was a time when the old beeches of Dover Court echoed to the amorous sighs of a love-sick Prince, and when the name of Linda de Chevenaux was the sweetest music that could find its way to the heart of.the Prince of Wales.” The Regent made a gesture of impatience. Linda i “ Ah! you call me Linda again.” “I do.” “The memory of those days has cast its sun- light upon you.” “No. I was going to say that there is one thing, of all others, that it most aggravates a man to be put in mind of.” “And that ?” “That is the follies of his dead and buried passions.” The Dark Woman sighed deeply. “Ttis true—it is true. I will speak to you no more of Dover Court, or of the Linda that was once there as gentle and as pure as a mountain stream. I will point to you the present. I ask you at once to relieve yourself of the disgrace and the embarrassment of this union which you have made with Caroline of Brunswick.” “How? how?” “By at once proclaiming me as your lawful wife.” “fa! ha!” “You laugh.” ‘Because you are too extravagant for serious- ness.” ““Not so. Let all the world know that I am your wife. Then the union with the Princess of Brunswick falls to the ground, and her cause, with all its agitations, falls with it.” “‘T have a daughter.” ‘And a son.” ‘Yes. But the daughter is legitimate. son: rf ““No. Reverse the picture. The son shall be legitimate, and the daughter what your tongue would falsely proclaim him to be.” The Regent was silent. “Think again, and think justly. Who and what is this daughter that you so madly prefer to the son providence has preserved for you? Dare you compare them? What ishe? Is he not all that is noble—all that is great—all that a prince should be? Has he spoken to you an- grily—has his voice been harsh in your ears— has his manner wronged or disgraced you? Speak —oh, speak !” “‘ No, no, no!” “And the daughter? What is she?” ‘ Forbear.” “A thing of wild and wilful caprices—a crea- ture who even now finds it difficult to fill up the circle of her attendants, from the natural dislike of those who are modest, honourable, truthful, and gentle, to endure the Princess Charlotte ” ‘*No more—no more!” cried the Regent. will not—I must not hear all this !” “A daughter who has defied your authority-— who has threatened you to your very face——” The oT END ' OF RANE Un re BT ely eet rat cer THE DARK WOMAN. ” * Peace, I say, or The Regent’s eyes flashed with passion, and he sprung to his feet. ‘* Peace, I say, woman; there has been too much of this, and I will hear no more, My in- trigue with you of so many years ago has turned your brain. You are no more Princess of Wales than I am Emperor of the Moon. No other mad- brain but yours would have for a moment hatched such rank absurdities. . You will have again to find a home in some asylum, where you may “ave to the walls, or to the ears of those who will be as indifferent to you,” The Dark Woman shook in every limb. ‘You deny me,” she said. “Call it what you will.” ‘You deny him.” “Him? . Who?” “Your son.” “Woman, I tell you I admit an intrigue with you, for whichI am heartily sorry; and I admit that a young man who was here, and for whom I will, as he seems to be reasonable, adequately pro- vide, is my son. That is what I admit.” There came a sharp rapping at the door of the room. The Regent, when he rose from the chair, had, unobserved by the Dark Woman, placed his back against a portion of one of the panels of the room where there was the handle of a bell. With one hand behind his back, he had made two vigorous appeals to it. It was Willes’s duty to reply. Willes was at the door. “Come in!” cried the Regent. The Dark Woman, however, had turned the key in the lock. ‘There was the sound of the turning of the latch-handle, but the door was fast. The Regent began to look frightened. The Dark Woman advanced a step towards him; and he thought her object was to possess herself of the poniard that lay upon the floor, so he, too, advanced a step, and took care to put his foot upon it. Her foot likewise accidentally fell upon a portion of the blade. And so those two persons stood face to face with each other, each holding down to the floor a weapon that might have been most dangerous, “George, Prince of Wales,” said the Dark Woman, “I proclaim and denounce you as a false, perjured, and traitorous villain—as one to whom oaths are shams, and to whom conscience is a myth!’ ‘‘ How dare you ‘J will, in the open face of day, when the sun of to-morrow has climbed its mid-day height— when the eyes and the ears of all men are open to my words,—then, even then, I will tell the tale of my wrongs-—of your villany !” “Help! Hilloa, there! Break open the door! Here is amad woman! Help! help!” The knocking came more violently than before at the door. : . The Regent now without disguise again ap~ pealed to the bell. There would soon have been an alarm through the Palace. . 9 VOL, I. - Fir hatte a ae in tn en Si te Se YL ee” ee ae re sete sends Steen asneuniesiarttbeasap DWE DAR KW: 0M AN: OR, 1 HOE Die eon, bo LH On :, DORE NoGak.. RoE GR NY. i IN 4 | ——_.___= —————— ———— SS ————_— —— = ! /| Teel y Mi zul 1 TON ia CHAPLER CXI. | the face of the Regent, that made him shrink | back from before her, she went to the door and SIR HINCKTON MOYS PAYS AN EARLY VISIT TO | flung it open. THE COUNTESS D'UMBRA'S HOUSE, Willes very nearly fell into the room. “Seize that woman!” cried the Regent. Tue Dark Woman had reason enough left to] “Yes, your Highness.” be well aware of that; and after one look into; Willes pretended to make a vigorous effort to No, 53,—Dark Woman. THE DARK stop the Dark Woman; but in reality it was but a lumbering one, and intended to let her escape. He affected to fall, and she darted past him. But she was in danger. The repeated ringing of the bell from the private room of the Regent had been heard by some of the Yeomen of the Guard, who were on duty in the interior of the Palace, and they hastened towards the spot. Lights began to flash in different directions about the galleries. There was the clash of arms, and the rapid tread of feet. The Dark Woman began ito feel that it was possible she might fall as a prisoner into the hands of the Regent, and what then could save her from another dismal incarceration in some asylum, from which she would never again emerge, except to her grave? Fear of such a result added wings to her speed, and she fled from room to room, and from gallery to gallery, only intent upon baffling those who might be in search of her. She could hear that the whole Palace was thoroughly alarmed. Reaching, then, a door, she was about to open . it, when she shrunk back upon hearing voices on the other side of it. “It is quite impossible any one can escape now,” said the voice, ‘since every avenue from both Carlton House gnd St. James's is guarded.” “Oh, we shall have her, my lord!” said another voice, The Dark Woman turned at once and fled from | the immediate vicinity of those persons who were | so evidently in earnest in their endeavours to arrest her, She had completely lost her way; for although the interior of the Palace was tolerably known to her, yet she required to go with deliberation from place to place in it to avoid confusion. She passed through several apartments which had been evidently in the occupation during the | day of some of the Court officials. Then she | stopped at a door and listened intently. All was profoundly still on the other side of it. The Dark Woman then ventured to place her hand upon the handle of the lock, and to open this door. There was a faint illumination on the other side | of it; and when she ventured to look out of the room, she knew at once whereabouts in the Palace , she was, i The Titian Gallery was immediately before | er. The Dark Woman now had no difficulty what- ever in regard to the topography of the Palace; _ but if every avenue of escape were guarded, what was she to do? She paused a few moments to listen. She could hear no sounds now of pursuit or of search. At the further end of the gallery from where she was, she knew well of the existence of that short flight of steps which led to the little guard room, and thence into one of the open courts. She asked herself if it would be safe to venture to try to leave by that route. Even while so asking herself, the Dark Woman slowly traversed the Titian Gallery, and she had got about half-way down its entire length when en er eee ae neat en eee WOMAN. she heard the measured tramp of feet on that very short flight of stairs that she was so dubi- ously approaching. “ Forward!” she heard a sharp voice cry. Then some ons in another moment cried, “ Halt !” There was the rattle of arms. - She then heard a loud, clear voice say, * You will keep this post, sentinel, until relieved, and allow no one to pass. Forward!” The tramp of feet sounded again. The Dark Woman felt confident that sentinels were being posted at all the staircases of the Palace. Surely she was lost.. Her eyes fell upon a door. Above it was, in bold sculptured relief, the royal arms of England. And, strange to say, a key was in the lock of the door. It was the door that led into the suite of deserted rooms where the interview had taken place be- tween the Prince Regent and Allan Fearon. It was the fair Countess de Blonde who, with her usual carelessness, had forgotten to remove the antique key from the lock. And there it was, ready to the hand of the Dark Woman, Another moment, and she must have been seen by the rapidly approaching guard; but as it was, she turned the key, and opened the door, with the speed of thought, Taking the key out of the outer side of the lock, then, she promptly trans- ferred it to the inner, and closed and locked the door. | She was safe. Safe, at all events, for atime; for the guard passed the door without the slightest observation of it, and she heard the whole process of another sentinel being posted in the actual galleryitself, The adventure which Sir Hinckton Moys had had in St. James’s Park, and those further proceedings which had been productive to him both of surprise and amusement within the garden of Carlton House, had dipped pretty deeply into the night; but be was not likely to allow himself to rest | until he had thoroughly examined the mysterious document, which he had become possessed of through a serious encounter with the house- breaker. It was in the quiet and security of his own lodgings, that Moys read with surprise and satis- faction that most eompromising document which Shucks had extracted from the fears of the Dark Woman. . ; To read it and re-read it, many times over, was a work of positive pleasure to Sir Hinckton Moys ; and then there shone quite a light of joy in his countenance, as he exclaimed, ‘“ My restoration, now, to the full confidence and favour of the Regent is positive and certain. It is one of the dearest. wishes of his heart to get rid at once, and for ever, of the persecutions he has endured from this troublesome woman.” Sir Hinckton Moys actually hummed a tune, He felt as if he should like to sally out again into the night air and take a walk, if it were for no other purpose than to get rid of the excitement of his spirits. “Yes,” he added; “I shall now be the grand almoner of fortune. It seems to me that all my enemies are falling beforeme. Surely my lucky tte pete cm eR enh cl teen nt to: ie A a th te errr ne aE en ee ree rents THE DARK WOMAN. 3 star is in the ascendant; for, although I haye left St. James’s Palace in defeat and disgrace, I shall return to it a conqueror.” He folded the paper carefully, smiling slightly as he did so, to see the spot of blood upon its surface, and the perforation right through it, where the sword had passed. . ‘‘This is indeed,” he added, “a passport to fame and fortune. I will play with this woman yet awhile—this Countess d Umbra, as she calls herself, I will angle with her fears, and see if it be not possible to extract some wealthy advan- tage, as payment for silence and secrecy, that shall last but for so long as shall lull my victim into a false security, and then her fate shall be the greater.” Sir Hinckton Moys paced his rooms trium- phantly. “To be sure,’ he added. ‘She will expiate her crimes’ upon the scaffold — upon that same seaffold from which she rescned Allan Fearon; and I will take excellent care that it shall not for long want another temporary tenant in his person.” Little did Sir Hinckton Moys imagine, as he thus dimly pictured to himself some new and more successfal villany, which should be the de- struction of Allan, that his relation with the Prince Regent had so largely altered—little did he imagine that, for once and for ever, Allan was protected against every possible machination of his foes. It might be that the Regent, inflamed by jealousy, might cast him off for ever, and crush, in his own mind, that lightly awakened feeling of affection which the presence of a new-found son had engendered in his heart; it might be that, believing Allan involved in the machinations of Buckingham House, the Regent might close the doors of St. James's against him; but as for his life or liberty, in relation to the law, were they not now the safest in all England? But Sir Hinckton Moys knew nothing of all this. To his mind, after the destruction of the Dark Woman, came the gratification of his revenge against Allan. Then he pictured to himself the disgrace of the Countess de Blonde. Then the discharge of Willes. And after that, the vindictive courtier had something else to do. He would involve his rival, Colonel Hanger, in some disreputable transaction, and he would set the policemen to work upon Astorath the Astrologer. Sir Hinckton Moys’s information was decidedly defective on several points. He had yet to learn that Astorath and the Dark Woman were one and the same person; but his exultation was immense, and it was with difaculty he could persuade’ himself to retire to rest on that night, so intensely anxious was he for the morrow. It was ata most unusual hour, for him, that Moys rose, and despatched a breakfast which said as much for his mental serenity as his health. He felt as if his mind was wrapped in roses, A delightful feeling of security, and of power, was about his heart; and his step was proud and disdainful, as he made his way to Hanover Square, with something of the feeling of a sportsman, who, feeling sure of his game, was not unwilling to protract its tortures for his own special amusement. “I will see this woman face to face,” he said,— “this terror of the Regent. I will laugh at her threats—I will ridicule her tears—and, bit by bit, I will let her know how thoroughly aware I am of all her antecedents; and if she has riches, I will see what brilliant offers she will make me, for her life—yes, for her very life.” Little did Sir Hinckton Moys imagine that the Dark Woman, to whom he projected paying so triumphant a visit, was at that moment actually | beneath the roof of St. James’s Palace, meditating an act which would, at all events, place her beyond the reach of his petty malice. The number of the house was well indicated upon the blood-stained scrap of paper which Sir Hinckton Moys had in his possession; and so pleased was he, that he had some difficulty in schooling his countenance to an expression of ordinary indifference, as he stood on the door-step of the Countess d’Umbra’s mansion. “No, sir,” was the reply, in answer to Sir Hinckton Moys’s request to know if the Countess were stirring,—“ no, sir. Her ladyship has not yet appeared.” “IT am an old friend,” said Sir Hinckton Moys, “and will wait for her.” This was a request that the hail-porter could | not very well refuse, for there was quite sufficient about the appearance of Sir Hinckton Moys to show that he belonged to the richer, if not to the better class of society. He was shown into that very drawing-room, so splendid in its details, where the Dark Woman had passed through such a scene of agony and degradation with the two housebreakers, Shucks and Brads. And well pleased was Sir Hinckton Moys to see those signs of wealth and magnificence about him—well pleased was he to believe that this woman, whom he intended to make so heartlessly a victim, possessed wealth enough to purchase what she might think would be a total silence, but which he would make so brief an one, that: she would find herself doubly betrayed in the very act. He waited a quarter of an hour with patience— half an hour with some growing impatience—’ hes oe exhausted him, and he rang the bell. It was the Countess’s page who replied to the summons. There was a look of intense anxiety about the face of this young girl, who, in her fanciful boy’s dress, presented herself before Sir Hinckton Moys. ‘“‘T wish to see the Countess,” he said. she is stirring now ?” **No, sir. Wehave none of us seen her this morning, and her dressing-room door continues locked.” A slight shade of suspicion came across the countenance of Sir Hinckton Moys. Could he have been watched entering the house, or seen by the Dark Woman, after he had entered it, and his errand suspected ? He looked keenly into the countenance of the page. ° “My good boy,” he said, “I have something of the greatest importance to say to your mistress “ Surely 4 THE DARK WOMAN, —of importance to her, mind you, and not to me.” “Yes, sir,” said the page; ‘‘ but my mistress has not yet left her dressing-room.” “So you say. Now here, my lad, is half a guinea.” , ** Sir?” “Half a guinea, I say. half a guinea is ?” “Oh, yes—perfectly.” “Then it is for you, if you will go and tap at your mistress’s door, and say that a gentleman must see her, to relate to her something she wishes particularly to know.” *T never take money, sir, but from my mistress, who gives me much more than I require; but I will tap at her door, and deliver the message.” The page left the drawing-room, after having thus added largely to the suspicions of Sir Hinck- ton Moys that he was known and avoided; for the rejection of half a guinea, by any one in such a position, was to him, upon any other sup- position, a most inexplicable circumstance, Hardly, however, had the page closed the door, when it was flung open again, and a footman an- nounced a visitor. At the moment, Sir Hinckton Moys made a half dart forward, for he thought it must surely be the Countess herself who was making her appearance, Wonderfully and wofully disappointed was Sir Hinckton Moys when the footman announced Mr. Fearon, and no other than Allan himself appeared upon the threshold of the room. It was a strange sight to see these two men confront each other. The oppressor and the oppressed—the innocent and the guilty—the man who had been hunted almost to death, and he who had led the pursuit. More willingly—much more willingly would Sir Hinckton Moys have met the arch-fiend him- self in that drawing-room, than Allan Fearon. But he was a bold, fearless man, and there were few circumstances indeed which, amid the varying scenes of human life, he would shrink from. Certainly, he would have much, very much preferred to be anywhere else than in the Countess d’Umbra’s mansion in Hanover Square at that moment; but since it was so—-since he was there, he put on as bold a front of defianee as he could. The expression that came over the face of Allan was one of indignation and loathing. Easy enough had it been for Fearon to com- bine in his own mind, and in conversations with his dear Marian, al) the eircumstances which pointed with irresistible force to the conclusion that it was to Sir Hinckton Moys he owed all the miseries and all the dangers he had passed through; and now to sce him there, in that house, foreboded further evil to himself or to the Coun- tess d’Umbra. And be that self-styled Countess d'Umbra whom she might—Linda de Chevenaux, Dark Woman, or by whatever other title she chose to call herself, or was called by others—Allan could not forget that she was yet his mother. No wonder, then, that he looked upon Sir Hinckton Moys with eyes of horror and aversion. And how widely different were the errands of those two men to that splendid mansion in Hanover Square. Don’t you know what One came to bring what consolation he could to the poor, bruised heart of a long—nearly a life-long—sufferer. The other came to inflict what agony it was possibly within his power to bring to bear upon the mind of one who should merit pity, if it were only from the world of persecution she had already endured. If the maxim be true of human nature that a@ man never hates any one so much as he does him whom he has deeply injured, then the feeling of Sir Hinckton Moys against Allan Fearon must indeed have been compounded of gall and bitter- ness. As for Allan, he shrunk from Moys as he would have done from some venomous reptile. Sir Hinckton mistook that shrinking for fear, and he gathered boldness himself accordingly. “You here!” was the exelamation of Allan Fearon,—" you here, villain!” Sir Hinckton Moys stepped back a step; and the colour paled on his face as he replied, ‘‘ Not hanged yet, eh? Ha! ha! Well, I fancy the time will yet come!” Allan looked surprised, but it was at the despe- rate effrontery of the man who could address such words to him. Again was Sir Hinckton Moys deceived, and thought that Allan feared him. Nothing could well be wider from the truth than any such supposition. Allan went at once to the side of the fire-place, past Sir Hinckton Moys, and rung the bell, The page appeared. “Ts the Countess within ?” ‘We hardly now know, sir, since she makes no reply to applications at the door of her dressing~ room.” Allan felt a strange pang at his heart. What if the concurrence of all the circumstances that had so recently taken place, had been too much for the heated brain of his mother ? What if she had sought that peace in death, which this world, with all its jarring interests, appeared so pertinaciously to deny her? Allan darted to the door. “T will go to her,” he said. “You, sir?” said the page. “You?” exclaimed Sir Hinckton Moys. “Ah!” added Allan, suddenly. ‘I am glad you spoke. I had for the moment forgotten you.” “Forgotten me ?” ““Yes. Speak, my pretty boy. Is there no one who will prevent this man from leaving the house until I have seen your mistress ?” ‘Prevent me from leaving!” cried Sir Hinckton Moys. ‘Ha! ha! I tell you, my gaol bird, that I come here to see the Countess d’Umbra, and I do not intend to leave until I have done so!” “You heard me, boy,” added Allan, without saying a word to Sir Hinckton, or appearing to pay the least attention to him. “I want to know if there is any one here who will undertake to prevent this man from leaving the house until I have seen your mistress, for he is one of the bitterest enemies she has ?” S “Ah, yes,” said the page; “there is cne whe, with that knowledge, will detain him.” “ Fetch that one,” “Yes, sir.” “Mold!” cried Sir Hinckton Moys, as he PFE OE rene rare, ——— SO glanced at the clock, and saw that the morning was advancing, and that it would be a serious thing if he were prevented from keeping the appointment with the Regent,— “hold, boy! Beware of what you do. Obey only my orders here, and they will have the sanction of your mistress.” “Sir,” said the page, “I know that this gen- tleman,” indicating Fearon, “is in my mistress’s confidence; but of you I know nothing.” “And so, my pretty page,” said Allan, “you will do as I wish.” There was a slight flush of colour on the face of the apparent page-boy as Allan used the word ‘* pretty,” and he said, gently, ‘I will send some one, sir.” ‘Spare yourself the trouble,” said Sir Hinck- ton Moys. ‘‘I have altered my mind, and will call again—probably in the evening.” “No,” said Allan. ‘You say no to me?” “Tdo. You may possibly call again, but now that you are here I do not intend to let you go until I know what your errand is in this house, and with the Countess d’Umbra.” ““You do not intend to let me go?—you— you?” “‘ Yes, Sir Hinckton Moys, even I; and I would by no means advise you to place yourself in such peril as to attempt to leave here without my good will that you should do so.” Sir Hinckton looked irresolute for a few seconds, and those few seconds had sufficed to enable the page to summon a most effectual assistant to the scene of action. It was Binks who made his appearance, with a short pipe in his mouth, and looking curious and expectant. “ What's the row, eh?” ‘‘This is the man,” said the page, addressing Allan, ‘who will no doubt do what you desire.” “ All right!” added Binks. ‘ Who is it?” “My good fellow,” said Allan, “are you a friend as well as a servant to the Countess ?” * Rather!” ‘Then this man, whom you see here, has come to the house on some errand that I feel assured is against her peace; and I want youto keep him from going away again until she sees him, and we know what it is.” ‘“‘ That’s the dodge !” “You will do it?” “Tt’s done!” *T protest,” said Sir Hinckton Moys,—"'I pro- test against this outrage, which, if persevered in, you will all hear of it at another time, and in a manner which will be anything but agreeable to you!” “You will keep him securely in this room?” added Allan. Binks nodded, and lounged against the wall close to the door. “My good fellow,” said Sir Hinckton Moys, as he stepped a few paces closer to Binks,—‘‘ my good fellow, you are led into a very great error, ‘indeed !” “Don’t be a palavering French to me!” said Binks, “French? My good man, I speak plain Eng- lish, when I tell you that it is I who am the friend of the Countess; and this man here, Fearon, who THE DARK WOMAN, 5 was so nearly hanged the other day, and who will be hanged some day, who is her foe!” “ What’s that to you?” said Binks. “ But I tell you he is a housebreaker—a—a— dishonest person !” ““ What's that to you?” roared Binks again. “Eh? What's that to you?” This was so unanswerable a plea, that Sir Hinckton Moys was brought completely to a stand-still; but as Binks took it suddenly into his head, from his crafty look, that he was about to make a spring upon him, he took the initiative by darting at Moys himself, exclaiming, as he did so, “Will you, then—will you? I should only like to see you try it!” Binks’s immense fist came so close to the eyes of ‘Sir Hinckton Moys that he retreated most pre- cipitately. ‘ Allan left the room. The page was lingering on the threshold of the door, and Allan said, ‘Show me the rooms of your mistress, and I "will see if she will answer me.” ‘* But, sir yf “T know what you would say. Believe me, there will be no blame. Do you not know me?” ‘“*T have seen you, sir.” “And do you not know who I am?” “Scarcely, sir; although I have seen tears in the eyes of my mistress when you have left the house.” “JT do not think any secrecy necessary,” added Allan. ‘I am the son of your mistress.” “ Ah, I thought so!” “Then you will show me her rooms ?” “Oh, yes, sir! Follow me; and if—if——” “Tf what 2” “Oh, sir, if you could only persude her to leave at once and for ever the life of danger she leads, how happy, happy it would be.” “Tt is the wish that lies nearest to my heart,” said Allan. “Then God bless you ever, sir.” “You feel more than a common interest in her, I can see,” rejoined Allan. ‘‘Has she been very good and kind to you o ‘‘ She has, indeed.” “Then I thank heaven for that. I would fain have her good and kind to something human. But which is the door of her room ?” ‘This one, sir. This is the door of her dressing- room, The bed-room is beyond it. She always locks this door on retiring to rest, but I never knew her remain so long without opening it.” “‘Then you, too, have fears?” “Alas, sir, I have.” “Of what?” “Of some sudden illness, sir.” “Pray heaven it be nothing worse.” Allan rapped at the door—at first gently, and then sharply, and then so loudly that it would have been impossible for the soundest sleeper not to have been awakened by it: There was no response. Allan began to feel terribly anxious. The face of the page paled perceptibly. ‘‘Something has happened,” said Allan, feel that something must have happened.” “ Alas! alas! my poor mistress!” Allan hesitated for a moment, and only for a moment. He was young and vigorous, and the ! “Ty A TARO IB A EOIN NS Uc tr Np 6 THE DARK WOMAN. door was but a slight one. He retreated a step or two. Then he made a rush forward. There was a slight crash, and the hasp of the lock gave way, and the door opened. ; ‘That is well done,” said the page. Allan and the young Carlos, as the Dark Woman named her, at once entered the dressing~ room. CHAPTER CXIL ALLAN FEARON TEACHES A WHOLESOME LESSON TO SIR HINCKTON MOYS Tue dressing-room of the Dark Woman, to which Allan Fearon, by the feeling that his near relationship to her had now penetrated, presented much which, under ordinary circumstances, would have attracted his attention, But now his whole mind was too intent upon seeking her to permit any external objects to attract him. ‘“¢ Countess—mother!” he cried. ‘‘ Speak! is I—it is your son who calls to you !” Allan was in hope that some reply would come to him from the inner room, but all was still. The page did not hesitate a moment, but passed onwards into the bed-chamber. Allan heard him utter a cry of satisfaction, as he thought, and he was right, for it was such; since no sooner was the young girl who played the part of the page Carlos satisfied that the bed had not been slept in, than she felt quite at ease about her mistress. She returned to the dressing-room. “ All is well, sir!” “Well? She sleeps?” ‘““Oh, no, no! She has been from home the whole night, and has not returned. That is all.” “ All?” “Yes, sir. It is too usual to excite any alarm in the minds of those who know the Countess as well as I do.” . “I can see that you now feel quite at ease,” said Allan; “but lam very far from being so, since she may be in great danger wherever she is gone.” “‘Tt has happened so often,” replied the page, apologetically, ‘that. I have ceased to think it possible anything amiss can take place. No doubt, though, she will very soon return.” “Then I will wait.” Allan cast his eyes now round the dressing- room much more observantly than he had done before, for the confidence of the page in the safety of the Dark Woman had begot something of the same feeling in himself. It was a superb apartment, and contained everything which ease or luxury could suggest ; but what most surprised Allan, considering that it was the dressing-room of a lady, was to see the many articles of male apparel which were in and about it. In one corner, too, there were some half-dozen swords, of different sizes and patterns, and some walking-canes; so that, take it for all in all, that dressing-room might either have been taken to belong to an actress, or to be shared by one of the masculine gender. “I will go down now to this man—Sir Hinckton Moys,” said Allan; “for since the Countess is It really not in the house, it will be needless to keep him any longer a prisoner.” Allan sought the drawing-room again, and there he found Moys still the prisoner of Binks, who was lounging close to the door, in the same attitude in which Fearon had left him. Sir Hinckton Moys was close to one of the windows, looking excessively angry, and as if he was half inclined to open it, and call out for some help from the passers-by. And probably he would have done so, but that he fancied he felt himself so strong in his power over the Dark Woman. But for his possession of that little scrap of paper with the life-blood of Shucks, the burglar, upon it, he would, no doubt, have been only too well pleased to do something which would publicly compromise the Dark Woman, and all who felt in any way interested in her fortunes. How far Allan Fearon was so interested he could not, as yet, make out. But his own observations and reflections had told him that it was to the mock Countess d’Umbra that he owed the defeat of his most villanous scheme for the destruction of Allan by the hands of the hangman. That he could comprehend well enough, although why she took so great an interest in the young man he could not conceive. It was rather surprising that Sir Hinckton Moys did not, in fact, hit upon the true solution of the difficulty, by supposing that Allan was the long lost son of the Dark Woman; but the fact was, that he had treated the whole story about there being a son at all born to Linda de Cheve- naux as an absurb myth. Had he been asked why he doubted the matter so completely, he probably would have used the same argument as the Regent. Was it likely, he would have said, that the claims upon the Prince's purse, which such a boy would have had, would have been let slumber for twenty years? ; Taking the low pecuniary view of human nature, which such a man as Sir Hinckton Moys was sure to take, that would have been quite conclusive on the subject. At the appearance of Allan, he now put ona blustering look, as he said, ‘‘ Well, sir. How long are you and your silly myrmidoms going to con- fine me a prisoner in this house? The consequences to yourselves, I fancy, increase with the duration of this outrage!” “Sir Hinckton Moys,” said Allan, with all the loathing and contempt that one man can possibly feel for another, “‘I now tell you that you are a liberty to go.” “ Indeed !” ‘“‘You need not stay,” added Allan, turning to Binks. | “ All’s right! That willdo! Ifyou want me again, just howl over the stairs-head, and I'll come! I don’t like the looks of the fellow at ali!” “That feeling is perfectly mutual,” said Sir Hinckton Moys ; “for a more perfectly ugly ruffian I never saw in all my life!” Binks laughed. His feelings did not Jie so near the surface as to be hurt by any such remark as that which had just fallen from Sir Hinckton Moys. THE DARK WOMAN. 4 es — ““And now, sir,” added Allan, “‘instead of detaining you, I order you out of this house !” * You order me out?” “T have said so.” You ?—you ?” “Even I; andI am quite prepared to enforce my order! Go, sir—go!” “ And by what right? By what possibie pre- tenee do you, as one visitor to the Countess d'Umbra, order out another? But I comprehend. Ha! ha! Her ladyship has not yet risen! Ha! ha! A certain gentleman feels himself at liberty to seek her even in her bed-chamber, while other visitors may wait below! I comprehend all now! The condemned Allan Fearon was, after all, under the protection of the Dark Woman! Ha! ha!” Allan’s face reddened with anger, but he was not unmindful that those words “ Dark Woman” _ had passed the lips of Sir Hinckton ‘Moys; and that they suggested his possession of the terrible secret of the identity of the Countess d’Umbra with the Dark Woman, whose deeds had rendered her so obnoxious to the law. Moys saw the contest that was taking place in the mind of Allan. He made a mock bow of great respect, as he added, ‘Sir, I congratulate you upon your enviable position; particularly as Annie Gray, the Countess de Blonde, was induced to torment the Regent into granting you a pardon on account of your being the husband of her sister ! Ha! ha! It will be a little bit of news to her that you are, at the same time, the paramour of the Dark Woman!” “Villain !” “Oh, sir! Hard words cannot prevent facts!” ** Worse than villain!” ‘‘As you please! Ha! ha! I shall, I hope and trust, have an opportunity yet, before the close of this day, of informing the fair Countess de Blonde by some means of this little interesting . fact!” “You will lie, then, sir !” “ Sir!” “Tsay, sir, you willlie! That there is love -—that there is familiarity and tenderness between me and the Countess d' Umbra I will not deny ; but you may add to whoever you speak to upon that subject, that it is the love of a mother to a son— of a son to a mother!” Sir Hinckton Moys fairly staggered back, and was glad to hold a chair for support. “Can this be possible ie: “T have said it, sir.’ “You—the—the long lost—the doubtful—the son of. “The Regent !” “Ah! Fool! fool! been to be sure!” Sir Hinckton Moys clasped one hand over his eyes, and felt, at that moment, that all his air- built schemes had surely vanished into empty space, leaving him deserted and desolate. Would it be at all safe now to pursue the desperate course that he had commenced with the Regent against his own son? Would it be possible to influence the Prince’s mind sufficiently against him ?—or would it be safe in any shape or way for him, Sir Hinckton Moys, to pursue any further his plans of revenge against Allan ? Ail these thoughts crowded to his mind in a moment, Oh, what a fool I have eect eesti dierent ted coetien ae niece tee ee Tel ne eae He made a low bow to Allan. “* Sir,” he said, “if such be the fact, it will give me pleasure to—to—that is to say, to advance your interests—to speak to the Regent.” “Sir Hinckton Moys, there is the door.” “But, sir “There is the door.” “ But “Unless you prefer the window, from which I will fling you if you do not make a speedy exit.” Moys moved towards the door. He stood upon the very threshold; and then, in a high voice of anger and menace, he said, ‘“‘ Beware, sir—beware! You send me from this house in possession of a secret which you would gladly purchase from me at any price—which your mother, the Countess d’Umbra, alias the Dark Woman, will find is her death warrant! It is your own act. The consequences be upon your own head! Beware, I say—beware !” “Go, sir—go ; and take with you my scorn, my defiance, and my contempt !” “Be it so—be it so!” Sir Hinckton Moys struck the breast of his coat as he spoke. ‘Be it so! I havea small scrap of paper here—a document that has been extorted from the Dark Woman by some one who has either had the art to prey upon her cre- dulity, or upon her fears. I achieved possession of it at my sword’s point. It is worth countless thousands to her, for it is her condemnation, in, no doubt, her own hand-writing. You send me away with such a document. Ha! ha! Wise | youth! Be it so!” ‘“ No,” said Allan, as he sprung forward, and caught Sir Hinckton Moys by the collar,—* no! If you are not lying—if you really have such a document, I will take it from the centre of your heart, if it were hidden there.” ** Ah, you would rob me!” “ T will have that paper you mention.” “* Never!” “ T will have it.” ‘¢ Help! Murder!” ** Call out as you will—I intend to have it.” “ You are, then, the robber who so narrowly escaped death at Newgate. You rely upon the possible greater strength of youth to take from me by force that which you dare not fight for, like aman. I am a gentleman and an officer; and I challenge you to a fair combat, since you have presumed to lay hands upon me.” “Come back, sir,” said Allan, as he half dragged Sir Hinckton Moys back into the draw- ing-room,—‘ come back, sir. Even you shall not say that I have done aught unbefitting the son of a prince.” Sir Hinckton drew a long breath. “JT ask you, sir, for the paper you menticn,” added Allan Fearon. “Tt is to sell.” ii] No {? “I say it is to sell!” ' *‘ That depends upon how you became possessed of it” “T fought for it.” ** Indeed |” “You are incredulous, young sit. But, asa proof that I did fight for it, I am desirous—ay, and willing, too—to fight for its retention. I will meet you to-morrow morning at daybreak, when ee ere | 8 THE DARK WOMAN. and where you will, as one gentleman should meet another; and if you conquer me, you shall have the document I have mentioned.” ‘You challenge me ?” “6 Tidost, ‘‘ Then that leaves me the choice of weapons.” “Tt does.” ‘“‘ And of time, and place.” “ All that.” ‘Then I name swords.” “ Agreed.” ‘“‘ And the present time, and the present place.” Sir Hinckton Moys turned pale. He had not, for a moment, intended to meet Allan. He had ouly affected to do so, in order to get out of the dilemma which his imprudent boasting about the possession of the document he had taken from Shucks had placed him in. His intention had been to tell the Regent that he had accidentally met with Allan, and been challenged, and to leave it to the Prince to put a stop to the duel, provided Allan were really his son. ‘Well, sir,” said Fearon, ‘‘ what say you?” ‘“*T cannot.” *¢ Wherefore ?” ‘It is inconvenient. spare.” “Ten minutes.” “No, no! I mentioned to-morrow morning— you know that I mentioned to-morrow morning. You must recollect that I said to-morrow morning at an early hour.” “Yes; but you must likewise recollect that you admitted it was left to me to name weapons, and time, and place.” “ But, on consideration, I know not if I ought to cross swords with one in such a position of life as yourself.” ‘“‘T am the son of a prince.” ; “Tt might cost me my commission.” “Tf you live, I will speak to the Regent on that head.” ‘*You—you will? You speak to the Regent ?” “ Yes, to my father.” ‘**But you have not—he has not—that is to say, you—he Eh?” Sir Hinckton Moys was swelling with curiosity I have not the time to to know if Allan Fearon had, or had not, had an ! interview with the Regent, and what had taken place at that interview; but it was not likely that Allan was going to gratify one whom he looked upon as such a deadly foe with any such particulars. Allan had quite made up his mind that Sir Hinckton Moys should not leave that house in Hanover Square.with the damaging document to the Dark Wome} he had declared himself to be in possession of, It was with Allan now rather a romantic point of honour not to take the paper from him by main force, which he felt he had the power to do, but to give him a chance of its retention by a combat. Allan remembered those swords which he had seen in the dressing-room of the Countess d’Umbra, and it was by the aid of two of them that he hoped to force Sir Hincktor! Moys to a combat which should be a retribution for all his villanies. And, by a strange combination of circumstances, it so happened that Allan Fearon was by no means so unaccustomed to the use of a sword as from his lowly state so long might have been sup- posed. Mr. Webber, in whose service he had been, was gold lace manufacturer, embreiderer, and military acoutrement-maker to the Court of St. James’s; and among those matters which formed his stock in trade were swords of all sorts and patterns. Many a time had Allan Fearon whiled away an hour by fencing with some of the officials of the establishment, and fortunately with an old pen- sioner from the guard, who was a porter to the house. Hence had Allan come to know the use of the weapon to which he had to oppose himself in the hands of Sir Hinckton Moys. eee CHAPTER CXIII. SIR HINCKTON MOYS REACHES ST. JAMES’S IN A WOUNDED CONDITION. Prruaes there was in the mind of Sir Hinckton Moys an idea that he would obtain an easy victory over Allan Fearon, even if absolutely forced to the combat, in consequence of the want of skill of his opponent. How wasit likely he conld suppose for a mo- ment that one who had been educated and brought up in so humble a position, could be acquainted, even in the most limited sense, with the use of a weapon sacred as one might almost call it to the hands of a gentleman. Seeing that there was no escape—feeling as- sured that Allan would be as good as his word, and force him to a personal contest—Sir Hinck- ton Moys’s next effort was to endeavour to extract all the personal advantages possible from the transaction. What a tale would he not have to tell the_ Regent! How he had encountered his son, and held him at his sword's point, and at his mercy, just because he had discovered his paternity. Truly, if one portion of his scheme should fail, and the Regent should not incline to believe that Allan was a spy from Buckingbam House, he had other resources and plans to fall back upon, which might yet avail him. Under these circumstances, then, Sir Hinckton thought it would be his best plan to assume an air of frankness and courage, and accept the combat. “Tt is not for me,” then he said, “holding his | Majesty’s commission, to shrink any longer from what you propose. Be it so, if you will have it; but whatever may happen to one or other of us, it is you alone who will be to blame, fighting, as we shall here, without witnesses or seconds.” “There you are wrong,” said Allan. ‘I intend there should be a witness, since I am well aware that the man who could stoop so low in dissimula- tion as Sir Hinckton Moys has stooped, would not scruple to place any colour he chose upon this transaction.” Sir Hinckton Moys bit his lips with anger, but he restrained himself from the utterance of the passionate expressions he would fain have indulged in. ‘‘ Where are your witnesses?” he said. “‘ Where are your seconds ?” | ae a ee ree wee eee ae RE NE te ee A en ea te fn eae ae A NR Ne Sy NN ine ed THE DARK WOMAN, a | EMIT Vali mug it mh ae 1 Lu = | aif ’ 4 == : : a ' aaa | ry : | iN —— = a sti Wot oy Z : SATO ro wie | it Mase ttn ae “aus A q ETH Pe vill Hn i ‘ee Y f | ae é rn it si pers Ve EF | | | | | | | | ! Wy nid Aa AARNE AN Ht) MU mn i Fl ih Wilh HE ae al ied wi No. 54.—-DaaKk WowAn | SS . ie = ee 10 “‘T will summon one of the household of the Countess; or two} if you prefer it; and they shall see exactly what happens, without knowing how or why it happens.” “‘T do not understand you.” “Then I will further explain to you. There are swords in this house, two of which I will send for. It may be assumed that we are about to have a trial of skill, in the way of a fencing match, and that we are desirous of an umpire being present to record the hits. A servant can perform that office perfectly, and at the same time will become an unconscious witness, who could be called upon at any time to depose to the circum- stances of this real duel.” “As you please,” cried Sir Hinckton Moys, im- patiently. “I have an appointment at mid-day, and must settle this matter in time to keep it.” Allan Fearon rang for the page, who presently made an appearance; but it betrayed the prin- cipal anxiety which was upon the mind of Allan, when his first words were an inquiry if the Coun- tess had come home. “No, sir,” said the page, ‘' my mistress has not yet appeared.” There was an air of great sadness about the manner in which these words were spoken, so that Allan could not but perceive that the page was beginning to have some fears on account of the prolonged absence of the Dark Woman. But he would say no more in the presence of the man with whom he was so soon to be at deadly strife. Turning to the page, he addressed him with carelessness in his tone and manner. “Look you here, boy,” he said. * This gentle- man and I have a mind for a fencing match, to decide some question upon points of skillon which we differ. Fetch mea couple of swords, as nearly matehed in point of length and size as you can, from your mistress’s dressing-room ” “ Ah, sir,” said the page, ‘‘I fear——” _ “Fear nothing,” said Allan, “ but do as I bid you.” — “Knowing who you are, sir, I feel bound to obey your orders; but I fear this is no trial of skill.” “Fear nothing, but do asI bid you. Al ‘will be well.” The page, with a look of sadness, left the drawisg-room, and then Sir Hinckton Moys spoke, “If we are to fight with one witness,” he said, “let that boy suffice, I would rather he were present than some more vulgar servant of the house.” . “I am content,” replied Allan. ‘Be it so.” Since the page had learnt the exact relationship between Allan Fearon and the Countess d’Umbra, there was no hesitation in obeying his orders, and presently Carlos returned with two dress-swords, which very nearly matched each other. The moment Allan Fearon took one in his hand, a suspicion began to grow up in the mind of Sir Hinckton Moys that he was by no means so ignorant of the use of the weapon as might fairly have been surmised. It never occurred to the courtier that accident had placed Allan in a position to acquire an accomplishment which otherwise would have been far beyond his reach. “ Carlos,” said Allan, ‘‘ will you remain here as @ witness to this little trial of skill?” THE DARK WOMAN. ‘J will, sir.” The page closed the door. A shade of anxiety came over the face of Sir Hinckton Moys. “I’m afraid,” he said, “these swords are not sufficiently alike to make this a fair fight.” ‘* Then do you take your choice,” said Allan. “IT will make myself content with the one you reject.” It was quite impossible to frame an excuse in objection to this mode of settling the difficulty, and Sir Hinckton Moys took one of the swords at once, poising it in his hand, and calculating the chances in his favour if, after all, by some acci- dent, Allan Fearon should have had a few lessons in fencing. The courtier was a very tolerable swordsman, It would never have done for a man like Sir, Hinckton Moys to be greatly deficient in an accomplishment, any want of ordinary skill in which might have cost him his life. Duelling was certainly fading away in England at that period, as one of the dying-out institutions of a more barbarous age, but still it was by no means extinct. The rarity was when the sword was used, for the use of that weapon in settling the little honourable disputes of gentlemen had almost entirely gone out of fashion, being superseded by the long duelling-pistol, with its hair trigger, which, in the hands of the weakest was as sufli- cient a weapon as it could possibly be in the hands of the strongest. The page, with a look of deep interest, retired to the recess of one of the windows. Allan slipped off his coat, and at once took up a position. That position spoke volumes to Sir Hinckton Moys. “Ah!” he cried. ‘* You fence.” * And was it possible, sir,” said Allan, ‘ that you took that sword in your hand with the idea that I could not ?” “ This little passage of arms,” cried Sir Hinck- ton, ‘‘is your own act. Blame me not for its results.” “Ah! then,” cried the page, “this is, indeed, a combat!” The swords clashed together. Peace, Carlos,” cried Allan; ‘and, if you love your mistress, give no alarm, but let us proceed.” Sir Hinckton Moys set his teeth hard, and summoned all his skill; but, after the first pass or two, he felt that he had to deal with one who possessed considerable mastery of the sword. But Moys was a man who had passed into the middle of life. He had \been present at many contests, both as second and principal; and conse- quently in experience, and those tricks of fence which only experience can give, he was decidedly the superior of Allan Fearon. But then Allan had youth and agility—a clear, piercing eye, which seemed to look into his oppo- nent’s soul, and he bore with him that heart which was not corrupted with injustice. He was a trifle taller too, than Sir Hinckton Moys, and his reach of arm was a little greater. But take it for all in all, the advantages and disadvantages under which these two men la- boured were pretty nearly. balanced and counter- balanced on either side, cere emery rem a tea eR SNE TRIE a ea THE DARK WOMAN. Po inanhln tel aera Seer A rE REAEE ERSTE SRN NITR NT » eeetiahen latent cia eer aa ate taaeetiig teeienecaae ene dL And so the fight went on. The swords were thin and slender in the blades —they were constructed but for piercing and for that play of wrist and jimess of action which strips a combat of this kind of all noise and tumult. To be sure, there was the ring of the blades one upon another, as in a serpentine manner they traversed from hilt to point—but that was all. A flush of colour had come upon the face of Allan. Sir Hinckton Moys had turned deadly pale. With an attitude and an expression of deep interest, the page had come out from the recess in the window, and stood watching the combatants. * One,” said Allan. Sir Hinckton uttered a sharp cry. blood upon his arm. “You record that for glancing towards the page. “ Ab, yes! Right willingly !” That slight glance from his opponent’s face nearly cost Allan Fearon his life, for Moys took advantage of it to make a savage and ferocious assault upon him. Allan just succeeded in parrying the deadly thrust so that the sword passed over his shoulder, ripping up the skin in its progress. For the moment, Sir Hinekton Moys thought that he had inflicted a serious wound upon Fearon, and at the same moment that thonghr came to his mind, he was ready to curse his own folly for allowing his passion to get the better of his judgment. He would have thought nothing of taking the life of Allan Fearon; but the son of the Regent, illegitimate though he thought him, was quite another personage. The two opponents were now so close together that it was only by shortening his arm consider- ably Allan could act upon the offensive; and that he did, for the uext instant his sword passed through a portion of the neck of the courtier. Sir Hinckton dropped his sword and staggered back. “You may have. killed me,” he said, “‘ but I There was me,” added Allan, | fancy I have had my revenge!” The blood flowed freely from his wound. “ Enough, enough!” cried the page, in an im- ploring attitude. ‘‘ Surely this is enough.” ** It should be enough,” cried Allan, who still kept upon the defensive. “Then you are content ?” said Sir Hinckton Moys faintly, as he staggered back, feeling with his hand until he came to a chair, into which he sunk; “ then you are content?” * Not quite,” said Allan, as, casting down the sword, he with three or four strides reached the wounded courtier; “not quite, Sir Hinckton Moys, as well you know.” At the commencement of the contest, Moys had buttoned his coat closely over the chest, and now with one rapid action Allan Fearon tore it open, and from a side-pocket from which it just peeped, to give assurance of its presence, Allan took that self-accusing document which the Dark Woman had been compelled to give Sbucks the house- breaker, and which at his death had passed into the hands of Sir Hinckton Moys. Moys had received the document stained with the blood of the man whom he had murdered in St. James's Park, and it was rather a singular circumstance that the wound Sir. Hinckton had now received had sent a trickling stream right down upon that paper again. The writing upon it was getting obliterated, bit by bit, by the blood of all who possessed it. “Now, Sir Hinckton Moys,” said Atlan, “if you require assistance you shall have it; but if not, you are at liberty to depart from this house at your own good pleasure.” Moys by this time had found out that he waa not seriously hurt. wound in the neck, after all, that he had received ; but he chose for bis own purposes to put the worst complexion upon it that he could. “T am hurt,” he said; ‘‘but I will not remain in this house. The character of its inmates does not recommend it to me.” Ge affected to stagger to the door ofthe draw- ing-room, “Help him,” said Allan to the page. ‘“No,” said Moys. ‘I will have no help from any one here—though sorely wounded, I will find my own way.” He passed out of the drawing-room, and down the grand staircase. It was nearly eleven o'clock, and his appointment with the Regent was at mid- day—-that appointment upon which he had built such high hopes, but which he now hardly knew how to conduct, so changed were all the circum- stances upon which he had originally based it. But his first care was to see to his wound, which, trivial though it was, might, if neglected, lead to inconvenience. That care taken, by the assistance of a surgeon in a neighbouring street, Sir Hinckton Moys had a hackney-coach called, and proceeded at once to his lodgings in St. James’s, where, with more assistance from his valet than he usually required, he made as elaborate a toilette as, under the cir- cumstances, he could; but he took care to wrap up his neck, so as to give as much importance as possible to his wound; and then, for the first time since his disgrace, he fairly set out for St. James's Palace, to wait upon the Regent. During this time the Dark Woman had re- mained beneath the roof of St. James’s. Imme- diately upon penetrating into those disused apart- ments, which, indeed, would have had a most special interest in her eyes, could she have known that in them her son had had an interview with his father, the Regent, she felt that she was tolerably safe from pursuit. What would become of the Regent, for the re- mainder of the night, was a question she did not ask herself; but she felt that there was so much alarm throughout the whole interior of the Palace, that any attempt again to force herself upon his attention would be only to place herself in the most imminent peril, without accomplishing her object. The Dark Woman groped her way through the rooms in silence and darkness. Occasionally she touched some of the antique pieces of furniture, which had remained there for so many years, fading and rotting away, “Till the morning—till the morning,” she muttered to herself; ‘‘I will remain here till the morning, for I have yet something to do in tha Palace of St. James's. Hitherto, all concerning me and mine has been involved in mystery and It was but a slight flesh . Se ne a ea 12 secrecy ; but now the time for publicity has come, and the world shall ring with my wrongs. To-morrow — yes, to-morrow! Until then—the first time for many a weary year—lI shall sleep beneath the roof of St. James’s Palace.” With arms outstretched before her, to prevent any serious collision with any of the articles of furniture in the rooms, the Dark Woman passed through several of the apartments; and finally she came to a large and massive couch, on which she could feel that the dust was lying thickly. But that she heeded not. Worn out, both in mind and body, she cast herself upon it; and under, perhaps, the most singular circumstances in which any human being ever sought repose, she fell into a deep sleep. Every avenue of St. James’s Palace was strictly guarded, but still the Regent had such an opinion of the mysterious powers of his persecutor, the Dark Woman, that he fully believed she had found some secret means of escaping. When in the morning, then, he was informed that no person had attempted to pass out of the building, he consoled himself with the idea that, at all events, he had got rid of her for a time, and perhaps for ever. ‘“Why should she torment him any further?” he asked himself. ‘'Had she not found her son, and had not he acknowledged him? And had she not heard, from his own lips, that that was all which could be done? Surely common sense would tell her now that she had arrived at the end of her career.” But there was an uneasy sensation on the mind of the Regent, which did not so much concern the Dark Woman as it concerned Allan. Over and over again he kept asking himself if it were possible that Allan had joined himself to the party at Buckingham House, and had become, politically and domestically, one of his enemies. Probably, had there been nothing more than the mere letter of Sir Hinckton Moys—clever and unscrupulons as it was—to lead him to such a conclusion, he might have rejected it; but there was, in addition, that seemingly candid and open despatch from the Countess of Sunningham. What could he say to that ? The one seemed to confirm the other so practi- cally and essentially that the Regent was puzzled how to act, or how to think. Then, perhaps, with still more force, and still more coherence—engendering much more anger, and much more bitterness—came the idea which had been suggested on more than one occasion, that Annie Gray was false to him, and that her wonderful interest in the preservation of Allan Fearon from death was on account of an intrigue between them, for which his marriage with her sister was but a convenient cloak. Truly George, Prince of Wales, and Regent of England, was very much disturbed in his mind on that eventful morning, which, however, was to produce more disturbance still than he had ever dreamed or thought of, SY 4 | ee THE DARK WOMAN. i Ns tar eae 3 rene oa on, — CHAPTER CXIV. THE DARK WOMAN CARRIES OUT A TERRIBLE DETERMINATION, Ir was at half-past eleven o’clock that the Regent sat in a small room which went by the name of Queen Anne’s Cabinet, because it was believed to be the apartment in which that monarch was accustomed to hold her long, gossiping conferences with the celebrated and imperious Duchess of Marlborough. . It had become very much the habit of the Regent after breakfast to retire to this rocm, which was fitted up as a small writing-room, and in the desks and cabinets of which he was supposed to keep most of his private papers. It will be necessary, considering the exigencies of our story, that the reader should understand precisely the position of this room in the Palace of St. James's. It looked, then, into the Colour Court by one window, over which hung usually a green silk curtain, of great thickness and beauty. A short flight of three steps from this small apartment led into a lower room, but of much larger dimensions, which had two windows like- wise looking into the Colour Court; and from this larger room, several others might be reached, the next one to it being an ante-room, in which one of the pages on duty always sat, while the Regent was in Queen Anne’s Cabinet. It was to this small apartment, then, that the Regent retired as usual; and it was for the express purpose of reading over, still more care- fully, Sir Hinckton Moys'’s letter, and the des- patch from the Countess of Sunningham, because, as he fully expected to see Moys at mid-day, he wished, if possible, to be amply prepared for his presence, so far as making up his mind what precise questions he had to ask him was con- cerned. The Regent had sat for about ten minutes, and had rapidly read over both the troublesome docu- ments twice, when a slight tap at the door of the apartment Jet him know that some one had some- thing to say of sufficient importance to excuse disturbing him. It was one of the pages, who, with a low bow, advanced, and placed a small scrap of paper before the Regent. On this piece of paper were the following words :— “ Colonel Hanger, the most humble servant of His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, begs to state that he is quite certain a female, who may be described as D. W., ia still beneath the roof of the Palace, and waiting but an opportunity of being dangerous.” “By Jove!” cried the Regent, as he sprung to his feet ; ‘‘am I never to be rid of this woman ?” Some one coughed on the other side of the door. The Prince turned pale for a moment; but as the cough sounded again, he felt certain that it was of a masculine character. He felt more composed. There was a small silver bell upon the tabla nahh lap aien hen tcndeenstacec apse tats ipa tt seit atlicclairangst eta renee apatite a lode 9 ‘ Yi hs ow | | | \ Lert ge A tein arte rye THE DARK WOMAN. 13 before the Regent, a touch upon which would at once summon one of the pages who were in attendance. : The bell was touched. The royal page who made an appearance in answer to the summons bowed very low, and waited the Prince’s commands. “Tf Colonel Hanger is at hand, show him in here.” The page bowed again, and made his exit. It was not etiquette in the Palace even to make any reply when a distinct order was given by one of the royal family. Even so much as “ Yes, your Royal Highness,” would have been con- sidered a familiarity under ordinary circum: stances. In.a few seconds there came another light tap at the small cabinet door. ‘“* Come in,” said the Regent. Colonel Hanger made his appearance; and the Prince, holding up the scrap of paper that had been laid before him, said, ‘You sent this, Hanger ?” “T took that liberty, hoping that it was for the service of your Royal Highness.” ‘“‘But what grounds have you for supposing that this woman is still in St. James’s ?” “ Ocular demonstration, your Highness.” “What? You have seen her?” “Not I, your Royal Highness; but one upon whom I can depend. At an early hour this morn- ing she has been seen.” ‘‘ Where ?—oh, where?” “Tn the Titian Gallery.” ‘Close to the Countess’s rooms ?” “ Just so.” ‘‘This must be seen to. This must be put an end to. It amounts to such a persecution, that I should be something Jess or more than a man to put up with it. Leave me, Hanger, and let me think. Something must be done. Stop——” Hanger was near the door. “Send for Mr. Scott.” “ The barrister ?” “Yes, yes. Send for him. devise a something.” “Ah, your Highness, it was a thousand pities that on the occasion of the banquet the bullet that I fired failed to perform its duty. Some great prince of jugglery was at work on that oc- casion.”’ ‘‘That may or may not have been, but I want no violence, Hanger; and I only wonder that I have not yet taken more notice of your attempt to do a deed which I could never approve.” ‘“ Your Highness is ever indulgent to those who commit faults, when the motive is to do you the greatest possible service.” “Go, now—go! I will think of it. send at once for Mr. Scott.” Coloael Hanger left the cabinet, but dark thoughts were at work in his brain. “Tf I could only kill this woman,” he said, ‘and make it look kke an accident, I should have an everlasting claim upon the gratitude of the Regent.” But Hanger, although he was quite willing to do the deed, did not see any ready way of setting about it. He had been informed, and truly enough, too, by one of the under-servants of the Palace, that a figure, answering to the description He will be able to But a that had been given of the Dark Woman, bad been seen in the Titian Gallery. The servant who had seen her had taken to flight in alarm; and then, as he owed his place to the Colonel, he took him the intelligence. Hence the little scrap of paper which Hanger had been able to send to the Regent. ye But the Prince was now alone again, and he sat for some few minutes in deep thought—in much deeper thought than he was in the habit of usually indulging in. ‘* What is to be done?” he said. ‘This mania of Linda's will last her life or mine. It will in time grow into such a scanda IJthat something violent will have to be done in it. And then what will he say ?—what will my son say? He will net be willing to forget that she is his mother.” At this moment, a strange, crackling noise came upon the ears of the Regent. ‘What was it? and where was it?” These were two questions he found it most dif- ficult to answer. It was with a sort of entranced fascination that the Regent listened to the odd noise, without thinking of giving any alarm in consequence of it. At one moment he thought it came from the floor beneath his feet; then from the ceiling over his head, and then from one of the walls. It was a strange creaking sound. But soon it localized itself; and the eyes of the Regent became fixed with a gaze, that for his life’s sake he could not have withdrawn for a moment, upon a three-quarter length portrait of Queen Anne, which was in the room. It was either a fact, or some freak of his fancy, but certainly to all appearance the face of the portrait actually moved. The Regent now tried to cry ont. Alarm stopped his utterance. He could only utter a faint sound—far too faint a sound to induce any one to come to his assistance. The portrait certainly moved. The face was agitated in a strange manner, and then he saw that there were other eyes gazing from that picture-frame than those that belonged to the portrait. The eyes that he saw were those of some living person. A portion of the canvass, of which the portrait was composed, was torn aside; and in place of the placid countenance of Queen Anne, the Regent saw another face, and another pair of eyes that were less composed and serene. Then the Prince knew who it was. ‘The Dark Woman!” he gasped. Woman—Linda de Chevenaux!” He half rose from his chair. “The Dark He intended to touch the bell, and then call aloud for help. But he was too late. The Dark Woman spoke. ‘“‘George of Wales, if you desire instant death, you will raise your voice, so that others may hear as well as I; or you will give some alarm, that will bring others to this apartment.” ; The Regent had never for a moment with- drawn his fascinated gaze from the face that had protruded through the picture; and now, as that gaze seemed to be sharpened by apprehension, he saw the long, bright barrel of a pistol projecting from the wall, and pointing full upon him, 14 THE DARE WOMAN. “Ah!” said the Regent. “ Aush!” The Prince sunk back into his chair. But his eyes still remained riveted upon the face of the Dark Woman, and upon the bright and threatening barrel of the pistol. “You will be silent?” she said. “ [-—J—am silent.” “That is well, Last night, when pursued through St. James's by your creatures, I took refuge in a long disused suite of rooms, which communicate with this cabinet. At last I have managed to make a communication by laboriously working a way through the panel.” “Yes; I see—I see.” ‘Tt became necessary that I should yet speak a few more words to you.” ““ Words ?” “Yes, words. But words may stab—words may kill, if there be the heart to give them utterance, and the other heart to hear them.” ‘‘What—what do you want to say to me now ?” “This much. Can you on your conscience still deny that I am your lawful wife 2?” “You know well that I can.” “On your oath? Will you call witnesses ?” “What witnesses ?” “Well, one will suffice. name of your Creator ?” ‘T can truly say before heaven that there was no royal consent to our marriage.” “But you could as easily say that there was.” “ Not with truth.” “Stop—stop! My brain burns.” “Take away that pistol. Surely you do not mean to murder me ?” “It is for my own defence. Alas! alas! For the first time my intellect in part abandons me, and I know not what I say.” ‘Mad !” said the Regent. He had spoken in a low tone, but she heard him. “No, no! I remember now—I remember now what I meant to say; and I am not mad. I have thought over it all in the long, weary, dead hours of the night, and it is all fresh in my mind now.” “‘ What is all fresh ?” **Hush! Some one comes.” The Regent uttered a sound of congratulation. ‘“‘ Yes,” he said, “‘ I hear some footstep approach- ing. You cannot say that I summoned any one, It is an accident: you see that. I am not to blame that you will be in danger now.” ‘You might be to blame.” A tap came at the door. The Regent was on the point of saying ‘Come in,” when the Dark Woman interposed; and speaking in a low, hissing whisper, which was quite distinct to the Prince, but could not be heard beyond the room, she said, ‘‘ Your fate be on your own head! My finger is upon the trigger of this pistol. If you allow any one to come into this room, there will be a slight pressure, and then farewell, Regent !” The countenance of the Prince turned pale. “ What is it you wish?” he said, faintly. “Send away him who knocks.” The tap, in a quiet, respectful manner, came again at the door of the cabinet. Will you use the “¢ Who is it ?” cried the Prince. That was not ‘Come in,” so the handle of the door was not so much as touched, ~ “It is I, your Royal Highness; the page on duty.” “What do you want?” ‘“‘Sir Hinckton Moys, your Royal waits your pleasure for an audience.” “Let him wait in the ante-room.” The page left the door. “There,” said the Regent, “‘I have done as Highness, you wish. Now what is it that you have to say to me ?” “This. You consent to acknowledge that Allan Fearon, as he has been called, is your son ?” “T do?” ‘Well, upon condition that you admit you were really married to me, his mother, and that he is legitimate i ; “‘T cannot—you know I cannot,” ‘* Hear me out.” “Well, well.” “Tf you will do that, and lef him have the rank and expectations of a prince, I will consent to be dead, and to have been dead long before your second marriage with the Princess Caroline of Brunswick.” “IT do not comprehend you.” “You will when I speak more plainly. If you will receive and acknowledge my son, your son, as your legitimate child, I will die within the hour that you do so, and you may date my death when you please.” ‘“‘ You will die?” “Yes. Iwill take my own life, and for once and for all rid you of myself and of all reproach concerning me, if you will consent to what I pro- pose. All that the world can then say will be that the Prince of Wales had concealed his first marriage, and now chose to acknowledge its off- spring in the person of his son.” $6 ree Se “Hear all. (‘onsider that by such a course your daughter, the Princess Charlotte, still re- mains legitimate, because you can say that I died, if you please, even at the birth of our son.” “T cannot !” You cannot? Oh, yes, you can! be more easy. I teil you I will die—I am con- tent to die! Nay, I will even go so far as to promise you—and be assured that I will keep my word—my death shall remove me utterly and en- tirely for ever—my body shall not appear to be a trouble to you or a speculation to others.” “ What do you mean ?” “‘T will take passage in some ship to a foreign land, and in the dead hour of the night I will start up to the deck, and seek peace and oblivion in the ocean.” ; The Regent shuddered. “You will do this,” added the Dark Woman, still speaking in a low but imploring voice,— “you will do this, and I shall yet die blessing you. I give my own life for what has been the object of that life—the exaltation of my son, of your son, too! Oh, tell me that you will consent to it!” ‘And if I do not ?” “If you do not—oh, beware of me!” * You aim at my life.” What will a a a | * No.” | The Regent drew a long breath of relief. “But you come here armed, as though that | were your object,” he said, ‘“] come here armed because it is necessary for me to protect myself. But if you refuse the terms I offer, I promise you more life than you have ever had; because life is publicity, and I will make the story of my wrongs so public, that the old walls of ‘St. James’s shall ring with it.” “You will never be so mad?” “] shall be so mad. These windows—the windows of this room—and those adjoining, look into the Colour Court of the Palace. It is near to mid-day. The court is full of loungers, wait- ing the arrival of the guard. I will go down among all the people there assembled, and gather- ing them about me, I will tell them who and what I am, and who and what you are!” ‘* What will you tell them?” “That Iam your wife—that you are the royal bigamist, who would acknowledge your son ia secret, but dare not do soin public. I will tell the whole tale of my wrongs and of my suffer- ings; of how, for years after my child had been torn from my heart, I was made a prisoner on pretence of insanity in a madhouse, my whole offence being that the capricious fancy of the Regent no longer cared for what he was once pleased to call the charms of Linda de Cheve- naux |” ; ' “You are indeed mad now !” “ Perhaps I am.” ‘And do you suppose for one moment that any one will believe the tale ?” “TI think they will. But if they will not, then heaven pity their hard hearts!” “ But——” The Regent was about to say something, and even while he was speaking he was wondering in his own mind what he had better do under the extraordinary and puzzling circumstances in which he was placed, when his words were cut short by a loud crash at the wall. The Dark Woman, by a sudden force, had dashed the portrait of Queen Anne from the panel, and left.a space sufficiently large to allow her to pass into the apartment. The fears of the Regent now overcame every other consideration, and he called aloud for help. The trampling of feet came plainly in the outer room. ‘Help! help! Guard!” cried the Regent. The Dark Woman dashed past him, and herself flung open the door of the little cabinet, meeting, us she did so, the page on duty face to face. But the barrel of that long bright pistol, with which the Dark Woman was armed, touched the fore- head of that official personage, and he retreated with so much quickness that he fell over a chair. “Help! help!” again cried the Regent. ‘ Who touches me, dies!” said the Dark’ Woman. A tall man, dressed in black, had darted for- ward, but at the sight of the pistol he recoiled again. That was Colonel Hanger. “Ah!” said the Dark Woman. “Villain, I know you well!” The pistol was presented full at Hanger’s head, and he, believing that the next moment would THE DARK WOMAN. 15 speed the possible bullet it contained to his de- struction, flung himself backward on to the floor to save his life. The page was just struggling to his feet from his fall as Colonel Hanger flung himself back, and they both rolled to the floor together. “Cowards!” said the Dark Woman. ‘How much you fear the death which for me has no terrors! Cowards! cowards!” “Seize her!” cried the Regent again. “No. They have not the courage to face death, even to obey you, George of Wales.” The Dark Woman passed through the room, but she paused fora moment on the threshold, and then, by some impulse that came over her, she flung the pistol to the floor, saying, “1 have no further need now of arms, for I am about to pro- claim myself the Princess of Wales to the people.” CHAPTER CXV. THE DARK WOMAN iS APPREHENDED AS A STATH# PRISONER, TnE route from the few rooms that adjoined Queen Anne’s Cabinet to the Colour Court of St. James’s Palace was very simple and straight- forward. There was the room which we have before stated was just adjoining the cabinet, and from which it was reached by three steps. There was the pages’ chamber, and then there was an ante-room, which might be made a guard chamber, and be- yond that was a short flight of ten stairs that led to a door, which opened at once into the Colour Court. All this route was well known to the Dark Woman, and as it could not take above two mi- nutes to traverse the whole distance, she was actually in the Colour Court before any further alarm could be given by the Regent, or the page, or Colonel Hanger. There was a strange, miscellaneous crowd of people in the court. Guardsmen off duty—soldiers of all arms of the service on recruiting intentions—civilians, who made the Colour Court a daily lounge—servants with children, who came to neglect the children and to flirt with the soldiers. Such was the character of the throng of per- sons amorg whom the Dark Woman dashed like an apparition. Her appearance at once excited all the curiosity of the listless crowd; and when she went to the very centre of the court-yard, and elevating her hands above her head, cried out, “ Englishmen and Englishwomen, you see before you the perse- cuted Princess of Wales, the real wife of the Re- gent!” the excitement became intense. “‘ Hear me, all who have ears to drink in the story of my wrongs,” she added. “ My name was Linda de Chevenaux, and I lived in honour and in virtue at my father’s house until the Prince of | Wales, now the Regent of England, cast his eyes upon me, He sought me for his Jove in an un- hallowed fashion, but I scorned to be the minion even of a prince; and then he proffered marriage, and this poor heart was dazzled by the splendour | i | | | | | | | | emer nema: $e nee neater ints ANR at et err Nira 16 of a crown. He brought to me the consent of his father, the old King.” Yells, shouts, and cries now began to come from the crowd. “‘She’s mad! Seize her! Guard! guard! It is high treason “Tt is true,” added the Dark Woman. “I am the wife of the Regent, and my son is a prince in England. It is true; and from you, Englishmen, and from you, Englishwomen, I ask for jus- tice !” There was a confused kind of rush made by some of the soldiery to seize her, but other per- sons who were present interposed. They wanted to hear more. ‘“‘ Hear her out!” cried a voice. what the Prince of Wales is!” But it is doubtful if the Dark Woman would have been allowed another moment of liberty but for a very singular occurrence, which rendered the immediate neighbourhood of where she stood not a very desirable post. ; She had cast her eyes towards the window of Queen Anne’s Cabinet, and stretching forth her arm in the same direction, she called out, “ Even now the false, perjured Regent looks down upon the wreck that he has made! I can see his bale- ful eyes! There—there—there !” All eyes were at once turned upwards in the direction to which the Dark Woman pointed, and at the moment that they did so there came a sharp flash of light and a puff of smoke from one of the windows. The report of some fire-arm immediately succeeded, and a bullet whistled over the heads of the spectators and past the cheek of the Dark Woman. The panic that took possession of the crowd was at once complete and ludicrous. The rush to get out of the Colour Court was most tremendons, and it for a few moments con- founded even the soldiers in the general scramble. The Dark Woman looked up calmly to the window. She spread out her arms. “Yes,” she said; ‘‘consummate now your villany! You or your agents have only now to commit a murder, and all will be over!” But the shot was not repeated. The Dark Woman’s eyes flashed with a strange light, and, in ascreaming voice, she added, ‘I de- nounce George the Regent as a perjured bigamist! I denounce him! I denounce Ah!” A couple of men had run into the Colour Court from the gate entrance in St. James’s Street, and one of them flung his arms around the Dark ‘Woman, while the other seized her hands. ‘Now, madam,” said one of these men, ‘you will be so good as to come along with us, and the Jess trouble you give the better it will be for ou.” The Dark Woman uttered a scream of despair. Death would have been at any moment more welcome to her than to be again the prisoner of the Regent. She struggled desperately with the men who held her, but all was in vain. They were strong and practised officers; and the Dark Woman, securely tied, so that she could do no further mis- chief. was dragged through a small doorway into the Palace. By the time the crowd came back, and had in Call the constables ! ? ‘s Weall know eben nm nt, Rr ed reo ie a i se ehhh THE DARK WOMAN. some degree recovered from the fright into which they had been thrown, the Dark Woman was one. The whole episode had not lasted above five minutes, and they might almost have doubted the reality of it, but that upon a portion of the wall of the Colour Court, between two windows on the opposite side to the window of Queen Anne’s Cabinet, there was an indented star-like mark, It was the mark of the bullet from the pistol that had been fired at the Dark Woman. How that pistol came at all to be fired at her, it is now our business to relate. r The Dark Woman had left Colonel Hanger and the royal page in no small confusion, but that con. fusion lasted no longer than her presence. The dissolute Hanger was the first to scramble to his feet, and when he did so, he at once pos- sessed himself of the pistol which the Dark Woman had cast down on to the floor of the room. The Regent was on the threshold of the next apartment, and from the pallid hue of his face, it was evident how greatly his fears had been ex- cited. i When, however, absolute personal fear passed away, anger took its place. , He called out in a loud voice, “I will give anv reward at all in reason to any one who captures that woman—or—or—rids me of her!” Now those words “rids me of her” bore rather a wide signification. At least, Colonel Hanger was quite ready to translate them in the widest possible sense. “‘The Regent's life has been attempted!” he called out. Regent !” As he spoke, he picked up the pistol again, which he had laid upon a chair, and running to the window, he opened it only just so far as to admit the exit of the muzzle of the pistol, and fired at the Dark Woman. The Regent heard the report, and ran forward. “Good heaven!” he said; ‘have you killed her 2?” ‘“‘T don't know,” said Hanger; ‘the smoke is in my eyes.” The smoke was indeed in Colonel Hanger’s eyes, for in his eagerness to take aim at the Dark Woman, and at the same time not expose himself to the observation of any one in the Colour Court below, he had placed his eyes so close down to the pistol that the priming scorched his face. It was the Regent himself who looked through the small opening of the window, and saw that the shot had missed its mark; for there stood the Dark Woman in the centre of the Colour Court, evidently uninjured. “ Hanger! Hanger!” he said, “that was rather a fonl shot; and it is as well for you as for me, that it has missed.” “Then it has missed?” said Colonel Hanger, wiping the powder from his eyes. d “Yes, she is untouched, and is still haranguing the people.” , “Your Highness may be assured that nothing but the death of that woman will leave you in peace ” ‘ The Regent made no reply to this observation, but turning round, said, ‘‘ Where is Mr. Arrow- smith?’ “It is a plot against the life of the. a THE DARK WOMAN. IT ig Rh Ua TROIS ES ec = a AZZ Z Sy LEELA This was the page who had been in waiting, , asylum, where every exira precaution wowd, be and who, the moment that he had recovered bis | taken to prevent her eseaping. feet, had adopted the most practical mode he could’) There was but one objection to this course. of getting rid of the Dark Woman. It was notso;) That objection was Atlan F:aron. What would romantic as shooting her through a window, but } the Regent say to him, when, by virtue of the as it turned out, it was much more effectual, since | general invitation he had received, he should it was Mr. Arrowsmith, the page in waiting, , come to the Palace and ask for his mother ? who brought the two constables into the Colour} Was the persecution, which the Regent had so Court. ij lomg endured from the Dark Woman on account The Dark Woman was conducted into a very of her son, only to change its title, and to become small room upon the ground floor of the Palace, ia persecution from that son on account of his and the page, after seeing her safely bestowed mother? there, burried to the Regent, for the purpose of : Truly the Regent was puzzled how to act, and taking his further instructions in regard to her. , it was in the midst of this emergency that he But never had the Regent been more puzzled | thought of his appointment with Sir Hinckton how to act, than upon the present occasion. The Moys. notoriety of the whole affair brought with it | And then came the recollection of all that Moys many serious considerations; but still the domi- had insinuated in that letter which had procured nant idea in the mind of the Prince was to. the appointment. ; transfer Linda de Chevenaux once more to some “ Surely, surely,” said the Regent, to himself, No, 55.—Darx Woman, ab a ey II Tr ee gti rt rn rth ———q 18 “if this new-found son of mine, be really the spy and intriguant that Moys and the Marchioness of Sunningham say he is, I need not consider what he will say or do under any such circumstances.” ‘Then the Regent made up his mind that he would see Sir Hinckton Moys before he determined upon what he would do with his prisoner, the Dark Woman. Turning to the page, he spoke rather abruptly. ‘Let the officers,” he said, ‘keep her in close and safe custody. In half an hour I shall know what to do with her,” The Regent knew very well where Moys would be waiting for him, and much to the chagrin of Colonel Hanger, he passed him without another word, and went to the meeting with the lately disgraced favourite, who certainly had a fair chance of a re-instalment in the Royal favour. Moys was pacing the room in which he was waiting to see the Regent in great perplexity of mind. He felt that he was at fault—he wanted more information to make him feel perfect in the. part he had to play. He had been taken too much by surprise in the | discovery of the close relationship between Allan Fearon and the Regent, to be able as yet to arrange in his own mind what it would be safe to do, say, or suggest. And, if it be possible, all his old feelings of hatred against Allan Fearon were largely increased. He had another score to settle with him on ac- count of the wonnd he had so recently received ; and the more difficult it seemed to be to achieve revenge on Allan Fearon, the more passionately ardent became Sir Hinckton Moys in his desire for it. Aud he could not but feel the circumstances were how widely different from what they were. The poor, obscure Allan Fearon was a very dif- ferent personage indeed from even the illegitimate | son of the Regent. . It was this state of perplexity which had made Sir Hinckton Moys very tolerant indeed of the Regent’s want of punctuality in meeting him at mid-day as he had promised. It was a great misfortune for Sir Hinckton Moys that the room in which he was placed to await the coming of the Prince commanded no view of the Colour Court; for if it had, he would have accumulated some more materials for thought and action. To be sure, he could not but hear that there was some confusion, and the pistol-shot sounded strangely in his ears. He would fain have made some inquiry, but having achieved so much beyond expectation in getting the Regent to make an appointment with him at all, he feared to lose that vantage-ground by any indiscretion. So Sir Hinckton Moys waited. And at length the door was flung open, and the page announced “‘ His Highness, the Regent !” Sir Hinckton Moys bowed almost to the buckles of his shoes. “Well, Moys,” said the Regent, “ you're here again. Of course I had your letter, but I don’t know what to say about it.” “Tf I might advise your Royal Highness,” replied Moys, executing another bow, and throw- ing an air of great respect into his manner, “I would not believe a word of it.” THE DARK WOMAN, “What ?” “Not a word of it, your Royal Highness.” “And yet you had the audacity to write it to me |” “Tf your Royal Highness will graciously permit me to add why I would not believe a word of it, I am sure I shall be quite exonerated from the charge of audacity.” ' “Why, then ?” . “Because I think that your Royal Highness ought not to believe anything half so serious without proof.” arth at | “ Ah, to be sure! You're right there!” Sir Hinckton bowed again. “Tt would indeed have been audacity to write such a letter, unless I felt quite certain that the proof would be forthcoming.” . ‘Then you mean to say that you really can prove that this young than, this—this Allan Fearon, is all that you say?” “T regret much, your Highness, to be placed in such a position that my desire for your service impels me to such proof, becanse—because——” “Because what? Why do you hesitate, Sir Hinckton ?” “Because I cannot define it to myself, or say | why; but I have quite an affection for the young | man.” c Hem ” : “‘Yos, he has won tpon my regard in a sitgalar fashion; so much sd, that had I stood upon the same terms with your Royal Highness as formérly; I should have liked to have recommended him to your service.” ARE “‘ Well, well; no more of that, Let mé kiiow distinctly what you charge him with ?” ne Sir Hinckton Moys spoke slowly and resolutely: “He is in the pay of the people at Buckingham House, and Y ' “And what 2?” i ‘*‘ He is on excellent terms with Annie, Countess de Blonde,” ‘And you mean to tell me you can prove those two things ?” “JT can, and will, with your Highness’s per- mission.” ‘‘ Then,” said the Regent, as he paced the room uneasily, “I cast him off for ever. I will not have another word to say to him. I will see him no more, and will forget that I have a—a co The Regent paused, turned abruptly upon Moys, saying while he looked into his eyes, ‘Do you know who this young man is? Have you no suspicion of who he is?” Sir Hinckton Moys was certainly a most accomplished actor, for nothing could exceed the look of quiet, easy candour with whieh he gazed into the face of the Regent, as he said, ‘‘ No.” _ “T thought not—I thought not. Very well, Sir Hinckton. We will have your proof. But mind you, nothing but absolute proof, such as I can convince myself of with my own senses, will suffice. You go to Buckingham House your- self.” ‘On your Highness’s service ?” “Well, well! I suppose, come what may, we mustn’t have you at St. James’s. The Countess de Blonde is as bitter against you as ever. : “ But,” slowly insinuated Sir Hinckton Moys, “if your Royal Highness should really discover that the Countess is playing you false?” THE DARK WOMAN. ‘“‘ Why, then,” said the Prince, as he shut his hands tightly, “‘ she should go at once.” “ And then ?” “Oh, then, you might come back, because of course there would be no difficulty.” “‘ T don’t think I could ever rest a night in St. James’s Palace while so great a traitor to your Highness’s feelings and wishes resided in it as that double-dealing trickster, Willes. He is the spy, go-between, and letter-carrier among all these people.” “* Well, well, we will see to that. Bring me your proofs. You can have access when you like. And now I have some news for you.” ‘“ Before imparting that, will your Royal High- ness promise me one thing ?” ‘‘ What is it 2” “ Secrecy.” “ Ah, yes! Icomprehend! These folks must not be put upon their guard. ‘Trust to me for that. I am only too anxious to arrive at the truth, to do anything which might jeopardize such a consummation.” “ Ah, your Highness, I had forgotten.” “ What, now?” “There is another one about you, who makes an infamous traffic of your confidence. I allude to, Colonel Hanger.” “ Moys, if you came back through one door, if there was but another in the whole Palace of St. James’s, out at that other, I fancy Colonel Hanger would see the propriety of going. Are you content ?” “7 am.? “ Very well, then. Listen to me. Woman is a prisoner in my hands.” “ Ah!” exclaimed Sir Hinckton Moys; ‘' then that accounts for # He was going to add “ for my not finding her at home in Hanover Square ;” but as he had not thought proper to say anything to the Regent of that circumstance at ali, he turned it off into the words—‘ that accounts for your Royal Highness looking somewhat pleased this morning.” “She came here,” added the Regent, ‘and by dint of severe threats, secured an interview with me. She held a pistol to my head.” * Capital !” “Capital say you ?” “Yes, your Royal Highness; for now there is but one way to deal with her. That is high treason. Let a warrant be issued, and send her to the Tower. She can go quietly and secretly, and need not be brought to trial for an indefinite period. It is probable, too, that any one who may take an interest in her fate may be easily con- vinced that their best plan will be to leave her there in peace.” “The Tower,” said the Regent, musingly. ‘It might be done.” “Most easily, your Highness. A Council warrant would place her there in custody at once, and it is better than all the lunatic asylums in the world for such a person.” ‘J will consider,” said the Regent. ‘“ Good morning, now, Sir Hinckton Moys. Believe me, I shall wait impatiently for the proofs of the facts you have alleged.” The Dark 19 CHAPTER CXVI. SIR HINCKTON MOYS MANUFACTURES PROOFS FOR THE REGENT. Ir was about the dusk of that same evening, that, in a small apartment at Buckingham House, two persons might have been seen, engaged in earnest conversation. Their heads were very close together, and they spoke in whispers; for each had something to com- municate to the other which was interesting. These persons were none other than Sir Hinck- ton Moys and the Marchioness of Sunningham, who had entered into so complete an alliance, that they almost began to trust each other. Moys was detailing the particulars of his in- terview with the Regent, and the Marchioness was giving the latest intelligence respecting the politics of Buckingham House, ‘And now,” said Sir Hinckton, “it will be necessary that no time be lost in providing the Regent with the proofs he requires. This young man, Allan Fearon, must be induced to pay a visit here to Buckingham House.” “That cannot be difficult,’ said the Mar- chioness. “‘ And,” added Moys, ‘‘ the Countess de Blonde must be induced to pay a visit to his lodgings.” “ That will be a little more difficult, I’m afraid.” “T think not. I can manage the one, if you, Marchioness, can manage the other; and the Regent must see both. Nothing will satisfy him but demonstration of his own eyesight. And now, Marchioness, if you will write a note to this Allan Fearon, I will see that it be delivered.” *T will write from your dictation, Sir Hinckton. The little despatch which you worded to me on a former occasion was too clever for me not to have confidence in your powers on this occasion.” ‘* Marchioness, you flatter me.” “Not at all. Now begin, I am ready.” “¢Mr. Allan Fearon is particularly requested to call at Buckingham House at half-past ten o’clock this evening, and ask for the Marchioness of Sunningham, who has. something of great in- terest to impart to him respecting his mother. The Marchioness, both on her own part, and on that of a higher personage, feels very earnestly the services rendered.’ ” ‘“‘Is that all?” said the Marchioness, as Sir Hinckton Moys ceased dictating. “Tt will do.” “Rather ambiguous.” ““T hope so, Marchioness. The first paragraph will bring him, the second will puzzle him; but should he ever produce the letter in a certain quarter, it will tally with already well-grounded suspicions,” The Marchioness of Sunningham was very well satisfied that Sir Hinckton Moys was doing the very best he could for their mutual interests, so the note was fairly copied and placed in his hands, and Moys set about one of the most despicable transactions which the ingenuity of a fiend could have produced, In these cases the cunning intriguer would trust, no one but himself; and attired in a shabby great 30 THE DARK WOMAN. | | | j | a, Da a Se I aN Fe aN wl Bet Fees tae ot . coat, and a hat which came far over his brows, | and what a odd thing it is that I can’t find Shucks! Moys left Buckingham Honse, and walked hastily There's no end of odd things in the world. I to Martlett’s Court, where he still believed Allan | fancy we was both a little the worse for something Fearon and Marian to reside. to drink; and it seems like a dream, but I think The hour was early, and provided the note could | we went into St. James's Park, What can have have reached Allan’s.eyes any time within an | become of him? Well, I suppose he'll turn up hour or an hour anda half after it was written, | someday. But I must go to the Countess again there would have been ample time for him tocom- | to-morrow morning, for I’ve got rid of all my ply with its directions. money one way or another, and my fine clothes, Moys, however, met with a little disappoint- | too. I'm sure those fellows cheated us—those ment upon being informed that Fearon had re- | checkers, with their dice!” moved; but yet the distance was not great, and Brads—for it was indeed our old acquaintance he took his way at once down to the street by the | of that name—made his way in rather an erratic river, where Allan and Marian had found a home, | fashion down towards the house in the occupation Of course, Sir Hinckton had no idea of appear- | of Allan Fearon. ing himself as the bearer of the note, and he The circumstances which made that house and looked anxiously about him for some person whom | its occupants interesting to Brads, are already well he could employ for that purpose. known to the reader. A man came lounging along in a lazy manner, There it was that that child resided who was and attired in such a costume that Moys thought | the only being that really bound him by affec- he would be just the person who would be glad | tionate ties to the world, and who, by being in to earn a shilling, which, in the neighbourhood of | the care of the Fearons, had induced in his mind the Strand, could be so readily converted into some | a transfer of some of the affection he had for her strong potation. to them, ‘‘ My good fellow,” said Moys, ‘'do you mind Little did Sir Hinckton Moys imagine that a earni: g a shilling by a five minutes’ job ?” duplicate of that very paper that he had wrenched ‘Not a bit,” said the man, with a strange sort | from the dying Sbucks, in St. James's Park, was of langh,—‘not a bit! I’m cleaned out!” . actually at that moment in the breast-pocket of ‘* Very well. Then take this note, and deliver | the man upon whom he had bestowed a shilling it to its address.” to take the letter to,Allan Fearon. ‘““Why, you see, I haven’t the advantage of It was strange that Brads became more sober reading, so I don’t think I can do it. And | to all appearance as he approached the house. The where’s the odds; for if I am cleaned out to-night, | growing presence of the better feelings of his na- don’t I know where to go in the morning, and get | ture seemed to have this effect upon him; and by a fresh supply ?” the time he reached Allan Fearon’s door, there was There was a thickness and hesitation about this | nothing left of the appearance in him of the reck- man’s utterance which left no question at all upon | less man of crime he really was. the mind of Moys that he was in a state of semi- Even the knock with which he demanded ad- inebriation. mittance was gentle and submissive. But such a man suited Sir Hinckton quite as ‘“Who knows?” he said. ‘* Perhaps the little well, provided he really delivered the letter, since | one’s asleep; and it isn't for such a fellow as I am probably by the next morning he would forget all | to go waking her up.” about it, and Moys was fully alive to the desir- Allan was at home. He had waited more than ableness of not accumulating small evidences in | half the-day at the Countess of d’Umbra's house regard to his little transactions. in Hanover Square, and then, despairing of her “My good fellow, I will read the address to | presence perhaps until nightfall, be had hurried you—or, at all events, the name, for.I can point | home, after leaving word with Carlos, the page, to out to you the house. It is the last house look- | seek his mistress’s permission to let him, Allan, ing on to the river, and the person you are to ask | know when she returned. for is Mr. Allan Fearon.” But still, notwithstanding all that Carlos had ‘‘ Allan Fearon?” exclaimed the man. said, there was a very uneasy impression on the * Ah! do you know him ?” mind of Fearon in regard to the fate of that Dark “Not a bit. I thought you said Smith, be- | Woman who was entitled to call him son. cause I know Jack Smith, you see, if it had been That she was surrounded by many dangers he him.” could well conceive, and an intense anxiety began “Drunken idiot!” muttered Sir Hinckton | to take possession of himin regard to what might Moys; ‘but he will answer my purpose as well | be the ultimate fate of one so surrounded by dan- as any other. Take the letter, my man, and | gerous circumstances. there's your shilling. I will wait for you at the It was as much as Marian could do to produce corner of the street.” anything like a feeling of serenity or of patience “ All's right! I'll do it.” for a time in the mind of Allan, and when he Sir Hinckton Moys watched the big burly figure | heard Brads knock at the door, he started to his of this man, as he went down towards the house | feet. now in the occupation of Fearon; but perhaps he; ‘Surely that,” he cried, “is some news of would not have been quite so well pleased, if he | her ?” had heard the muttered remarks of the semi- ‘Doubtless, Allan,” said Marian; “for we inebriated individual as he went on his errand. have no visitors.” ‘“ Who's he, I wonder? As sure as my name’s Allan flung the door open ; but the night was Brads, I’ve seen him before! What a odd thing | too dark upon the river, and the one oil-lamp in that he should give me a letter to carry to Mr. | that narrow street too far off, to enable him dis- Fearon just as I was a going to see my little girl; | tinctly to see his visitor. a ee = re Brads spoke very gently. “I don’t want to wake the little one, if she’s asleep, Mr. Fearon; but I thought I'd just call to ask how she was, and how you all were.” “Ab! I know you! The child sleeps; but come in—you are ever welcome.” “ Well, you see, Mr. Fearon, I’ feels like a sort of acquaintance, because I'm an old pal of Six- teen-stringed Jack's. Bless you, Mr. Fearon, it seems to me as if about this house where the little one is there was a something—a something—well, I don’t know what to call it; but it is something that makes me feel weak-hearted.” ‘+ Come in—come !” “Yes, I’m a coming. Perhaps you haven't got such a thing as a drop of something to drink ?” ‘‘ Indeed, we have not.” “To be sure not. What a wretch I was to ask you, as if the thoughts of the little one wasn't meat and drink all in one tome! How do you do, ma'am? I hope you are allright, ma'am. I was just a saying to your young man here that I feel quite well myself, and if you would hke a thousand pounds to-morrow to lay out in a few toys, you know, for the little one, why I know where to get them.” ‘* What is that you have ?” said Fearon, as he saw the letter in the hands of Brads. ‘‘ Bless me !—to be sure! I have a head and so has a hammer. It’s a letter for you.” “For me ?” “Oh, yes! A cove gave it to me at the end of the street, and a shilling ; but that makes no difference, maam, to the thousand pounds, to- morrow. You see, ma'am, I have been cleared out at the Chequers, and I’m dead sure they cheated,” “* Marian, read this,” said Allan. it mean ?” Marian read the note that had been written by the Marchioness of Sunningham, on the dictation of Sir Hinckton Moys, with deep surprise. ‘* Buckingham House, Allan,” she said, “is the residence of the Princess of Wales.” “Tris. But yet it is possible that there they may know something of my mother. I will go at once.” ** Do, Allan—do !” ‘So do,” said Brads. cence !” “ Eh 2” **Oh, I begs your pardon, ma’am! Bless. us, J feel a want of something weak—I mean strong. Good night—God bless you all! I will tell the cove at the end of the street that it’s all right. He isn’t the best looking cove in all the world, aud I—I—good night—good—good night—crack the crib—crack —eh ?—good night !” Brads slid off his chair, and, with his head and shoulders propped up against it, fell fast asleep. ‘+ What is to be done 2?” said Marian. Allan looked vexed. ‘*T must carry him out, Marian dear, for it is time, if I would obey the mandate in this letter, that T should make my way to Buckingham House.” “Let him remain,” said Marian,—‘‘let him remain, Allan, nntil you return. We will not forget that he is the father of that dear child who is committed to our care. Let him sleep, and by “ What can ‘‘Crack the crib at THE DARK WOMAN. 21 the time you return he will probably be quite recovered.” * Be it so, then, Marian. Shut up the house, and you can sit in the upper room with the little one.” ‘© Oh, ves, yes!” Brads was evidently in a profound sleep; and Allan hurried on his hat, and sallied out with the note in his hand, to keep his appointment with the Marchioness of Sunningham at Buckingham House. It was indeed fortunate for the plans of Sir Hinckton Moys that there was in the mind of Allan already a great anxiety about his mother, since the expression used in the letter just came to apply to it. Moys was in a doorway at the end of the street. He was waiting for his messenger; but he was better pleased to sea Allan himself issue out of the street, and make his way with hurried steps down the Strand. ‘That will do,” said Moys. ‘I have him now. If I fairly house him at Buckingham House, the Marchioness will keep him either waiting or in some frivolous talk until I can bring the Regent into the Park to see him emerge from it again.” Thus, then, everything seemed to be turning out just as Sir Hinckton Moys wished. Allan Fearon probably would have been much more thoughtful and suspicious about the note he had received in so mysterious a fashion, but for the real and deep anxiety he felt for the fate of his mother. It was that one word ‘* mother” which was the true iovocation in the letter from Buckingham House, which swayed his feelings. And so, without casting a single glance behind him to sea if he were followed, and withont, for one moment, the idea crossing his brain that he might be so, Allan turned towards St. James’s Park, at the Pimlico end of which was situated the then well-known Buckingham House, Sir Hinckton Moys dogged him like his shadow. The entrance by the Horse Guards was the one most handy to Allan; and passing the sentinels on duty there, he made his way, in a slant direc- tion, towards the grand mall. The old trees were now in full leaf, and betrayed but little indication of the terrible winter that had just passed away. ° The night was dark; and although Sir Hinck- ton Moys kept wonderfully close to Allan, even had the latter now turned, to see if any one was in the Park close to him, he could not have recognised the courtier. And so Fearon sped onwards; and young, agile, and fleet of foot as he was, he soon reached the gate of Buckingham House. Orders had been given by the politic and un- scrupulous Marchioness of Sunningham, that if a gentleman naming himself Fearon were to come | to the house, he was to be shown into her own apartments. Allan, therefore, was received in the hall of Buckingham House as an accredited visitor, and was at once taken up a flight of stairs, and shown into a handsome room which the Marchioness of Sunningham called her own while she favoured the Princess of Wales with her company. Now a consultation had taken place in Bucks ee 22 THE DARK WOMAN, ingham House, regarding Allan Fearon, to which the Princess of Wales had not been admitted. That consultation was specially in regard to Allan Fearon, The object of it was to decide whether it would not be sound and good policy to endeavour to make a real friend, spy, and partisan of Allan, instead of merely amusing him for a time in the mansion, so that the Regent might, to suit, the purposes of Sir Hinckton Moys, believe him to be such. They had as yet no real knowledge of who Allan was. That secret, which he would not, as we have seen, take the trouble to keep as a secret at all, had not yet got to be sufliciently public to reach Buckingham House. What these intriguing ladies, who so damaged the cause of the Princess of Wales, by crowding about her, thought, was that, in truth, Allan Fearon was the favoured lover of Annie Gray, the so-called Countess de Blonde. Probably enough, from their own experiences, they thought it no such unlikely thing, that while the fair Countess de Blonde professed to be every- thing to the Regent, her real fancies were some- where else. They knew the favour that Annie enjoyed with the Prince, and they thought that it would be no bad plan to detach Allan from her in reality, and convert him into a real spy upon St. James’s, while he was only to be thought one by the Regent. The Marchioness of Sunningham was finally deputed by the little party to try all the arts she possessed to shake Allan’s supposed allegiance to the Countess de Blonde. Therefore was it that he was received by the Marchioness with an empressment of style and manner which she thought would go far towards fascinating him. Besides, she was a real Marchioness, while his Countess de Blonde, as the Marchioness thought her, was but a theatrical dignity. “Surely,” she thought, ‘so young a man will easily fall before the artillery of such arts and euch charms as I can bring into the field.” Allan had not waited many minutes before the fair and portly Marchioness made her appearance, with so fascinating a smile upon her face that it was evident she meant to conquer. Allan, with the natural inborn grace of a gen- tleman, bowed low, and handed the Marchioness a chair. She had made up her mind to play a certain part; and in order to get rid of a difficulty at the commencement, she had determined to entirely repudiate the letter which had been written by her from the dictation of Sir Hinckton Moys, and sent to Allan. It would be much more convenient to do so, inasmuch as the mother, who was there mentioned, she, the Marchioness, knew nothing whatever about. Allan waited for the elegant lady to commence the conversation; but as she put on an inquiring look, and only indulged in a few set smiles, he found himself compelled to say something. ‘‘ Madam,” he said, ‘ have I the honour of addressing the Marchioness of Sunningham ?” * Certainly.” “* My name, then, is Fearon, madam.” The Marchioness looked gracious, but the sort of inclination of the head she bestowed upon Allan seemed to say quite plainly, “ Well, what then ?” Allan was somewhat disconcerted. ‘‘ Madam,” he said, “‘ your note requesting me to call here, came duly to hand.” “ My note?” ‘“‘ Yes, madam; and I am here in consequence,” “ This is surprising, sir.” “¢ Surprising, madam ?” “ Yes; for I thought you were here in conse- quence of a note which you had sent to me.” ‘ T, madam ?” ‘Oh, yes! I received a note, signed Allan Fearon, requesting an interview with me, on some important matters in connexion with the Princess of Wales.” ““ Impossible !” ** Do, you doubt my word, sir?” “Oh, no, madam. I merely meant to say that it was impossible I could have anything to say to you about the Princess of Wales.” The Marchioness again bowed, and smiled. ‘“‘ Here, madam, is the letter I received.’ . Allan produced and held out to her the letter, which the Marchioness glanced at, and then in a firm voice said, ‘‘ A forgery, sir!” “Indeed! Then, madam, I can say the same, without even so much as looking at it, for the letter you state you have received from me.” ‘Then, sir, we have both been deceived.” “* Both, madam.” “We have been made the sport of some cruel jest.” ‘“* Or we have been brought together, madam, in furtherance of some wicked and sinister design.” “Can you think go?” ‘“‘From my heart, I believe it.” ‘‘ Then you have an enemy ?” “‘ Indeed, I have.” “‘And, I, too. Oh, sir! do you not feel that there is, afier all, a something providential about our meeting ?” “There may be, madam; but since koth the letters seem to be forgeries, I think the best way to disappoint their author is for me to respectfully take my leave.” Allan rose and bowed. ed OHAPTER CXVIL THE REGENT IS CONVINCED THAT HE CAN TRUST TO NO ONE. As Allan Fearon bowed to go, the Marchioness of Sunoningham approached closer to him, and laying her fair, plump, jewelled hand upon his arm, she said, “Oh, no, no, Mr. Fearon; there is surely another and a better way to disappoint our ene- mies.” ‘“‘Ts there, madam 2?” “Yes. Does not your own heart point it out to you?” . Allan shook his head. “Tt is, then, that we should really become friends from this auspicious moment.” Allan was silent for a moment. * It was a very difficult thing to reply to a pretty woman, with the perfect courtesy of a gentleman, THE DARK WOMAN. when she made such a speech, and yet to let her know that nothing was further from his intentions than to make friends with any one at Buckingham House. “Madam,” he said, ‘Iam much honoured by your kindness, but—bat——” “Nay, I will take no denial. Come, sit down again, and let us converse like old friends.” ‘Pardon me, Lady Sunningham, bu “That odious, terrible ‘but,’ again. What can it mean? Ah, Mr. Fearon, is your heart so thoroughly the property of another, that there is no room in it for even a new sensation ?” ‘Te is? “‘T know that other well.” “You, madam ?” “Yes, quite well; and I can tell you that she is tottering to a fall, even at this present time; and such a fall, too, as will bring down, in her own destruction, all who cling solely to her and her fortunes.” -“Really, madam,” said Allan, with quite a puzzled look, “I do not in the least comprehend you. ? » “Artful man!” said the Marchioness, as she tapped the back of Allan’s hand with a fan. “No, madam. You mistake me much.” “Ah, no! I know your whole sex. It is a principle I am well aware of, with you men, never to acknowledge to one woman that you care in the least for another.” “Tt is no principle of mine, Lady Sunningham ; for here, I at once assure you that my whole heart and affections are so completely engaged and absorbed, that, as you say, I have no room for a new sensation.” ** Indeed!” “It is the truth.” “Then you must suffer the most terrible of pangs.” ‘What pangs ?” * OF jealousy.” “] jealous! Oh, no, madam! I would scorn to nourish the vain and deadly passion. My love is a thing that has become a part of my existence— the fair, brighter, and happier part, and it is quite free from any sensations, or jealous pangs.” “You amaze me.” Allan bowed. He was beginning to have a cordial dislike to the woman, who, upon so short and so slight an acquaintance, sought to engage him in conversation upon such a subject. But never were two people more at cross pur- poses than were Allan Fearon and the Marchioness of Sunningham. It was Marian’s image that was ever present to the mind of Fearon. It was the Countess de Blonde to whom the Marchioness alluded. “Can it be possible,” she said, “that you love this woman as you say, and yet feel. no pangs at the knowledge of her acquaintance with his Royal Highness the Regent ?” “Acquaintance with the Regent ? - She has no acquaintance with the Regent.” “What? The Countess de Blonde has no ac~ quaintance with the Regent ?” “Madam, I was not, talking or thinking of the Countess de Blonde.” “‘ Of who, then ?” “Of my wife.” Led é é “Oh!” ; There was so much pitying contempt about the tone of voice in which this “ oh!” was uttered, that Allan, all unused as he was to the ways of such persons as the Mafchioness, could not bu feel that it was intended to express the utter cont: mpt in which a man was held who had the sligiitest respect for his moral obligations. Allan determined to go at once. He moved towards the door. ““My lady,” he said, “it seems that we lave both been much mistaken, and that this wiiole interview is an inopportune blunder and mistiike, I have the honour to take my leave.” “Oh, no, no! We shall soon understand euch other better, I am sure.” ‘“‘T am equally sure we shall not, madam. On the contrary, I am of opinion that the longer we converse, the more we shall find that we mis-- understand each other.” The Marchioness was piqued; but she did not like to give up the game quite so easily. ‘‘ Listen to me for a moment,” she said. “By | attaching yourself to the fortunes of the Princess of Wales, a brilliant future may await you.” ‘‘ Madam, I respectfully decline.” “Ah, Mr. Fearon, is not all this acting? Are: you so very insensible ? No—no—no—no !” At each of these utterances of the word no, the Marchioness approached closer and closer still to Allan, until he could feel her breath upon his cheek. “Madam,” he said, “ you waste blandishments upon one who is indeed insensible to them. Good night !” “6 Wretch !” Allan bowed, and made towards the door. ‘* Monster !” pili i Allan laughed. ‘Be it so,then,” cried the Marchioness: “ you have made a foe where you might have made a - ‘friend. Go, and remember that there is one thing which a woman never forgets.” Allan opened the door. “And that,” screamed the Marchioness, ‘‘is a slight when she—she ij Allan was gone. He did not hear the last part of the sentence, so he failed to know how far, in her anger, the Marchioness would in words admit the part she had been playing. It was with a sensation of immense relief that Allan found himself once more on the outside of Buckingham House, and with the free air of the Park blowing upon his face. There was much that was confusing about the scene he had gone through, and Allan could not help thinking there was much more in it and in its consequences, than at once met the eye. He was, indeed, as the reader is well aware, right in that idea. Perhaps if Allan Fearon had been a vain man, he might have supposed that the whole affair had its origin in some fancy that the Marchioness had taken to him, owing to having accidentally seen him somewhere. r But no one in the world could be more free from personal vanity than Allan Fearon, and such an explanation of the eccentric conduct of her ladyship never occurred to him. Little—as little did the real truth present itself to his imagination, and he was far indeed from sc an aaa et Ee 24 supposing that he had been cajoled into a visit to Buckingham House in order that the Regent might, with his own eyes, see him emerge from it. The night still continued very dark, and when Sr Hinckton Moys had fairly seen Allan Fearon hyased in Backingham House, he went as quickly a1he could tu Carlton House. By the aid of that key of which he still held possession, he opened the garden gate and let himself in. Hv was prepared with a sealed-up rote, on which ware merely the following words :— “The proof of one of the allegations of Sir Hinckton Moys awaits his Royal Highness the Regent.” Moys felt so certain that the time was rapidly approaching when he should be able to resume his old station at the Court, that he scarcely took the trouble to conceal himself in the garden of Carlton House. He had had time to reflect fully upon the . character of the relationship which he had found to subsist between the Regent and Allan Fearon, and instead of discouragement from the cir- cumstance that they were father and son, he began to gather hope: What could be a greater aggravation of the | jealousy of the Regemt, than to find, or fancy he To nnenomnsoreneanensrsn-w-rerwarioneretvarsaatavenssantssnnsshisentn-sthensrsabisishi iyr=epaligpepyanpesmceonv-osn found, it was his own son who was the favoured lover of his mistress ? If anything could barb the shaft, that know- ledge surely would do so. Therefore was it that Sir Hinckton Moys re- solved to carry out his plans to the letter, so far as they regarded Allan Fearon, with the one ex- ception that he could not help feeling now how inexpedient would be any attempt upon the life of Allan, since the Regent would never again allow him to stand in the mortal jeopardy from which he had been so narrowly rescued. With that one exception, then, Moys was pre- pared to carry out his original plan. Making his way towards a portion of Carlton House, where he knew he should fiad some of the servants, he, to the intense surprise of a couple of the royal. footmen, walked coolly into a room where they were indulging in a pleasant hot supper. . They knew him instantly. Moys did not give them time to make any remark about his presence in the Palace, but at once handed out the note he had prepared. “You will let the Prince have this at once,” he said. ‘It is his Royal Highness’s orders that there should be no delay. You will likewise inform the Regent that I am in waiting in the Audience Chamber, to which I will now pro- ceed.” The footman looked aghast. But still there was such an air of confidence and command about Moys that they dreaded to disobey him. One of them took the note. “ Be quick, or the Regent will be angry,” added Sir Hinckton. ‘6 Yes, sir.” The point was gained. After once the letter had been respectfully received, and a reply of such a character given, it was too late to object to Sir Hinckton Moys’s orders; and, at that i Te OS Oo THE DARK WOMAN. moment, he could almost feel that he was in Carlton House upon his old footing as the con- fidant of the Regent, and a man whose orders were to be considered as almost of equal import- ance as those of the Regent himself, But some change had taken place in the feelings of the Prince of Wales with regard to the whole transaction by this time; and if from the bottom of his heart he had told the exact truth, he would have declared that it would please him better if the proofs of Sir Hinckton Moys’s statements were withheld from him. He saw nothing but trouble in those proofs; and provided they fully came up to the conditions which Moys had specified, they would of necessity entail upon him some action, which, however justified it might be by the facts, would go a long way towards making him uncomfortable in bis domestic affairs. Even then he would have been only too glad to compound with the whole affair by giving Allan and the Dark Woman such asum of money as would have assured to them ease and competence, always provided they would have left him in peace and ease, by going to some other country than England to enjoy it. But that was a sort of compromise that his judgment told him Linda de Chevenaux would be the last person ever to enter into. The Regent then kept his appointment practically with Sir Hinckton Moys, although it was some time before he appeared, during which Moys en- dured agonies of impatience. Moys was most obsequious in his manner to the Prince, and he affected an air of blunt sin- cerity, which he thought that the occasion fully warranted him in using. “ Your Royal Highness,” he said, “was good enough to require of me certain proofs of state- ments [ had the honour of making.” “Well, well?” Moys cou'd see that the Regent was impatient, and he certainly did not keep him long in sus- pense, “T have, then, one of those proofs, if your Highness will only choose to look upon it.” ** What is it?” “The proof that the young man named Allan Fearon is an accomplice with the party at Buck- ham House,” “That is all?” “For the present, it is all. The other proof, that he is the favoured lover of the Countess de Blonde, shall be forthcoming.” The Regent paced the room uneasily. “Tt is late, do vou know, Moys?” he said. “By daylight, your Highness, I should fiud it difficult to lay the proof before you, without too great a risk.” “ Risk ?—what risk ?” ‘To your Royal Highness’s reputation.” “ My reputation ?” “Yes. It would not do for your Highness to be observed watching a subject.” “No, no! Certainly not. And since you put it in that light, I don’t think it will do for me to be seen at such an employment, or even to be known by any ome to have undertaken it at any hour, whether of day or night.” “Am I, then, to understand that your High- ness will not avail yourself of an opportunity te (Oat A een nett ae ech ata tna heat nl BAINES. SEF eer) if nh it i i ni put an end to all doubts at once by merely taking a walk in the Park.” “ Can I do so?” ‘‘ It is all that will be required.” The Regent hesitated. “ And so, Moys, you say that I may be satis- fied that my—that is, that this young man, Allan Fearon, is in league with those who are my avowed foes, by merely taking a walk in the Park ?” “ Just so, your Highness.” “T will do it.” ‘“‘It is well resolved. A cloak and a hat some- what different to that which you usually wear, will be ample and sufficient disguise.” ““Wait here. I will soon return to you.” The Regent was absent about ten minutes. When he returned, he was attired in a cloak that completely covered him up from head to foot. No. 56.—Darkx Woman, AC ALG NL TORE EY NO CO me a rman 0 tnt i Se —S “ Now, Moys,” he said, ‘I am ready for you. I will, as the poet says, ‘show my eyes if I grieve my heart.’” If Sir Hinckton Moys had not happened to be aware of the close relationship between the Re- gent and Allan Fearon, these words would have been perfectly inexplicable, but as it was, they were easily understood. Moys, however, took good care to make no re- mark upon them; and he and the Prince sallied out by a small side door in one of the wings of Carlton House into the garden. It was scarcely to be supposed that the Regent was not seen by some of the servants of the Palace; but it was a point of etiquette which they all understood perfectly well that the Prince was never to be observed either in going out or coming into Carlton House when he evidently did not want to attract attention. The cool air of the garden was grateful to tho er. OF Tat DARK WOMAN, One eet a i eee LE pr th eaten tent I RN RR NS 26 Regent, and he seemed to breathe more freely. it was not to be supposed that, cold, callous, and selfish as that man was, he yet had no human feeling; it was, no doubt, a heart-bitterness to him to think that he was about to have proof that his own son betrayed him. Sir Hinckton Moys could not but be conscious that the Prince was not well pleased. The silence that ensued after they had reached the Park for some minutes was rather an embarrass- ing one to the courtier, who but a short time before was so full of elated feelings. He almost began to suspect that it would have been better after all to have left Allan Fearon alone. But it was too late now for retreat. “Tf your Highness,” he said, ‘‘ will condescend to stand in the shadow of these elm trees, you will command a view of the gate of Buckingham House.” ** Very well.” The tone in which the Regent spoke was short and curt. It sounded uncomfortably upon the ears of Sir Hinckton Moys. But not for many minutes was the patience of the Prince of Wales tried by waiting on that spot. Had the night vigil lasted much longer, he cer- tainly would have givenit up. As it was, he had just made a movement as though he were about ro speak, when Moys: spoke sharply, ‘ There! There, your Highness !” “ Ah!” ** You see him ?” **T see some one.” ** Coming out of the house ?” * Yes, yes |” ‘Tt is the young man I have mentioned to your Royal Highness.” * T don’t know that.” Sir Hinckton almost uttered an exclamation of anger; at that moment he would gladly have applied the well-known proverb to the Prince of *‘None so blind as those who will not see;” but he was saved all necessity of saying anything further on the subject of the identity of Allan by his own movements. As if fate would have it that the Regent should have no doubt, whatever, on his mind in regard to his identity, Fearon crossed over from the gate of Buckingham House exactly to the clump of elm trees, in the deep shadow of which the regent and Sir Hinckton Moys were hidden. Then Allan paused a moment, and gazed back at Buckingham House. He even spoke. “Yes,” he said; “I must hurry back now, and hold a consultation with Marian ; for I feel as- sured there is more in all this than meets the eye.” Then Allan hurried along the wall, and was soon lost to sight in the darkness of the night. ‘The Regent drew a long breath. “Yes,” he said. ‘There is no doubt now.” “Your Royal Highness is quite convinced ?” “T am!—I am!” “That this young man is an emissary of Buck- ingham House?” ‘Tt must be so.” Sir Hinckton Moys was delighted. . The Regent turned, to go back to Carlton House; and when they reached the little door in the garden wall, of which the Prince always had services to George the Regent. THE DARK WOMAN. a key, he opened it himself; and then, turning to Sir Hinckton, he said, “Moys, you have only now to convince me that Annie—that is to say, that the Countess de Blonde is false to me, to make me the most miserable of men.” “ Your Highness——” ** Good night !” The Prince almost might be said to close the door in the face of Sir Hinckton Moys, Rage swelled in the irascible heart of the courtier, and he lifted his foot, as though he intended to deal the door such a kick as would go near to its demolition; bnt he abstained. ‘“No, no! I won’t do that,” he said, “but I will remember the sort of thanks I have got for Ha! ha!” “Ha! ha!” echoed a voice. Moys started. “What is that? Who is that ?” ts “Only an old acquaintance, my dear Sir Hinckton,” said a3 mocking voice, which Moys had no difficulty in localising as coming from some one who was looking over the wall of the garden, close to the door. * Ah, I know you!” “'Then there is no disguise,” said the voice. ‘You are Willes.” * Certainly.” “ Well, my friend, I have some advice to give you.” “Thank you, Sir Hinckton.” “ Buy some good, stout, large trunks.” * Indeed !” “Yes; for you will want them to pack up your plunder in, when you are told to leave St. James’s peremptorily.” “Oh, it’s all well packed, Sir Hinckton; but IT am not going yet. It is quite an odd thing that men like you, who are kicked out of every piace, become quite maniacal upon the subject, and fancy that every one else is about to undergo the same process.” “Wait a bit, my dear Willes.” **T mean to do so.” “Bal ha! You fancy now, because you are on the right side of the hedge ys ~“The wall—the wall, my good sir! Really you seem to me to have taken leave of your senses; but I must go now and inform the Prince of the little remarks you were pleased to make about him a few moments since.” * You are a villain!” “Aa! ha!” ‘“‘ And as I happen to have my key of this door, I will come into the garden now, and at once put an end to your further powers of mischief.” “Ha! hal” Sir Hinckton Moys tried to open the door in the garden wail, but it was fast. He stamped with passion. “There now,” said Willes, “you are getting quite beside yourself again. I must advise the Prinee, out of humanity towards an old servant, to have you placed in some asylum, where you can neither hurt yourself nor any one else.” ‘‘Wretch, I will have your worthless life!” Again Sir Hinckton Moys made an effort to open the door, and again did he find all his efforts frustrated. “Tt’s no use,” said Willes: bar.” “T’ve put up the Ae er ree ee THE DARK WOMAN. Moys dashed away from the spot in a state of frenzy; and as he went, he heard the low, triumphant, chuckling laugh of Willes on the night air. CHAPTER CXVIII. THE PRINCE REGENT OPENS HIS HEART AND MIND TO ANNIE THE COUNTESS, at f enough for Allan Fearon. I do very well for you, but I am not good enough for Allan Fearon.” ‘Upon my life, Annie, you are flattering.” “Tt’s true.” “Well, then, do you know, I have been told that he is your lover all the while, and that his pre- tended marriage with your sister is but a sham to blind my eyes.” “Then you have been told what is not true.” “‘And I have been told, likewise, that he iy 4 - sort of spy from Buckingham House, where you know all my enemies are to be found at some time | or another within the four-and-twenty hours.” Tae Regent did a very sensible thing that night. He went at once to the apartments of the Coun- tess de Blonde, after leaving Sir Hinckton Moys, _ and made up his mind to tell her all. Perhaps in all the Palace of St. James’s, and in all the various chambers of Carlton House, there was not to be found a really better heart than that which beat in the fair breast of Annie Gray. For the head of the somewhat thoughtless Countess de Blonde we cannot say so much. It was not, however, that Annis was at all deficient in sense or wit, but hers was one of those flighty intellects which want ballast to make them sail steadily over the wild seas of human life. But still the Regent did a sensible thing when he went to the Countess’s apartments with a deter- mination to consult ber. Annie could see very well that all was not well with her royal lover. Perhaps she did not greatly care about it. i She received him with a pout. ‘‘ Annie,” said the Prince, ‘‘ I want to speak to you seriously.” “Then I don’t want to hear you,” ‘“’ Not hear nao ?” * Certainly not. want to be.” “But it is now necessary. you about Allan Fearon.” “ Allan Fearon? What of him? He is in no new danger, I hope and trust!” I never was serious—I never I want to speak to | all—to make a confidant of you. ‘* Some one has been telling you lies, George.” “You don’t believe it ?” “T don’t.” ‘‘But what, now, if I were to tell you I was sure of it?” “* OF what?” “That he was in the habif of visiting at Buckingham House.” **¥ don’t know, but I don’t believe that there is anything false, or treacherous, or spy-like about Allan Fearon.” The Regent rose and paced the room with dis- ordered steps. There was a something so quiet and so candid about the way in which Annie spoke, that he felt half-inclined to doubt the evidence of his own senses in regard to having seen Allan Fearon emerge from Buckingham House, “ Anything else ?”” said Annie. “* Yes—yes.” “ Sit down, then.” ‘““T will. I feei impelled, Annie, to tell you Allan Fearon is my son.” Annie nodded. “ You know it?” . ‘“Guessed it. He is your son, and the long lost son of that very odd person who calls herself the Dark Woman. I have been for some time | thinking about it.” “Then as you know so much, Annie, I pray you advise me what had I better do.” “ Make him a duke at once, and give the Dark “No, no! How is it possible—how can if be | Woman no end of money to go somewhere and be possible, that he should be?. Annie—Annie, I | happy for the resi of ‘her days. My sister want to ask you how you became acquainted with | Marian, whois so much better than I am, will bea that young man?” | duchess, while 1 am only a countess; but I shan’t “ Are you jealous of him atill, George ?” | mind that a bit.” “That is not an apawer to my question.” } « How thoughtless you are, Annie,” “ But I want you to tell me, for all that.” “ Thoughtful, you mean, George. You have * No, then.” | been jealous of Allan, I know. You could not * At a hop.” | believe that because my good, dear, kind sister “ What?” _ Marian loved him, that I felt on that account, “ Ata hop.” | and that only, an interest in him. That bad man, “ Are you mad?” Sir Hinckton Moys, tried to persuade you to the “No, George; but you asked me how I became | contrary, and that he was a lover of mine; but acquainted with Allan Fearon, and I answer at a I thought that was all settled. You however hop.” _ begin again. What do you mean by it, George, ‘‘Good heavens! What is a hop?” eh ?” “A dance, to be sure. You see he was in love | “ No, Annie, I will not begin again. But you with Marian, and so he followed us both about | know when two bad things are alleged against wherever we went on her account, and I got to be | any one, and upon careful investigation one of well acquainted with him, becanse he was so fond of my sister.” ** And—and—did he—he—never—never make love to you, as well as to your sister?” Annie shook her head. “No, George—-ob, no! JI was never good them is found to be true, it is a fair presumption that the other may be.” “Stuff!” said Annie. supper.” . The Regent felt his heart somewhat more at ease; and it would have been better for him if he “Let us have some 28 THE DARK WOMAN. had carried out his full intention, and let Annie know that the Dark Woman was still a prisoner in the Palace. Annie had heard that there had been some uproar and. alarm about mid-day, but she was not aware of the actual fact that the Dark Woman was a prisoner. She was soon to be aware of it, however. The fair Countess de Blonde and the Regent sat down to one of those little recherché repasts which he was so fond of, and which she, by as- sociation with him, was beginning to enjoy with a far greater zest than at first. The Regent, as his appetite was gratified, began to grow almost amiable. He looked at Annie for a few moments in silence; and then he said, ‘6 Countess, I will take your advice.” “In what?” ‘“‘ About that—that Dark Woman.” “Very well. Give her a heap of money, and let her go.” “Stop. You don’t know all. Only this morn- ing, there was a disturbance in the Palace on her account. She was here.” “T thought 80.” | ‘She is here now—here, and a prisoner.” “Here!” exclaimed Annie, as she glanced around, with a feeling that the words of the Regent might be literal. “*No, no! I don’t mean here in these rooms, but here in the Palace. She is securely locked up. What I want to know is, what I shall do with her ?” “ Let her go.” “She has threatened me, I am advised to consign her to the Tower, and to make a case of treason of it.” Annie shook her head. “No,” she said; ‘that will not do. Let me see her, and speak to her. She will do me no harm, and who knows but I may be able to prevail upon her to go in peace, and trouble you no more? I fancy I know, well enough, the whole story.” “ There is so little to know,” said the Regent, “that any one who knows anything knows all. But it is late.” ‘“No matter, George; let me see her—let me speak with her, and I will try to rid you once and for all of the annoyance of her visits. Poor thing! she can do herself no good by them.” “Not the least.” The Regent rose as he spoke, and touched a hand bell, Willes was on the threshold of the room door in & moment. “You know where the Dark Woman is impri- soned,” said the Regent; ‘take a light, and con- duct the Countess to her. Annie, I will wait here for you.” “Do so. It is much better that she should suppose I go to her alone than that you should be at hand. Now, Willes!” The valet had rather an anxious look upon his face, but he took a light, and with a low bow pre- ceded the Countess de Blonde. The moment they got into the Titian Gallery, Annie said, in her sharp, short way, “Tell me all that happened this morning!” “I will, Countess. The Dark Woman, it ap- pears, found a way to Queen Anne's Cabinet, where his Royal Highness was writing, and pre< sented a pistol at him.” “Ts that all?” “Tt is high treason !” ‘High fiddlestick! If she presented a pistol at him, intending to shoot him, why did she not do so? I begin to pity this poor woman, now that bit by bit I know her history. Come on! Take me to her at once, and I will speak with her.” Willes led the way down several staircases, and along several corridors, until they came to a door at which stood on duty one of the Yeomen of the Guard. The man knew the Regent’s valet perfectly well, and made way for him to pass through the doorway. On the other side was a long, narrow apart- ment, which was very dimly lighted by one oil lamp from the ceiling. In this apartment sat two men, who both rose up as the Countess and Willes appeared, “This lady,” said Willes, “is, by command of his Highness the Regent, to see the prisoner.” The two officers made some clumsy attempts at bows, and at once flung open a door at the further end of that room in which they had kept guard. There was a much smaller apartment beyond. . There, in the dim light that came from a lamp in one of the courts of the Palace, and which shone through a high window which was quite out of reach, sat the Dark Woman. Her head was resting on her hands; and she was so perfectly still—so absolutely motionless— that one might have supposed her dead. Annie regarded her for a few moments in silence; and then, in a low voice, she bade Willes leave her alone with the prisoner. Willes hesitated. ‘“* Go!” said Annie, imperiously. The sharper sound of that one word spoken so commandingly aroused the Dark Woman, and she looked up. “Ah, she is still alive!” said Willes—and he immediately left the room. Annie approached the chair on which the un- happy woman sat, and placed her hand ina kindly manner on her arm. The Dark Woman shuddered. ‘““T have come to see you,” said Annie. “ You ?—you ?” ““Yes—why not I? Come, look up! I am sorry for you. I would fain do something, or say something, that would make you happier than you now are.” “Happier? Ha! ha! Happier!” “Well, I will say not so unhappy. I am sure you have suffered much—very much; but I am sure, likewise, that you make yourself suffer much more, becauze you will not let the future be better to you than the past.” *‘ What do you mean, girl ?” “This. You contend in vain with the Regent. You must feel that such is the case. You vex and annoy him. That, no doubt, for a time you will have the power to do, but into what terrible dangers do you not cast yourself at the same time? Why will you not be happy, as far as peace can give you happiness? Iam but a young gitl in comparison to you. I know nothing THE DARK WOMAN. perhaps of the world as you know it; and at times, even my heart, that looks so light, and as if its brightness shone out of my eyes,—at times, I say, that poor heart is like to break!” “You unhappy?” said the Dark Woman. “You, the child of luxury and of pleasure ?” “Yes, even I. But I do not make myself more unhappy still by cherishing discontents. I am now what you know I am. My slightest wishes are complied with. The Regent satisties all my wildest caprices; but the time will come when I shall be cast aside like a faded flower, and then—then I shall be, perhaps, more desolate even than you are!” The Dark Woman, in that dim light, fixed her eyes upon the fair face of the young girl who thus spoke to her, and deep sighs came from her labouring breast. “Poor, poor, moth!” she said. ‘‘ You have fluttered around the flame which looked to you so ‘like a sun, and you will fall scorched and scream- ing to destruction! Heaven help you—heavyen help you!” “And you,” said Annie. A sob came from the Dark Woman. “‘ Come,” said Annie, gently ; and she stooped and left a soft kiss upon the brow of the Dark Woman. “Come! Be happier! Listen to me, and choose for yourself a better fate !”” The Dark Woman burst into an hysterical passion of tears. “Ob, no, no! Do not—do not say that there is one human heart in all the world which feels a throb of affection or of pity for me! Oh, no, no! My own son—my own boy—he looks. coldly on me; and when I would stir up in his heart the memory of his mother’s wrongs, he talks of forgive- ness and of peace! Oh, heaven, has it come to this—has it come to this ?” She wrung her hands and wept bitterly. Annie let the tears have their way. She held one of the hands of the Dark Woman in both her own. “ Now,” she said, “you will listen to me. There is no hope—there can be no hope of peace and happiness for you here in London—perhaps not even in England! Go far away, and try to forget as you try to forgive !” ‘“©1f I could—oh, if I could!” “ Will you try ?” “It is so cruel! You do not know, Annie Gray—you cannot know all! Iam the wife of that man! He brought to me the consent even of the poor old King, whose maniac cries they now say alarm the solitary sentinel as he keeps his watch upon the ancient ramparts of Windsor Castle. It was a priest in orders who united us. I was, I am his wife; and now, laughing all ties of earth or of heaven to scorn, he casts me from him! Oh, wicked— wicked! Worse—worse than wicked !” Annie shuddered. ‘You were deceived, no doubt,” she said; ‘ and if so, of what avail are all your passionate com- plaints? Will you sacrifice yourself because another has been faithless ?” “Yes, yes!” cried the Dark Woman, as she hastily withdrew her hand from the grasp of Annie; and clasping both her hands together, she held them in a strange attitude above her head. “Yes—oh, yes!—most freely! Let him but ES Seer RE A RE Nat ONE EN REA A AA NRTA Ae 29 acknowledge my son, and I am content to die at his feet.” “ Will he not do so? I thought, from all that T could hear, that the Prince did acknowledge that Allan Fearon was his son.” “* His son, yes; but not a Prince.” “Ah, yes! I see now what you mean.” ‘¢ Let him do that, and I will die.” ‘“‘ Alas, it cannot be! Ihave spoken with him of you.” ‘“When? Where?” ‘“Even now, in my own apartments. He is disposed to arrange as best he may now your future fortunes. He will take care that both you and your som are placed far above all anxieties ; and although it is hard to say such words to one who has suffered as you_ have, yet what else can be said or done? J implore you, in regard for yourself, to accept what good is offered to you, and to go somewhere in peace.” “Ah! You say that ?” “From my heart.” ““No; from his head—he has no heart. You have talked to the Regent even now, and then you come to me.” “‘T do. Surely there is nothing wrong in that?” “They fear me—they fear me still!” ‘“‘But you are a prisoner here. Do not delude yourself by an idea that you are feared now. Indeed—indeed it is to save you, not to mollify your anger, that I come.” “Girl,” said the Dark Woman, “I have a little tale to tell you.” “To tell me?” “Yes. Once upon a time, when in the midst of such despair that I knew not if my heart would break or not, I found, in the laboratory of a man whose reputation for good or for evil I found a means of proving, a small box of plati- num. That, you know, isthe hardest and purest metal in existence, and should, as a box, con- tain only some precious substance. You attend to me?” “T do; but ff “Hear me out. The little box of platinum contained a fine and subtle powder; and when I inhaled its fragrance, it was strange how it lightened the weight upon my heart, and how much brighter and happier appeared all things about me. The box is here.” The Dark Woman produced, from some secret receptacle about the breast of her apparel, a small box of white metal. She touched a spring, and the lid flew open. “It harms no one,” added the Dark Woman, as, in the most natural manner in the world, she held it towards the face of Annie, who, with the heedlessness of a child, smelt at it. A dreamy look came over the eyes of the Countess de Blonde, and she smiled faintly as she spoke. “Tt is a most—beautiful perfume, and—and— it is so strange that I—should feel so—so languid. Yes, George-—-yes! I sleep—I sleep—sleep— sleep re Slowly the Countess de Blonde slid down to the floor, with that same gentle smile upon her lips which had first sat upon them when she inhaled the delicate odour of the subtle powder in the platinum box. She looked like some happy infant falling inte ee 80 a deep and quiet slumber, which was likely to be full of pleasant visions. The Dark Woman closed the platinum box, and replaced it in the breast of her apparel. She gently moved Annie to an attitude where she eonld rest easily, half on the floor, and half resting, in a sitting posture, against the chair. ‘““Tt is well,” she said. ‘* Astorath was a great chemist. This is one of the products of his skill, that I found, with a full and complete description of its use, upon searching his house and laboratory. It is well. Rest thou for atime, gentle and good heart. No evil will come to thee.” ——see CHAPTER CXIX. THE DARK WOMAN MEDITATES A TERRIBLE RE= VENGE UPON THE REGENT. Some new and terrible idea had evidently taken possession of the mind of the Dark Woman. She stood for a few minutes, watching the quiet slamber of Annie, and at the same time with her head bent aside in an attitude of intense listening. The Palace appeared to be profoundly still. ‘““My time has come,” she said. ‘ Heaven above me, you know that I have tried all mortal means for justice! I claim now that last refuge of outraged homanity—revenge! revenge!” There was something terrible about the eyes of the Dark Woman as she now glared about her in that small apartment, as though looking for some mode of egress. But there was none. No secret panel—no hole in the floor—no case- ment, through which she might make her way to freedom, presented itself; but still the Dark Woman felt that she had a resource. That resource was Willes, the valet. She tapped lightly on the door that separated what might be called the prison-cell from the guard-chamber without. Willes was there, and he thought that the Coun- tess de Blonde, having said ail she wished to say, was summoning him to accompany her back to her own apartments. He glided into the room in a moment. The Dark Woman seized his arm with a clutch of iron, and the door with the other hand. ‘“« There is no occasion for alarm,” she said, in a low, deep, earnest tone; ‘‘nor has anything hap- pened at all disastrous to the Countess de Blonde.” “‘ Oh, heaven !” said Willes. He had caught sight of the recumbent form of Annie, and his first, and, indeed, natural enough | impression was that she had fallen a victim to the mad jealousy of the Dark Woman. “Hush, fool!” said Linda de Chevenaux. “There is no harm done, I tell you.” *‘ No—no harm?” “None. She does but sleep. Do you think I | have not art enough to cast who I please into repose | that, though it may look like death, has no kindred to it.” “ You—you can do that?” ‘In a moment. I could cast you, if I so pleased, down at my feet in a trance that would last for hours.” “Oh, do not—do not !” pO DN Neha ART I AE ba er pene ae ele cg THE DARK WOMAN. ““T have need of you, and will not.” “Yes, yes, my lady; I am your very humble servant, as you know.” “T do know it. Where is the Regent ?” “Tn the Countess’s apartments, no doubt, by this time, very impatient for her return.” “T will go to him.” “You, my lady--you?” ey have said it. You, Willes, will pass me through all obstacles that may impede my progress. I have some last words to say to the Regent, be- fore I go at once and for ever. You comprehend they wish that my persecutions of the Prince should cease, and that I should leave him to secu- rity and peace, and seek security and peace my-= self ?” “ Indeed, it would be best.” ath» “Sol think, now, and I have resolved upon it.” ‘I am rejoiced to hear those words, my lady. I am quite sure, too, that the Regent will be re- joiced to hear them.” ** Perhaps. Lead on, now.” “Ah, my lady, I don’t know why you have thought proper to place the Countess in such a deep sleep. I can hear her breathing; but as it is so, if you will put over your head that silk scarf which you see she has, and which she cast over her hair when she left her own rooms to come with me here, the men in the outer room will, in the dim twilight that is there, think you are her, and you cau pass along with mse without question.” “ That is well. It is done.” The Dark Woman lifted gently from the head and shoulders of Annie the scarf which Willes alluded to. It was one of those which Allan Fearon had had the use of when he came to the Palace as the pretended silk merchant. She wound it about her own head and face; and as it had some very bright embroidered stars upon it, there was very little doubt but that the men on guard would at once fancy they recognised the Countess de Blonde. Willes cast one more anxious glance at Annis, though, before he left the room, and in a tone of some anxiety he said, ‘‘ Oh, my lady, I hope you are quite sure that she will come to no harm.” The Dark Woman stooped over the slumbering form of the fair young girl, and left a soft kiss upon her cheek. “Am I a Judas?” she said. ‘ Are you con- tent? Do you think I could do that if I medi- tated or had done harm to her ?” “No, no,” said Willes, ‘‘I—I don’t think, my lady, you really could, and I feel more at | ease.” ‘“* Lead on, then.” Willes was evidently nervous, notwithstanding he had said he felt more at his ease. Preceding the Dark Woman by about half a pace, he went out into the guard-chamber, and the two men who were there began, in their clumsy fashion, to execute more bows, which effectually prevented them from recognising any change of persons in the female figure that accom- panied the Regent’s valet. The Dark Woman spoke not a word now until they had reached the Titian Gallery, and then, turning to Willes, she took from her finger an emerald ring of great value and beauty. ‘Take this,” she said, in a strange, low, con: strained voice, such as he had never yet heard } A Abeta int een SOP EE Sve Hera > panancite GAnetenme << - ee ene es Sed nee ter en tet nme te et a tae THE DARK from her. ‘Take this. Keep it for the sake and remembrance of one who, if she has at times eaused you some uneasiness, has not been an illi- beral pay-mistress.” “Oh, madam!” said Willes, with more of emo- tion than any one could have thought him capable of,—‘ oh, madam, I would much rather that you kept this jewel, and did not speak to me in sucha way.” “Ts this possible?” sighed the Dark Woman. ‘“‘ What, madam?—oh, what ?” “ That you feel for me ” “Indeed Ido! Ido, really and truly; and if, madam, you will only now not look so des- pairiogly, but take advantage of present oppor- tunities, so as to escape from St. James’s, you might soon be far enough off to be out of all danger.” % No,” sighed the Dark Woman,—‘“ no, it eannot—it may not be! Do you know thata shot was fired at me this morning from one of the windows that overlook the Colour Court ?” ‘‘ T have heard so.” ‘t Who fired it ?” Willes shook his head. ‘* That, madam, I have not yet been able to ascertain.” “ Shall I tell you? It was the Regent!” ‘‘[ hardly think so, madam, for it is contrary to all his thoughts and habits todo so, I should fancy it came rather from Colonel Hanger’s hand, or from some one of the royal pages.” *‘ { shall know—I shall know; and now leave me, for I will compromise you no further. I will seek the Regent.” To the surprise of Willes, the Dark Woman did not attempt to enter the rooms in the occu- pation of the Countess de Blonde by the ordinary route from the Titian Gallery, but she made her way to that private secret door, which by the very narrow passage would lead to the innermost of the apartments, The kind of calmness with which the Dark Woman had spoken to him had had the effect of somewhat reconciling Willes to her friendship. He could not continue to think that one who was 80 outwardly composed was on the eve of the commission of any act of desperation. But still Willes thonght that it would be well to take some precaution, and he thought that if he could only succeed in awakening the Countess de Blonde from the kind of trance into which she appeared to have fallen, that he might throw upon her all the responsibilities of the situation. With this view the valet made his way back | again to the small room in which the fair Countess still slept under the influence of the powerful odour which she had inhaled from the concen- trated narcotic powder in the little platinum box. EN, DENN NEE Willes, however, took the Regent’s dressing- }: room in his route, and, from among the costly scents and essences on the table there, he selected a powerful and fragrant one. Armed with that, as a revivifying agent, he hastened onwards, and hoped that he would be able to restore Annie to consciousness. Meanwhile, the Dark Woman opened the narrow private door, and at once plunged into the narrow passage that would lead, by a circular, segmental route, to the inner apartments of the gorgeous suite devoted to the Countess de Blonde. —s WOMAN, Si The distance was but short, and soon the Dark Woman set foot in that splendid bed-chamber, in which one might suppose that care and anxiety could find no home. But the Dark Woman had no eyes for the gorgeous glitter of that regal abode of beauty. Her mind was enveloped in the dull cloud of the terrible resolution which had taken possession of her—the resolution to die. She passed out of the bed-chamber, from behind the gilt screen that shrouded its door, and she stood in the presence of the Regent. The Prince slept. The bright fire had burnt low on ‘the hearth. The wax candles were burning short, and the Prince, after waiting some time the arrival of Annie from her self-imposed mission to the Dark Woman, had settled himself comfortably in his chair, and fallen asleep. It was a wonder that the very flash of the eyes of the Dark Woman, as they lit upon him, did not awaken him. But he was breathing heavily and regularly. His sleep was sound. The Dark Woman saw the vacant chair opposite to him, which had so short a time before been in the occupation of Annie, and she gently seated herself apon it. There, for a few minutes, she sat, and gazed upon the face of the Prince—of her destroyer. A glass—a tall, elegant glass, with a- spiral stem—was by the side of the Regent. It was still about two-thirds full of some wine, of a pale amber colour. By the side of the Dark Woman, where the Countess de Blonde had sat, was a similar glass, but if had not so much wine in it, although it was of the same colour as that by the Regent, The Dark Woman, then, for a moment, during which she seemed to suffer the sharpest pangs of mental agony that human nature could endure . and live, clasped both her hands over her face and brow. She uttered a low moan. That sound of the very abandonment and bitterness of grief found its way faintly to the senses of the Regent. He moved uneasily, and uttered almost an echo of the moan. The Dark Woman again fixed her eyes upon him, and he slowly lapsed into the same deep slumber from which he had been slightly disturbed. “J am warned!—I am warned!” she whispered, in so low a tone that it was not possible it could reach the ears of the sleeper. ‘The time has come—the time for action !”’ Slowly and painfully—for it was tightly fixed there—the Dark Woman took from the middle finger of her left hand a large and antique ring. Turning this ring, so that the inner surface of its massive golden hoop was visible, she touched a spring in it, and a small square opening started into sight in the gold. It was as if some genii, from within the very substance of the gold, had opened a little door, by which to make an exit. Compacted in the space within was a pasty~ looking compound. There could not have been more in quantity than woald have spread thinly over the smallest coin. The Dark Woman, with the pin of a brooch, Tin na en enn a tt il tte ae at Ne i ni cea Lith inant 3 tae thei eee tr: 32 which she took from the breast of her apparel, hooked out a small portion of -the paste-like substance. She immersed the point of the pin then in the wine that remained in the tall glass close to her. At that moment she started to her feet. She was nearly uttering an exclamation, but she repressed it. She had heard, or she fancied she had heard, a noise. Whence came it? Was it there in that room, or was it from the adjoining chamber ? She listened intently. All was still—astill as the grave—still as death ‘ —as the death which she expected to be in that ‘chamber before many minutes more should pass away. The Dark Woman made two steps from the chair, and she went so far towards the gilt screen fhat she was able to glance behind it, and into the bed-chamber beyond. No one was visible. quite alone. She returned to the chair, and to the table. The pin of the brooch had remained resting about an inch in depth in the wine, and the brooch itself was hanging over the edge of the glass. The pasty substance had completely dissolved, and the gold glitter of the brooch-pin was un- dimmed. No alteration of colour or of clearness appeared in the wine. ‘Twenty deaths,” said the Dark Woman, ina panting whisper,—“ twenty deaths linger in the one crystal vessel now.” From the side of the table at which she was, she could easily reach over to the glass which was by the elbow of the Regent. The table was_a small one, which had been specially brought there for the accommodation only of two persons—the Regent and the Countess. The Dark Woman lifted the tall glass with the spiral stem, and the amber-coloured wine in it, over towards her. She went through the same process with the pin’s point of the brooch, and the pasty-looking substance in the ring, that she had done with the other glass. Upon immersing the pin’s point into the amber- coloured wine, there was, for a moment, a faint hissing noise in the liquid, and a cloudy precipitate began to settle downwards. The Dark Woman slightly shook the glass, The cloudy precipitate disappeared. Slowly the wine assumed its former brightness. No one, to look at it, could suppose, for a moment, that it had been tampered with. The Dark Woman shuddered, With trembling hands now, she took from a secret pocket of her dress a small gold box, from which she extracted a scrap of old, yellow-looking paper. ‘‘ Let me be sure!—let me be sure!” she said, “This is the paper I found wound about the platinum box and the ring, when I made the discovery of both in the cabinet of Astorath, the chemist and astrologer. Oh, let me be quite sure |” She read to herself, in a low voice:— Surely she was alone— “The subtle powder in the box of platinum will, if inhaled even for a few seconds by any one, produce a profound repose. The pasty, yellowish’ a ee Ce THE DARK WOMAN, substance in the ring is a concentrated fate—a death, speedy, complete, and perfect, to all human eyes.” The Dark Woman paused to think, “I have pondered,” she said, ‘over those words, and know not what they may mean. ‘To all humaneyes.’ Is there a hidden meaning in them, or do they but express that the death is certain? It must be so!—it must beso! The. one animal upon whom I essayed an experiment with this poison, fell dead upon the faintest taste of it, and the corpse was cast into the street. Yes—oh, yes !—it is death !—it is death!” She slowly reached aeross the table again with the Regent’s glass in her hand, but she did not place it exactly in the same spot from whence she had taken it. She kept it about half-way between her and the Regent, equally within her sudden reach as his. The Dark Woman had a motive in so placing the glass. Then she spoke in a low but distinct tone. “George, Prince of Wales, awake! awake! awake !” She touched tne edge of an empty ‘glass with the blade of a silver knife as she spoke, and the light, tinkling sound perhaps did more to areuse the Regent than even her voice. He started awake. “Yes, Annie, yes.” The Dark Woman’s eyes were fixed upon him like two flaming orbs. The Prince uttered a cry of surprise—there was something, too, of terror in it—as he made an effort to rise. ‘** Peace! Be still!” said the Dark Woman. ‘‘ You sent one to me, with the olive branch of peace. I came to talk to you in such a strain that for your own dear life’s sake I would have you listen to me. I am going soon far from you, for ever and for ever.” “ Ah! indeed! Then Annie has seen you ?” ‘‘ She has,” “ Well, well? She told you how utterly im- possible—how foolish it was to—to make me miserable and yourself likewise. Even now, I am willing—I am quite willing, if you will go away, to behave in the most liberal and handsome manner to you.” “ Listen.” ‘‘One moment. Oh! I had some Tokay here.” “Wait. Hear me first. I, too, am willing to rid you for ever of my most unwelcome presence— on the one condition——” ‘“‘ What condition ?” “T will die, if you will acknowledge my son.” “T have. I have done so.” ‘* As a prince of the blood royal of England a “Impossible. You rave, as usual.” The Dark Woman uttered a gasping sob. “Tt is over,” ‘she said,—“ oh, heaven, it is: over! If there be great guilt in this, oh, think of my great provocation! ‘It is over! over !” “* What do you mean?” said the Regent, in a tone of alarm. ‘* How did ‘you get here? » Where: is the Countess? -By heaven, woman, if she has met with any foul’play at your hands, I will—— 'Halvha!” langhéed‘the:Dark Woman. “(And what will you—what ‘can’ you do; aa syietlane worm thatyou'are?”:— -. bi =. = — ow , “Heip! What ho, there? Who waits? Willes! I will no more endure this mad woman.” ** Be still!” cried the Dark Woman. Across the table, she presented full in the face of the Regent another pistol, which was entirely, with the exception of those parts which were necessarily of steel, made of silver, richly chased. It was so small that it might almost have been hidden in the hollow of the hand. It looked almost a toy. But the Regent saw that it was a firearm. He san back into his chair, “This little weapon,” said the Dark Woman, “carries two small steel bullets, each not much larger than a pea.” “Stop! Don’t! Take it away!” “But they will reach the brain.” ““No, no! You are mad—mad! What have I done to you that yon should threaten my life ?” No. 57.—Dark Woman. fname Ci ttn ean a Qi DARK WOMAN. 33 Ry Hh . WS \ WN \ \ \ \ \\ \\\ “ Much.” “ But—but—I say, Linda—Linda, an accident might happen! Take the pistol, if it be a pistol, further off.” “On condition.” ‘* More conditions ?” “No, the same. Acknowledge my son, and your son, to be what he truly is, and not only is your own safety assured, but I will, by my death, give you the best possible security that I will trouble you no more.” “‘T cannot even speak to you while you threaten my life.” “There, then!” She placed the tiny pistol on the table. “Then,” said the Regent, earnestly, “if you are not entirely bereft of reason—if you are not quite inaccessible to common sense, let me tell you that if I were fifty times over to say that Allan Fearon 34 were my legitimate son, it would not make him so. ‘The marriage that took’ place between you and me will never hold good.” “Stop! You produced the consent of the Crown.” ‘“‘T am sorry now to say that it was written by a different person from the King.” “The King is insane, and his evidence in re- gard to any act can searcely be received.” “That is true. But since it is on record in the regular way that he did give his consent to my marriage with Caroline of Brunswick, it will put an end to all your fancied claims.”- ‘‘ Fancied claims!” groaned the Dark Woman, “Oh, heaven! all the world—the earth~-the trees —the bright flowers—-the huge mountains, and the restless ocean, are but fancies, and we live but in a fevered dream!” ‘Well, well, be reasonable. I am so thirsty that I can hardly speak to you; but if you have really done no harm to the Countess de Blonde, and will promise to leave England 7 “Oh, yes,” interrupted the Dark Woman, “I will leave England.” “ When ?—when ?” 6 Now.” She placed her hand upon the glass with the fen quantity of the amber-coloured wine in t. The Regent saw the movement. He made a slight inclination of the head, as he said, ‘‘ Im- perial Tokay.” “This wine ?” “Yes, Linda; and if now, in truth, you will leave me and this country at once and for ever, I will settle upon you a competent sum.” “It is hard to leave you, too.” be Me 2” “Yes, George. In leaving England, I fancy, if I could only take you with me, I should be content.” “Me, with you! There, you rave again!” The Prince looked over the table, as if search- ing for something, and he saw the tall glass with the spiral stem, and the Tokay in it, which he had been drinking. He lifted it to his mouth. — “Linda,” he said, “I seem to see some signs that you are getting much more reasonable; and be assured that so soon as you are so, and that you bring to an end all my trouble concerning you, your own troubles will likewise cease.” **f know it.” 66 Then: ” “Stop—oh, heaven!—-one moment!” _ : The Prince paused, with the glass almost at his ips. ‘You are about to drink ?” “ Certainly, I am.” “Let me, too. In this glass there is some wine. I, too, will drink; and [ will pledge you, George, Prince of Wales !” ** As you please.” The Dark Woman raised the other glass. - ‘Farewell !” she said. * An odd toast!” “ A true one.” “ As you please. I suppose you have made up your mind, and refer to your departure ?” “Thave. I do.” “Then, so bo it. Farewell!” THE DARK WOMAN. The Prince drank about half of the contents of the glass. The Dark Woman Grained hers to the dregs. A shriek burst from some one at this moment in the inner chamber, close behind the screen; and then Annie, the Countess de Blonde, with her fair and beautiful hair all in disorder about her head and shoulders, darted into the room, “ Fold! hold! Good heaven!” she eried; “am I too late?” “Too late?” said the Regent. what, Annie?” “Too late!” cried the Dark Woman, as she clasped her hands together, and looked, with an air of triumph, at the Regent. ‘‘ Yes; too late!” “ What? What?” added the Prince, ‘ What is it 2” * “Ob, your Royal Highness! Ob, my poor royal master!” said aaother voice; and Willeg, with a look of despair upon his face, appeared likewise from behind the screen, “Ha! ha!” laughed the Dark Woman, “it is done!” | ‘* What is done?” said the Regent. “Are you all mad? What is the meaning of this? Are you all out of your senses? Or is this some foolish jest you have on foot?” “George! George!” said Annie, as she:rushed forward, and holding him by the hands, looked in his face, ‘what have you taken?” “Too late for “ Taken?” “Yes; what wine?” “Tokay.” ‘‘ Alas! alas! Tell me again, Willes—tell me again!” ‘“‘¥ was hidden, and so horrified thaft-———” Willes was interrupted by the Regent, who now turned deadly pale as he said, faintly, “ What— what is this? All mist~-all—all fog about me! Where are the lights 2?” “ Help! help!” shrieked Annie. ‘' He is dying! He is poisoned! . Look in his face! Help! ob, help {” Willes raised frantic yells of despair. The Dark Woman feil heavily to the floor. “Physicians!” cried Annie. “Oh! quick— quick! They may save him yet! Help! Ring all the bells! Give an alarm. in the Palace! Heaven! she has poisoned him!” “Yes,” said the Dark Woman, faintly, “ we leave England together.” Sbe made a powerful effort to raise her head and one arm, and then fell flat upon her face, and appeared to be dead. ‘ The Regent uttered one fierce cry of mortal fear, and then fell back into the arm-chair in which he had been sleeping. | . A death-like colour spread over his face. He made strange movements with his hands; and then, just as there came a rush of footsteps into the apartments, and a crowd of officials of the Palace appeared, his head fell back, and Anuie cried out, “ He is gone!—he is gone! Qh, this is terrible, for now I find that I did love him Y She burst into tears, and fell at the feet of the Regent in an agony of grief. - Yeomen of the Guard, pages, grooms of the chambers, aud inferior servants, had all crowded to the spot. To all appearance, the Regent was no more. A clerk of the Lord Chamberlain’s was present, o THE DARK WOMAN. a ar ee re ne ent nae te ne ee nr eT eee eet A oe ate “tnt ae and he looked in the face of the Prince, and shook | my child; but be assured we s ~his head. “Tf his Royal Highness,” he said, “ be really ‘) | hall find your friend Marian; and I may add, too, that there was something of a necessity for leaving the cavern on dead, those who were with him must consider , the Heath. It is no secret to you now, Lucy, themselves in custody.” The Regent slipped slowly off the chair, and fell to the floor by the side of Annie. * Dead! dead!” cried every one. Sonne CHAPTER CXX. SLXTEEN-STRINGED JACK COMES TO TOWN TO LOGK AFTER HIS OLD FRIENDS, Iv was on the very night when these remarkable events were taking place at St. James’s Palace, that a hackney carriage slowly made its way down the long, narrow, straggling street which leads from Hampstead Heath in the direction of London. That hackney carriage was driven by a lad, who seemed rather proud of his occupation; and immediately following it, a few paces distant only, came a man on horseback. The man was a stalwart specimen of humanity, and wore a cloak with a brass clasp at the neck, and a hat which nearly obscured the whole of the upper part of his face. By the shape of the holsters to the saddle, it might well be conjectured that they carried a serviceable pair of pistols; and from the conti- guity of this mounted man to the carriage, and his actions in regard to it, it seemed pretty evi- dent that he held it in special charge, and con- sidered himself as a sort of guard over it and its contents. As the carriage emerged from the long narrrow street, and made its way into the more open portion of the village of Hampstead, the mounted man allowed the distance between him and it to increase, so that until they had cleared the houses, it would not seem to any casual observer that he had any connexion with it. But no sooner had they got into a portion of the road with nothing but hedges on either side, than the mounted man galloped up to the door of the coach, and placing his hand upon it, spoke kindly . to some one within. The words he uttered will be sufficient to enable the reader to identify the persons whom we intro- duce to them on such an occasion, on the high road from Hampstead to London. “‘ Lucy,” said the horseman, who was no other than our friend Sixteen-stringed Jack,—“ Lucy, I have been thinking more than ever, as we rode along, that you are right in wishing to come to London. . gloomy cavern on the Heath.” “‘ Yes, father,” said Lucy; “ and for you, too: it was dull for you to be with me, and you were anxious when away from me. But if we can only find out my old and dear friend, Marian Grey, whom I should now, though, call Marian Fearon, I am sure she will receive me; and ther, you know, father, I can cease to be a burden to you, for I can still support myself as I did of old,” ** A burden to me?” cried Jack, ‘ Now, by the stars above us, Lucy, this is unkind of you, It was but a dull abode for you, in that | ee nnn emamal that my fortune has ever depended upon what I could help myself to upon the high road; and it is true that I should lead a life of greater action than I have been able to-do up yonder on the common.” “ Father, father, if you would only leave this dangerous employment.’ “ No, Lucy—impossible. I believe once a highwayman, always a highwayman; but | have another motive likewise in coming to Lendon, which is that I am particularly anxious to know what has become of our acquaintances Shucks and Brads.” ‘““] fear, father, some great evil has happened to them. Although rough in manner, they were not unkindly of heart.” ‘* T will find them out, Lucy, you may depend, for I look upon them now as friends of yours, as well as friends of mine.” Sixteen-stringed Jack was able, by bending down his head; to hold this conversation with Lucy, ag the coach sped its way towards London; and as Jack Singleton knew perfectly well that Allan Fearon had removed from Martlett’s Court to the little picturesque house close to the river, he was able to direct his course accordingly. Upon reaching the Strand, Jack stopped the coach, and having bestowed upon the boy a liberal gratuity, he assisted Lucy to alight, and they both waited somewhere near the corner of that narrow thoroughfare which led down to the abode of Allan Fearon, until the coach had taken its departure, ““ Now, Lucy, wy dear,” said Jack, “‘ walk on, and I will ride but a few paces behind you. You must stop at the last house you come to, for that, now, is the abode of your friend, where, I make no doubt, you will be much happier than amid the silence and gloom of our late home.” Lucy was elated with the idea of being soon again in association with Marian, for whom she entertained so sincere an affection. She paused at the house which had been indicated by her ‘father, and then Sixteen-stringed Jack himself seeing that the street was quite deserted, dis- mounted, and casting the bridle of his horse over his arm, he rapped smartly at the door of the . | house. Marian was practically alone, for that was the time when Allan Fearon was paying that visit. to Buckingham House, which he had been induced to make by the machinations of Sir Hinckton | Moys and the Marchioness of Sunningham. To be sure Shucks was there, but he was fast asleep. Little, however, did Sixteen-stringed | Jack imagine that when, bringing his daughter Lucy to town again for the companionship of her old friend Marian, he should at once light upon one of the two housebreakers, concerning whose fate he was getting anxious. Marian heard the knock, but she was by no means solicitous to admit strangers to the house; and she repaired to an upper window in order to see who it was that claimed admittance to that humble residence, which in its obscurity saw so few visitors. For a few moments the prospect of a man and a ato 36 horse was not encouraging, for owing to Lucy being close to the door, Marian was not able to observe her. The voice, however, of Sixteen-stringed Jack soon dissipated all her fears, for he had been reconnoitring the house with sufficient vigilance to enable him to see that some one was performing the same office from within. * Allan Fearon,” he cried, “if you are here, let me tell you it is an old friend who waits at your door.” “ Ah, yes!” cried Marian; ‘‘ and well I know that old friend’s voice.” She hurried to the door, as she thought, to admit Sixteen-stringed Jack, but was both delighted and surprised to find herself clasped in the arms of Lucy. “ Dear Marian, you must answer me at once. May I come end live in affectionate companionship with you, or is it not possible that you can let me do so?” ‘“‘ A thousand welcomes, Lucy! I have longed for you, and believe me it is a happy moment in which I hear you talk of staying with me,” “ And Allan,” said Lucy, “ will he, too ?” ‘We will only be too happy to know that when he is from home I have the companionship of one whom I love se truly; but here is your father waiting on the threshold, and we give him no weleome.” ‘‘ The dearest welcome,” said Jack; “ but tell me is all well with Allan?” *“ Yes—oh, yes! And such strange things have come to pass.” “JT bad a fancy that they would; and now, Marian—if you will permit me to call you so— let me tell you that my little girl here is not to be a burden to you. I will take good care of that.” ** T can work,” said Lucy. “Work, my Lucy?” laughed Jack, although the laugh was asad one. ‘‘ No—no more work. Leave that to me.” It was at this moment that some one made a sudden rush from the honse, and seizing Jack by the colar, called out, ‘ I've got him!—I've got him! Run, all of you—yon ain’t nabbed yet!” Jack was upon the defensive in a moment, and but that he recognised the voice of the person who had attacked him, he might have inflicted some injary upon his old acquaintance Shucks, who but half awake, and probably not yet perfectly reco- vered from the effect of his deep potations, had suddenly aroused himself, and hearing a man’s voice, had taken it into his head that there was an attack of the officers of police. ** Why, Sbucks,” cried Jack, “can I believe my eyes and ears? Is it really you ?” ** Bless us and save us!” cried Shucks. it isn’t Jack Singleton! them ?” ‘“‘ Rid of who?—rid of what?” ‘“« Why, the traps, to be sure—and yet I suppose I was dreaming, for I don’t feel quite clear in the attic story now. Why, Jack, I’ve got such a heap to tell you. Brads and me, you see, have come into our fortune. It’s all right. The other fellows are dead—so yon see we take all the shares except the Dark Woman's. Ha! ha! Why you'll kill yourself with laughing, Jack, when I tell you all about it; and you shall go (7 Tf Have you got rid of ec aataetinieienmneteiehaadenemenstmanmtahhiiainmeninaiteaieniinabadeadiiie nein ence ialan acand ie hea aneteiationea aie haeeteememanmmanenaneeaanenmmnaaeennanemmme t THE DARK WOMAN. with me and Brads, too; and her ladyship—ha! ha!—her ladyship won’t mind standing an odd thousand or two to you! And we'll have some eff-and- eff too. Oh, Jack, that fellow with the eff-and-eff will be the death of you! He’s worth any money, heis. ‘ Here’s the eff-and-eff !’” Shucks was so amused at the recollection of the scene which had taken place at the Countess d’Umbra’s grand mansion in Hanover Square, that he was compelled to sit down on the step of the door to indulge in laughter. ‘¢ Why, you're mad, Shucks, I do believe,” said Jack. “No I ain't—no I ain't. eff-and-eff !’” ‘‘ What on earth does he mean?” said Jack to Marian. “T cannot tell. He came here with a letter for Allan, and being not quite—that is to say, a little——” “TT understand,” said Jack. ‘ You let him stay to sleep off some ‘drop too much’ he had taken.” ; “To be sure she did,” cried Shucks; ‘ but it wasn't eff-and-eff. It was some prime stuff that the nobs drink—half a guinea a bottle, Jack, my boy; and all you've got to do is to knock off the neck, and out it comes. But where's Brads? Has anybody seen anything of Brads ?” ‘© We should ask you that question,” said Jack. Shucks shook his head, and the look of con- fusion that came over his face showed what a very dim idea he had of the events of the last six and thirty hours. “JT will take him away with me,” whispered Sixteen-stringed Jack, to Marian. “ He’s a harm- less fellow enough ; but still, as Allan appears to be out, I will take him away with me. Good night, Marian; and you, too, my dear child, good night; and heaven bless you both! You will hear of me soon !” Lucy sprung forward to her father. ‘Tell me—oh, tell me,” she said, “that you are not going into danger?” ‘Not the least,” said Jack, with a smile, as he kissed her fondly. ‘“ Not the least.” Lucy was compelled to be satisfied. The door was closed; and Sixteen-stringed Jack, putting his right arm beneath the left of Shucks, and resting the bridle of his horse upon his other hand, spoke coaxingly to him. ‘Come, old com- rade,” he said. ‘1 partly came to town to hunt you up, and am well pleased to find you. Tell me what:you’ve been abont since you and Brads left the old cavern ?” “To be sure I will, Jack,” said Shucks, con- fusedly ; ‘but I rather think I’ve been a bit of a fool! It’s so hard, though, for a fellow to keep on the right side of his senses, when he has only to stretch out his hand to get thousands and thou- sands of pounds.” “You said something of that kind, Shucks, before: what on earth does it mean?” “The Dark Woman, my boy !” a ‘“ What of her?’ “Why, bless you, Brads and I found her out! She's set up as a great lady, and calls herself the Countess d’Umbra, and lives in no end of a fine house in Hanover Square! We went to crack the crib all in the regular way of business, and who should we find mistress of it but the Dark ‘Here’s the Tener en wre eer" a A A A nN A A EI RL LE A TR I-A THE DARK WOMAN. Woman. got part of our shares down; but I’m afraid after that we got into bad company, do you kaow, Jack.” “The company of too many bottles, Shucks, I fancy !” “Well, yes; but as we had turned gentlemen all at once, we thought we'd do as the other nobs do, and shake the ivory a little.” “ Gambling ?” “You may call it gambling, Jack ; but you see there are dishonest people in the world, and Brads and me got robbed. I wonder where Brads is? I seem at times to have a sort of an idea that I left him in St. James’s Park.” Jack was silent for a few moments, and then he said, abruptly, “Is the career of that woman to commence again, with all the mysteries and crimes surrounding her ?—is she again to become notorious under some other na..e, perhaps, with you and Brads as her assistants?” * Shbucks looked perplexed. “ Well, Jack, I don’t know; but you shall go with us to morrow.” “Aush! What is this?” They had crossed the Strand; and taking their way towards Charing Cross, where, passing the door of an old public-house then known as the “Spanish Armada,” but which has been long since swept away in modern improvements—quite a throng of persons were streaming in and out from the low doorway of this ancient hostel; and from the remarks and exclamations they uttered as they emerged, it was quite evident something that excited great curiosity was to be seen within. “ A sad sight!” said one. ‘A shocking sight! What will the inquest say to it?” “A most foul murder, that’s clear!” said another. “And quite a gentleman, too, by his fine linen !” cried a third. It was a sort of impulse that he did not care to resist, which induced Sixteen-stringed Jack to pause at the door of the public-house, and ask one of the persons who dived out from beneath its low porch, what was the matter. ‘“A dead body. A man found murdered, sir, in St. James's Park.” “St. James’s Park?” cried Shucks, darting forward. ‘‘ Who knows but it’s ¢ “Hush! Are you mad!” interrupted Jack. Shucks was just saved from uttering the name of his companion ; and after Jack had handed the bridle of his horse to a boy to hold, they both entered the little low public-house, and following the stream of visitors, they found themselves in a small room. ; There was a fearful object lying upon a deal table in the centre of the apartment: ghastly in death, and dabbled in blood, they saw the un- fortunate Brads. The rich apparel he had hastily bought with some of the money received from the Dark Woman, was torn and disordered ; and there was such a look of mortal agony upon the face that at the first glance Shucks was sobered in an instant. He clutched almost painfully the arm of Jack Singleton, as he whispered, ‘It is Brads—it is Brads! It is my old friend and companion—my comrade, my almost brother! Oh, Jack—Jack! So we made up matters, you see, and | All is not gold that glitters! We found the Dark Woman, and we thought we had her at our mercy! It is but four and twenty hours, aud there lies one of us! How soon shall I, too, be stretched in blood, as a spectacle for every idler who chooses to take a dram at the public-honse bar ?” ‘This is, indeed, a sad sight,” said Jack. “Yack, one moment. Can we have the room to ourselves ?” “* What for 2” “ Brads has a paper. I have one likewise. I shall know in a moment if this be the work of the Dark Woman. Keep the people out for a moment. If his paper is safe, it is not her doing ; but if it’s gone, she has murdered him; and I shan’t know a moment but some of her hell- hounds may be upon my track! Keep the door, Jack; we're alone this moment.” Jack Singleton placed his back against the door of the room, and Shucks rapidly advanced to the dead body and tore open the vest. Well he knew the small slit in the lining which Brads had made to contain that important document, which had been wrung from the fears of the Dark Woman. It was gone. The reader knows well its destination; and that, blood-stained and perforated by the sword which had taken the housebdreaker’s life, that im- portant paper had found its way into the hands of the villanous Sir Hinckton Moys. But Shucks only saw in all this an example of the implacable vengeance of the Dark Woman. “Tt is gone, Jack,” be said. ‘She has killed him—killed him at last! His blood is upon her head, and it’s my turn next! I shan’t know which way to turn—which way to look—how to eat, drink, or sleep! Jack, Jack, help me, for I’m a murdered man! Look at him there, how he glares at me! The dead mouth seems to tell me ofit! ‘Your turn next,’ it says—‘ your turn next!’ Stick by me, Jack—stick by me, or I shall never get out of this house alive!” ee CHAPTER CXXI. SIXTEEN-STRINGED JACK AND SHUCKS PAY A VISIT TO HANOVER SQUARE AND THEN TO ST. JAMES’S PALACE. THERE was so much genuine alarm about the manner of Shucks as he spoke to Jack Singleton that the latter began to think that he was some- what deranged. ‘“‘Shucks, Shucks!” he cried, “what do you mean by all this? Are you the kind of man to give way to such shadowy fancies ?” The housebreaker trembled violently. “Come away —come away, Jack; I cannot stay and look at him! Perhaps if I had staid by him it would not have happened! Who knows —who knows? Come away, Jack! I cannot stay here and look upon the dead face, and if I do stay I cannot turn my eyes from it!” “Come, then,” replied Sixteen-stringed Jack. “Tt is not a grateful sight to my eyes.” They were close to the door, when a violent rapping came from without. ae — - The game’s up,” he said. - Sixteen-stringed Jack made one leap at the officer, 38 “Open! open!” cried a voice. ‘Open, or I will find some means to make you!” | “They think I am still holding the door,” said Jack, “when it will open now ata touch. Who hinders you, my friend, from opening the deor?”’ Jack uttered these last words aloud, and the door of the room was on the moment flung open, and a short, stout-built man made his appearance, with a smile upon his rather good humoured, rubicund countenance. ‘‘Now, my fine fellows,” he said, “I fancy I have you!” “What do you mean ?” asked Jack. ““My name is Billingham !” Jack knew well that thers was a Bow Street officer of that name, and he made no doubt but that he saw that very individual before him. Shucks shrank back a little. Billingham smiled. “T know you!” ‘Me ?” said Jack. “To be sure ; and a comrade of mine is now on your horse at the door of this public! Ha! ha! I have been looking for you a long time, Sixteen- stringed Jack!” “Well,” said Jack, ‘‘it will not come to much among so many of you.” “ What do you mean ?” “The reward. I believe there is only a hundred offered for me, and when that comes to be divided among five or six, it really is not worth the while of such a man as you, Billingham.” The officer was taken off his moment. ; “You are mistaken, Jack—you are mistaken, Tt will all go into one pocket. The man now in charge of your horse is only an odd man who helps me now and then. I shall have all! Ha! ha! What do you say to that, Mr. Jack? I shall have all!” “Not yet!” said Jack. Simultaneously with the utterance of the words, guard for a and caught him by the throat with a grip of iron. “Now, Mr. Billingham,” he said. “Did you never read or hear the fable of the man who caught a Tartar?” ‘* Help |! he-——” The compression of Jack’s hand upon the throat of the Bow Street officer cut short the second cry for help, and Billingham began to look black in the face. . This little scene had quite a magical effect upon Shucks. It seemed at once to restore him to all his courage, all his coolness, and all that presence of mind which in sight of the dead body of his old companion, Brads, he appeared to have lost. “That’s the way to do it, Jack,” he said. ‘I have him !” Shucks produced a stout piece of cord from some pocket, and in an instant be had it round the neck of the officer in the form of a noose. Billingham’s eyes were by this time almost starting out of his head, and Jack, who had some compassionate feelings, spoke to him: “IfI take off the pressure from your throat, will you be ‘quiet ?” Billingham made a frantic effort to nod. Speak he could not. Jack shifted his grasp from his throat to the 2ack of the officer’s neck. THE DARK WOMAN, - Billingham began to recover his natural colour. Shucks gave the cord he had round his neck a slight pull, which was the first intimation Billing- ham had of its presence ; for when he had it, first put round him, he was in by far too great a state of confusion to be conscious of it. “ Goodness gracious, gentlemen,” he said, “ you don’t want to take my life!” “Tt would serve youright for your impudenee !” said Shucks. “ What—-what? Iam sure I was civil!” “Your impudence in supposing that Jack Singleton would be so easily taken.” “Oh, well i Be quiet !” said Jack. “Tam. I will.” ‘¢Come here,” said Shucks, Painfully persuaded by a good jerk at the cord, the captive officer followed Shucks, who, standing on a chair, tied the other end of the cord over a stout brass pole that was along the top of the window. “Why—why, gentlemen both,” said the officer, “‘ you surely are not going to hang a fellow ?” ‘“‘ No,” said Shucks; “but a fellow may hang himself if he likes. Will that do?” “Murder!” ‘Silence, on your life!” said Jack. Shucks had drawn the cord 30 tight that it was only by standing on the extremity of his toes, and elongating his neck to an alarming degree, that the officer could save himself from actual strangu- lation. ; Shucks then took off Mr. Billingham’s hat, and placed it under his feet, so that frail as was that support it relieved him a little; but that was only for amoment, as Shucks drew the cord tighter, and the unfortunate officer was within an ace of being hung—indeed, it was only his hat beneath his feet that saved him. “There you are!” said Shucks. “Stop !—the—the hat—it won’t bear me! I can feel it even now bulging in!” “You keep quiet, and you will do. Andif you make the least row the hat will bulge in, and you will be hanged to a certainty. Good evening, old fellow!” ’ ““Good evening, Mr. Billingham,” said Jack; ““T would advise you to keep quiet.” ‘*J—T—oh, dear! Murder! Don’t leave me. in this way! A man might as well stand upon nothing as upon such a thing as a hat!” “Tf you think so,” said Shucks, ‘I will soon kick it away.” “No, no! Oh, no!” “T thought not.” Shucks dived his hand into the coat-pocket of the officer, and drew forth the small brass staff | which was_the symbol of his authority as a | constable. i “This may be of some use, Jack,” he said. ““ No doubt of it. Come on!” “Good bye, poor Brads!—good bye, old pal- I little thought to see you in death in such a fashion! Good bye!” Shucks and Jack went out of the room. A man and woman were waiting to go in and look at the corpse; but Jack turned the key in the lock of the door, as he said, ‘No more to-night. You must come to-morrow if you want to see him, good people.” ah wont nrmmneceree nena on er THE DARK WOMAN. ‘* Yes, to-morrow,” said Shucks, as he flourished the constabie’s staff in the faces of the man and woman. They at once retreated to the bar of the public- house, and Shucks and Brads sallied out into the street. ** My horse,” said Jack. him.” “ There he is!” said Shucks. A. man was mounted upon Sixteen-stringed Jack’s horse, and slowly pacing about some dis- tance down the street. They both approached him, and Shucks holding up the staff, said, “‘ Now, my friend, you can get down. We won't trouble you any more,” ‘** Do you come from Mr. Billingham ?” * Straight all the way ?” ‘ Well, I would rather see him.” “ Then seek him,” said Jack; and as he spoke he took hold of the man’s foot, and in a moment dislodged him from the back of the horse, sending him sprawling into the road. The fellow began a series of yells and cries of murder, but Jack was in the saddle in a moment. ‘* Leap up on the crupper, Shucks,” he said, ‘“The horse will carry double for some time. Leap up at once!” * All’s right, Jack!” Shucks was on the horse instantly; and before any one could very well see which way to turn in order to assist the man who was lying in the road and crying ‘‘ Murder!” Jack was off. The horse at a hand gallop dashed up the Haymarket, and in a few momeats all pursuit was at an end. “ Shucks,” said Jack, “ will you show me the paper you say you have, and which relates to the Dark Woman ?” “To be sure I will, Pull up.” There was a lamp close to the corner of old Swallow Street, at which Jack Singleton halted | his horse. Jack’s head was quite close to the lamp, so that when Shucks handed to him the | paper which the Dark Woman had written, und _ the counterpart of which had found its way into _ the hands of Sir Hinckton Moys by the murder of | Brads, he was easily able to read it. “Ah,” said Jack, when he had mastered the contents of the paper, “it is a most damaging document.” ‘© Jt is, old pal.” “And I don’t at all wonder that Brads lies _ dead at the ‘Spanish Armada,’ if he had a copy of it.” é' “That’s what I say, Jack. She will sottle me now.” “Tf she can.” ‘* Yes, if she can. **No doubt.” Shucks whistled, but it was rather a Jugubrions tune. “ Shucks,” added Jack, after a few moments’ consideration, “ will you take my advice ?” ‘“[ may as well, Jack, while I can, for I feel quite sure it will be all over with me very soon.” “Will you come with me, then, to the Dark Woman’s house, in Hanover Square?” _ “ Yes, Jack, with you.” “* Come on, then.” . “Shall I slip off the horse?” ‘ T am anxious about As soon as she can.” asaeeienemenetntatainieieasens Meiil iaeeendaebnememnmanemeeeenneeet » “Oh, no! He will carry us both well that little distance, Shucks; so hold on. We shall be there in a few minutes.” ack put his steed again to a good pace, and as he, with Shucks behind him, went towards Hanover Square, he could not help thinking back to the time when that same horse had carried him and the Dark Woman to St. James’s Palace, in order to make the last effort to procure the pardon of Allan Fearon. Hanover Square was soon reached, and Jack, turning to Shucks, said, “ What number did you say it was ?” “‘ Number ten, Jack.” ‘Then, here we are.” There was a good, strong light reflected from the windows of the drawing-room floor, and when Jack alighted from his horse and knocked at the door of the house, he turned round to Shucks, saying, “I think: you had better wait and take care of the horse. If I should want you, I will find a means of sendiog for you.” “All's right, Jack; only make some sort of bargain with her, if you can, for I don’t like the idea of walking into the crib and knocking her on the head; although, in good truth, she deserves no less at my hands.” ‘Be patient,” said Jack. “Give me that paper she wrote, Shucks: I may make better terms for you than even the fear of that will ever extort, to say nothing of its danger.” *“‘ There it is, Jack, and welcome. The fellow to it has been the death of poor Brads, that is quite clear.” The door of the house was flung open by the hall-porter. “J want to see the Countess d’Umbra,” said Jack. ‘“‘ Dead!” said the man. “ What?” ** Dead !” “ Ts that possible ?” “ Jt’s true, whether it’s possible or not; and the authorities are in the house.” “ What authorities ?” “Oh, a greafi man from the Court, and an officer. They are taking an inventory, you see, of all the things that belonged to the Countess. I was not to open the door to anybody; but I thought it was that horrid ruffian named Brads, and J want to have him taken up. Please to let me shut the door.” ** No,” said Jack. “6 But I must.” “ But I won't let you. rities you-speak of.” “ What is all that?” cried a voice from the top of the first flight of the grand staircase. ‘ What ig all that about?” “Tf you please sir, there is a man here who says he must and will come ia, and I can’t keep him out.” ‘‘ T will soon settle that,” said the voice, and no other than Sir Hinckton Moys himself ran down the stairs. “ Sir Hinckton Moys!” eried Jack, who knew him in a moment. ‘ Are you here?” ‘“* And who are you, pray ?” asked Moys, with a loud manner of assumed authority. ‘ Who ara you, pray, who have the presumption to ask tha question ?” I must see the autho- eth ih un ti . ‘s Suseriiettnensathcaerateeiatietiareimeennenis Cad ieee ot coeeeetareeren ceemeeaceeaandnmmemmmemnnnls I caeeieinedanet nen eabinemiannimmnaa Jack was rather puzzled to reply to this ques- tion; but he was relieved from the immediate necessity of doing so by the young girl who played the part of page to the Dark Woman. This young creature appeared on the staircase some half-way up, and in loud and imploring accents, cried out, “ If, sir, you are a friend to my poor mistress, oh, pray protect this house from that man, who I know to be an enemy, and find for me Mr. Allan Fearon, who, if my poor mis- tress be indeed dead, has alone the right of inter- ference here.” “ Officer!” cried Sir Hinckton Moys. that boy, and stop his mouth.” ‘“‘ Yes, sir,” replied a man who came down the stairs behind the page; but the young girl darted right downto the hall, and clinging to Jack, she cried, ‘‘ You will protect me—I am quite sure you will protect me!” “ ‘To be sure I will,” said Jack. Sir Hinckton Moys was in the undress uniform of his military rank, which he was so fond of wearing, merely because it gave him the excuse to carry a sword. That sword he now drew at once. “* T will soon clear the house of intruders,” he said. “ Beware, sir!” said Jack. The bright barrel of a pistol presented by Jack shone very uncomfortably into the eyes of Sir Hinckton Moys. “‘ Murder!” said the hall-porter. ‘I can see there will be murder done! I will call the watch!” He was close to the door; and if Jack and Sir Hinckton Moys both had wished to prevent him from opening it again, they would not have been able. He flung it open; but instead of darting out, as he had fully intended, right into the square, he rushed into the arms of some one, who it appeared had just arrived on the top of the steps. ““ Hilloa!” cried the new arrival, ‘* where are you a coming to, now, eh, stupid ?” It was the herculean Binks, who, suiting action to words, gave the hall-porter such a lift with his shoulder and throw forward, that he flew the whole length of the hall, and was only brought up by the wall on the opposite side. “Now, stupid,” added Binks. on pushing a fellow!” “Who is this ruffian?” said Sir Hinckton Moys. “That’s the man, Sir Hinckton!—that’s the man !” cried he who had been called an officer by Moys; but was no other than his own valet. “That's the rascal, if you please, sir!” “ Who do you call a rascal ?” said Binks. “You! you! you!” The valet made a rush to get up the stairs, fully expecting that Sir Hinckton Moys would stand between him and harm; but his foot slipped, and he rolled right down to the hall. Binks stepped forward and put one foot on the back of the valet, and then turning to Moys, he said, ‘‘ Who the deuce are you ?” Sir Hinckton Moys did not seem to be in a hurry to answer, and Jack spoke for him. ‘“ This man,” he said, ‘states that the Countess d’' Umbra is dead |” “ Dead ?—dead ? ‘ Secure “ You will go She dead 2” ar ST THE DARK WOMAN, Binks, in his astonishment at the possibility of such an event, put his other foot on the back of the valet. “Murder! murder! death !” “ Get out!” Binks stepped off the valet’s back, and gave him a kick which sent him rolling over right into the ash-pan of the fire-placé in the hall. “Who says she is dead? Who says it?” “I do,” replied Sir Hinckton Moys,—“I do. The Countess d Umbra now lies dead at St. James's Palace; and I have authority to take possession of this house and all it contains.” “No, no!” cried Carlos, the page; “I do not believe it! Why does not the son of the Countess, Mr. Allan Fearon, come ?” “The son!” said Jack. ‘ Ah!” A new light broke in upon the mind of Jack Singleton in a moment. For the first time, he was now able to reconcile together many of the Strange, seeming inconsistencies in the actions of the Dark Woman. Now he no longer had any difficulty in comprehending her extraordinary interest in the preservation of Allan from the hands of the executioner. “Her son!” he said again. ‘Ah, yes, I see it all now. Her son is the proper person; and this man, who I know to be that son’s most bitter enemy, cannot be in any authority here.” Sir Hinckton Moys bit his lips with passion. His presence at the house in Hanover Square may be easily explained. After his interview with the He will tread me to “Regent, he had made his way into the Palace through the instrumentality of one of the female domestics, with whom he had an intrigue, and there he had staid quite long enough to hear the alarm of the death of the Regent, and of some mysterious woman who was found with him in the saine room. That this was the Dark Woman, and that she had brought her terrible course to a close by the murder of the Regent by poison, as well as her own death by the same meats, appeared but too evident. ‘ All Sir Hinckton Moys’s hopes of a Court career appeared to be at an end. He was deeply in debt, and the idea struck him that if, with some show of authority, he could take possession of that costly house in Hanover Square, he might find in the course of a few hours booty sufficient to enable him to retire to the Continent a rich man. He took his valet with him to play the part of an officer, and a five pound note to the hall-porter had won him over so that he was quite ready to believe anything. Thus was it, then, that Sir Hinckton Moys was upon a purely piratical expedition at the Dark ‘Woman’s house in Hanover Square. To be then foiled, just at the moment when he thought all things would be successful, was one of those vexations which threw his temper com- pletely off its balance. With fury in his looks he made a rush upon Jack with his drawn sword, and it was only by great good luck that Jack was able with the ‘barrel of the pistol he had in his hand to ward off ‘the ferocious and sudden attack. But Jack did successfully avoid the thrust, and in another moment Binks had hold of Sir Hinckton ae 4] THE DARK WOMAN. EL LE OI NN RT 6 NEI ee es. mee + we. AN Ae NR RAE AT: stewemerre —_ A I et RY TG ee nt ca pent meen ah OS, and at once ran into the hall p-post, horse to a lam i Moys by the back of the neck, and half lifted him from the floor. 4 8 ans aS S) FE 3% ads td O meet o4o 0 = a) 4