CHAPTER CXXXVII

.

TWO MORE OLD ACQUAINTANCES.

It was about eight o’clock in the evening of the same day when these scenes took place, that an old man, coming from a northern direction, entered the metropolis by the suburb of Pentonville.

He was upwards of seventy-four years of age,--tall--thin--and retaining so much muscular vigour as only to stoop slightly in his gait. His complexion was perfectly cadaverous in hue, ghastly and careworn, and sinister in its expression. His attire was shabby, thread-bare, and travel-soiled,--his dusty boots denoting that he had journeyed some distance on foot. Nevertheless, there was about him a certain air which, in spite of his repulsive features and his sordid garb, denoted gentility; and an observer would have pronounced him to be, as indeed he was, a decayed gentleman.

Having passed by the Model Prison, he struck out of the highway into the fields where so many houses are now rapidly springing up, and which lie in the immediate vicinity of the Barnsbury and Liverpool Roads.

It was evident, however, that he had no definite object in view--no home whither he was proceeding; and he had turned into the fields merely to rub off the dust from his boots in the long grass, and rest himself for a few minutes in a secluded place.

At length he rose; and his wandering footsteps led him into the vicinity of the detached rows of small houses and cottages which dot the immediate neighbourhood of the Caledonian Road.

Once he stopped beneath a lamp; and taking his money from his pocket, counted it slowly. And heaven knows that the amount of his pecuniary property did not require long to reckon; for two shillings in silver and a few halfpence constituted all the store.

“This will at least purchase me a meal and procure me a bed for to-night,” he murmured to himself; “and then--to-morrow--I must present myself to those who have not heard of me for so long a time.”

With these words, the old man resumed his slow and painful walk--for he was wearied and exhausted by the length of his day’s journey. It was evident that he had been absent many--many years from the capital; for, though he had once known this neighbourhood well, yet now it was so changed that he gazed around him with astonishment,--aye, and paused to gaze around, too,--streets, rows of houses, and gardens having taken the place of the open fields.

He had now reached a spot where the dwellings were more thinly scattered, and where the path was as yet unpaved and the road was thickly strown with flints.

It was now close upon nine o’clock; but the July evening was so beautiful that it was far from dark--only dimly obscure;--and thus, though there was no lamp in the neighbourhood where the old man was pursuing his way, yet was it sufficiently light for him to obtain a good view of objects, and even of the countenances of the few people whom he met.

Not that he paid any particular attention to the latter:--still, a stranger just arriving in London, or a person who returns to the capital after a very long absence, observes and marks every thing and every body with an earnest scrutiny at first.

The old man was passing by two small houses, forming one isolated building, and standing back from the road, when he encountered an individual whose face immediately struck him as being one which he had formerly known full well; and in the next instant a light flashed in upon his mind.

“Yes--’tis he!” he ejaculated to himself; and, laying his hand upon the other’s shoulder, he said, “Mr. Howard, we meet at last--after a separation of upwards of nineteen years!”

“My name is not Howard--and I know nothing of you, sir. Let me go!” was the impatient reply, delivered by the individual whom the old man had accosted, and who was himself well stricken in years--being now midway between sixty and seventy.

“Were I on my death bed, I could swear that your name was _once_ Howard, and that you were an attorney in London--an attorney who absconded, ruining thousands,” exclaimed the old man.

“What means this insolence?” asked the other, affecting a tone of deep indignation mingled with surprise. “Pass on your way, sir--and let me pursue mine!”

“Not till I have had recompense or vengeance,” growled the old man, ferociously. “For a sum of money did I sell myself to a vile and abandoned woman--a certain Mrs. Slingsby, whom you knew well;--and this money was deposited with you, villain that you are! For you fled--and the loss of that money was not the lightest of the myriad misfortunes that fell upon me at the time. Now do you know who _I_ am, Mr. Howard?--for I know _you_ full well!”

“You have spoken of a number of unintelligible things to me, sir--mentioned names with which I never was acquainted--alluded to circumstances entirely unknown----”

“Liar!” ejaculated Mr. Torrens--for he was the old man who had just now so wearily entered the suburb of Pentonville: “liar!” he repeated, seizing the other individual by the collar; “what should prevent me from raising an alarm and giving you into custody? For though years have elapsed, yet your offences have never been expiated----”

“Softly--softly, my good sir,” interrupted the person thus addressed, and whose manner began to evince trepidation and alarm. “Let us adjourn somewhere and talk amicably on this matter----”

“No!” cried Mr. Torrens. “How do I know but that you intend to inveigle me into a den where you may perhaps silence my tongue for ever?”

“Fool--dotard!” muttered the other between his lips: “does he take me for a murderer?”

“I believe you to be capable of any villainy,” returned the now infuriated Torrens, whose ears had caught the sense of those low mutterings. “But I shall not lose sight of you until I have received full and complete satisfaction for the wrongs I endured at your hands many years ago. And that you _are_ able to give such satisfaction, your appearance proves full well,” he added, as his eye caught a glimpse of the gold chain and massive seals which depended from the other’s fob.

“Mr. Torrens--I will no longer attempt to conceal a fact of which you are so well assured. I _am_ the Howard to whom you allude: but, in the name of God! do not ruin me--do not expose me. Here--this is my dwelling,” he continued, pointing to one of the two houses in front of which this colloquy took place: “walk in with me--and--and we will converse at our ease----”

“Yes--I will accompany you,” said Mr. Torrens, in a laconic manner: “lead the way, sir.”

Mr. Howard drew forth a small key from his pocket, and with it opened the iron gate of the railings in front of the house. Torrens followed him across the little enclosure; and with another and larger key he opened the door of the dark and gloomy-looking dwelling. No domestic appeared; and the lawyer, entering the parlour, groped about in the dark until he found some lucifer-matches--Torrens remaining all the while in the passage. At length a light was obtained; and the visitor was requested to enter the room, which, by means of the one poor candle that now threw a feeble gleam around, appeared to be but indifferently furnished,--so that the aspect of the small and cheerless house somewhat damped the hopes which Torrens had entertained of compelling the individual whom he had thus accidentally encountered, to disgorge the sum embezzled by him upwards of nineteen years previously.

“Do you live all alone here?” he demanded, taking the seat to which Howard pointed.

“Yes--all alone,” was the reply. “I am too poor to keep a servant.”

“Too poor!” exclaimed Mr. Torrens, his heart sinking within him.

“Yes, indeed! How should I be possessed of any money?” said Howard, glancing around with nervous anxiety, as if he were afraid of being overheard. “From the moment that I was forced, by unexpected reverses and sudden misfortunes, to fly from London, I have led a life of continued struggles; and although, a few years ago, I was venturous enough to return to the metropolis and settle in this little cottage, which I got at a cheap rent as it was only just built,--yet my affairs have not improved----”

“But you must have some means of subsistence?--you pursue some avocation?--you doubtless continue to practise----”

“No--no,” interrupted Howard, hastily. “I have been compelled to change my name--and it is as Mr. Percival--_poor Mr. Percival_--that I am known in this neighbourhood.”

“You adopt strange precautions for a poor man,” said Torrens, pointing to the strong iron bars that fastened the shutters of the window: then, turning a look full of sardonic meaning upon Howard--or Percival, as we shall call him,--he added, “And methinks that when you opened your front door just now, a heavy chain rattled. Assuredly your little house is well protected.”

“What would you infer from these facts?” demanded Percival: “that I have money--that I have turned miser?” he cried, with a forced and unnatural laugh. “Absurd! The person who lived here before me, had those bars put up to the window-shutters, and that heavy chain to the street door----”

“I thought you got the house cheap because it had only just been built?” said Torrens, smiling with malignant incredulity.

“Yes--but I did not tell you that I was the first person who occupied it,” exclaimed Percival, as if eager to explain away an inconsistency in his statements and efface from the mind of his visitor the disagreeable impression made there.

“This is mere child’s play, Mr. Howard--or Percival--or whatever your name may be!” cried Torrens. “You have got money--and you wish me to believe you poor. For myself, I _am_ poor--so poor that I have but wherewith to obtain a meal and a bed for one night. It is true that I have a daughter and a son-in-law in London;--and it is likewise true that necessity--stern, imperious necessity has driven me at last to this city to seek assistance at their hands. But for nine years have I remained as one dead to them: for nine years have I wandered about the world, caring not what might become of me, and wishing to be believed dead in all reality by my daughter who suspects that I have been very criminal, and by my son-in-law who knows that I have! Yes--yes: I have purposely left them in uncertainty relative to me--unhappy man that I am,--purposely left them so, I say, in order that they may apprehend the worst! Stern want, however, was driving me to them when I encountered you: to-morrow morning I should have appeared in their presence,--in the presence of the daughter whom I do not love, and of her husband whom I hate--_hate_, for his very virtues, and because he knows me to be so vile!” added the old man, bitterly. “But now, sir, that I have met with you, your purse must save me the pain--the humiliation--the annoyance of encountering those beings face to face! Come, Mr. Percival--I have spoken to you frankly: do you be equally candid with me.”

“Candid in what?” demanded the individual thus addressed.

“In respect to your own means and resources,” returned Torrens. “I do not wish to be hard upon you; but a portion of the money that you robbed me of, I must and will have.”

“These are harsh words--and unavailing, too,” said Percival: “for I have not a sixpence to bless myself with! But,” he added, with a malicious grin, “if I cannot give you money, I may perhaps impart a piece of agreeable intelligence.”

“What! to me?” exclaimed Torrens, in a tone of surprise.

“Yes--to you. What would you think if I were to tell you that your dearly-beloved wife was in London at this very moment, and passing under the aristocratic name of Fitzhardinge?”

“My wife!” repeated Torrens, turning positively livid as these words struck upon his ears. “No--impossible! I would not meet that dreadful woman for thousands of pounds!”

“Then if you remain here you will assuredly encounter her,” said Percival; “for I received a note from her this evening announcing her intention to honour me with a visit,” he added, intently watching the effect which these words produced upon his companion.

“Villain! you are endeavouring to get rid of me as speedily as possible!” cried Torrens, almost foaming at the mouth with rage.

“Should you recognise your wife’s handwriting?” demanded Percival, a diabolical grin still distorting features which, once handsome, had been marred and rendered repulsive by time and evil passions. “Though she is now stricken in years and has become positively hideous in personal appearance, that handwriting retains all the grace and fluency which ever characterised it.”

With these words, he took a perfumed note from his pocket-book, and handed it to Torrens, who, hastily glancing over its contents, read the following words:--

“Mrs. Fitzhardinge presents her compliments to Mr. Percival, and will call upon him between nine and ten o’clock this evening on very particular business. She therefore hopes that Mr. Percival will have the kindness to remain at home to receive her.”

“Now are you satisfied?” demanded Percival, who perceived by the workings of Torrens’ countenance that the handwriting had been fully recognised.

“And on what matters is she--that vile woman--coming to you?” asked Torrens, impatiently.

“I cannot answer the question. You perceive that she speaks only of _particular business_ in a vague fashion. I met her by accident some few days ago--and have not seen her since.”

“And she comes between nine and ten,” mused Torrens: “and it is already close upon ten o’clock! I would not meet her for the world: ’twould recall to my mind, with intolerable force, all the anguish--all the sufferings----No--no,” he cried, suddenly interrupting himself and starting from his chair; “I will not--I cannot meet her!”

“Then you had better depart at once,” said Percival, evidently most anxious to see the unwelcome visitor turn his back upon the house.

“Yes--I shall depart indeed,” exclaimed Torrens: “but you must give me money first. Nay--no more excuses: I am a desperate man----”

At that instant a double knock at the street door echoed through the little dwelling.

“’Tis your wife!” said Percival.

“Hide me--or let me escape,” cried Torrens, manifesting a violent and most unfeigned reluctance to encounter the woman whom for so many reasons he loathed and abhorred.

“Here--by the back gate,” said Percival; and, taking the light in his hand, he hastily conducted the almost bewildered Torrens along the passage--down a few steps--and thence to a door opening upon a piece of unenclosed waste ground at the back of the house.

At that instant the double knock was repeated--more loudly than before and evidently with impatience.

“Good night, Mr. Torrens,” said Percival, scarcely able to subdue a spice of lurking satire in his tone.

“Good night,” returned the other, savagely. “But I shall visit you again to-morrow morning.”

Percival closed the back gate as if to shut out this intimation from his ears; and, hurrying to the front door, he gave admittance to Perdita and her mother.

## CHAPTER CXXXVIII.

THE MONEY-LENDER.

Mrs. and Miss Fitzhardinge were attired in the plainest possible manner, so that they seemed to be some poor tradesman’s wife and daughter. But the moment the light of the candle fell on Perdita’s countenance, Mr. Percival literally started as the glorious beauty of that face was revealed to him. The young woman perceived the effect of her charms on the old lawyer; and a smile of triumph played on her haughty lip,--for she said within herself; “Wherever I go, men pay homage to my loveliness!”

Hastily closing the front door, Percival now conducted his two visitresses into the back-parlour, which was far more commodiously furnished than the one where his interview with Torrens had taken place. The shutters of this room were, however, as strongly protected by iron bars and as well secured as those in the other; and Mr. Percival had multiplied in them the number of holes cut in the shape of a heart, in order that he might be enabled to fire his blunderbuss at a moment’s warning, and in almost any direction, through the shutters, in case of an attempt on the part of burglars to effect an entry in the rear of the building.

For it was perfectly true, as he had informed Torrens, that he lived alone in the house: but he was reported to be a miser--and such indeed he was. Having been extravagant and profligate in his earlier years, he had fallen into the opposite extreme; and when he absconded from his creditors, the money which he had taken with him he hoarded carefully. For a long time he had remained concealed in a distant town, placing out his funds in small loans at an enormous interest; so that as his wealth augmented, his parsimonious habits increased. At last, become greedy and griping as any miser whose renown has been preserved in tale-book or history, Percival--as we shall continue to call him--resolved on venturing to London, where the field for his cupidity was more ample than in the provinces. Trusting to the alteration that years had made in his personal appearance, and to the disguise of the name which he had assumed, he settled in the secluded neighbourhood and comparatively lonely house when we now find him;--and, without seeking business obtrusively, he soon found plenty. One person whom he obliged with a loan would give his address to another also requiring assistance; and thus his clients or patrons--whichever the reader may choose to call the borrowers--increased. He was almost constantly at home--formed no acquaintances--and was short and pithy in his mode of transacting business. He never advanced money save when he perceived the security to be ample; and if occasionally he made a bad debt, he employed an attorney who asked no impertinent questions to sue the defaulter in his own name, it being alleged that the unpaid bill had been passed in a legitimate manner to the pettifogger aforesaid. An elderly widow, of the name of Dyer, occupied the house next door; and she acted in the capacity of charwoman for Mr. Percival--keeping his dwelling in order and preparing for him his frugal meals.

Having recorded these few necessary particulars, we shall now return to the little back parlour, where Mr. Percival and his two visitresses were seated. His back was turned to the window: but Mrs. Fitzhardinge and Perdita, who sate opposite to him, faced it,--while the candle stood on the mantel,--so that had any one peeped through the heart-holes in the shutters, the countenances of the women must have been plainly visible to such curious observer outside the casement.

“Your daughter, madam, I presume?” said Mr. Percival, with a polite inclination of the head towards the handsome Perdita.

“Yes, my dear sir,” was the reply. “And she is about to form an excellent match with a young gentleman who is indeed a nobleman by right, and who will shortly assert his title to that distinction. He wishes to borrow money for his immediate purposes and also to assist me: hence my visit to you this evening.”

“Well--well, my dear madam,” said Percival; “if the security be good----”

“The security is ample,” returned Mrs. Fitzhardinge. “He is indubitably the heir to vast estates--and his bond----”

“Will be quite sufficient,” added Percival. “That is--presuming him to be of age----”

“He is twenty-five years old,” said Mrs. Fitzhardinge. “But the history of himself and family is most extraordinary: and his father is not altogether unknown to you:--for, if I remember aright, it was you who prosecuted the celebrated highwayman, Thomas Rainford, for the robbery of the late Sir Christopher Blunt?”

“What earthly connexion can exist between Tom Rain and the young nobleman who wants to borrow money?” demanded Percival, with unfeigned astonishment.

“Grant me your patience, my dear sir,” said Mrs. Fitzhardinge, “and I will explain the matter as concisely as possible. Thomas Rainford was in reality the son of the late Earl of Ellingham--the eldest son, and legitimately born, of that nobleman, who privately married a certain Octavia Manners. The individual who at present bears the title and enjoys the estates of the Earldom of Ellingham, is the offspring of a second marriage contracted by his father. He and Rainford are consequently half-brothers. All these facts are proven by certain papers now in the possession of myself and daughter. One of the documents is the marriage-certificate of the late Earl with Octavia Manners,--another the baptismal certificate of their son,--a third the journal of Octavia Manners explaining many matters connected with the whole affair,--and then follows a variety of documents establishing the identity of Thomas Rainford with the son of the late Earl and the Countess Octavia. Thus far the rights of Thomas Rainford are clearly made out. I must now inform you that Rainford and Lady Georgiana Hatfield have long been united in matrimonial bonds, and that the husband has for a considerable time adapted his wife’s name. The offspring of this alliance is the young gentleman of whom I have already spoken to you, and who at present bears the denomination of Charles Hatfield. Now, his father being the rightful Earl of Ellingham, this Charles Hatfield is actually the Viscount Marston, and heir to the title and estates of the Earldom.”

“Your history, my dear madam, is clear and comprehensive enough,” said Percival, already calculating the enormous gains which might be derived from the fact of becoming the banker to a young noblemen having a vast fortune in the perspective, and whom he supposed to be as extravagantly inclined as youthful scions of the aristocracy in such cases generally are. “And you possess the proofs of all the singular facts which you have detailed?”

“The proofs--the positive proofs,” replied Mrs. Fitzhardinge, emphatically;--and turning towards her daughter, she said, “Show Mr. Percival the papers.”

“It is useless,” answered Perdita, in a firm but quiet manner, “unless he first agree to advance a certain sum of money, should they be satisfactory.”

“True,” said her mother, biting her lip at the thought that her daughter was more keen than herself: then, addressing herself to the miser, she observed, “You heard the remark that fell from the lips of Miss Fitzhardinge?”

“Yes--yes,” returned Mr. Percival. “We shall most likely do business together--most likely,” he repeated. “At the same time, I must see my way very clearly----”

“And we must be careful not to reveal unnecessarily any more of the important secrets of which we are the depositories,” said Perdita.

“Quite right, young lady!” exclaimed the miser, who experienced no slight degree of embarrassment: for he was afraid, on the one hand, of letting a good chance slip through his fingers--and he was fearful, on the other, of admitting that he had ample resources immediately available.

Not that Percival dreaded on the part of Mrs. Fitzhardinge the same attempt at extortion, or rather of obtaining restitution, which had been made by Mr. Torrens; because he knew full well that she was occupying a false position in the world, and living under an assumed name as well as himself;--and should she take it into her head to threaten him with an exposure as being no other than Howard the run-away attorney, he could in a moment retaliate by proclaiming her to be Mrs. Slingsby--or Mrs. Torrens--the woman who had been transported for forgery!

No:--Mr. Percival dreaded not menace on the part of Mrs. Fitzhardinge; but the naturally suspicious disposition of the miser, and the vague fears that ever haunt the avaricious man when questioned as to the amount and whereabouts of his resources--these were the influences which made Percival hesitate to plunge too precipitately into the transaction now submitted for his consideration.

“Well, sir,--are you prepared to negociate with us--or not?” demanded Perdita, after a short pause, during which the miser fidgetted nervously upon his chair.

“It all depends, Miss--it all depends on the amount your noble friend requires,” he answered at length.

“The entire business is left in our hands,” said Mrs. Fitzhardinge; “and we wish to raise between five and six thousand pounds in the first instance----”

“Of which one thousand must be paid to-night,” added Perdita, “as an earnest that the transaction is seriously entered into.”

“A thousand pounds to-night!” cried the miser. “But how is that possible--even if I had the money in the house,” he asked, looking anxiously around, and sinking his voice to a low whisper,--“how is it possible, I say, since the young nobleman is not here to give me any acknowledgment?”

“This objection was naturally anticipated by us,” replied Perdita. “Viscount Marston, instead of sending us the papers this evening, did us the honour to call personally with them; and his lordship confided to me,--and to _me_ alone,” added Perdita, with a rapid glance of triumphant meaning at her mother,--“his note of hand for one thousand guineas.”

“I must congratulate you, my dear madam,” exclaimed Percival, addressing himself with a smile to the old woman,--“I must congratulate you on possessing a daughter of the most business-like character in the person of Miss Fitzhardinge.”

“Then pray let us transact our present affairs in a business-like manner,” said Perdita, who was rapidly putting herself more forward in the matter, and proportionately throwing her mother into the back-ground: so that the old woman more than once bit her lip to restrain her rising choler;--but, remembering the terrific scene of the morning, she saw no alternative save to allow her daughter to have her own way--trusting, however, to the chapter of accidents to restore to her in the long run that paramount influence which she had lost.

“You wish me to discount at once that note of hand for a thousand guineas?” said the miser, fixing his eyes admiringly on Perdita’s splendid countenance.

“Yes--as an earnest that you are not prompted by mere curiosity to look farther into this most extraordinary, mysterious, and yet easily understood affair,” replied Perdita.

“I will accede to your terms, Miss Fitzhardinge,” said Percival, after a few minutes’ deliberation,--“provided that the documents in your possession bear out your mother’s statements.”

“Place the money on the table, sir,” returned the young woman, in her quiet though somewhat imperious manner; “and these papers,” she added, producing a sealed packet at the some time, “shall be submitted to your perusal.”

“Good!” cried the miser.

He then rose from his seat; and, having once more cast a furtive look around him, as if it were possible for an intruder to secrete himself in a room fourteen feet by ten, and which the three inmates already nearly filled, he proceeded to open an iron safe that was fitted into a kind of cupboard in one corner. Thence he took forth a tin cash-box, which, when opened, revealed heaps of Bank-notes, and a large amount in gold.

“There, ladies,” said he: “I have now convinced you of my ability to proceed farther in this transaction; and it is your turn, Miss,” he added, looking at Perdita, “to take the next step.”

“Granted!” was the reply; and, opening the packet, she handed the several papers, which were properly classed and numbered, one by one to the miser,--receiving back each before she gave him the next following.

Mr. Percival read the documents without much emotion. His pecuniary avocations had blunted the sentiment of curiosity in his soul: he viewed the matter only in a business-light;--and so long as the security was good, he cared not if all the highwaymen in the world should turn out to be noblemen in their own right. He thought of the profits that might arise from ministering to the extravagances, as he supposed, of a young nobleman having excellent certainties in the perspective; and it was not of the slightest importance to him how Mrs. Fitzhardinge and Perdita had contrived to inveigle him into their meshes--how they had gotten possession of the papers--or how the money raised was to be expended.

“This is completely satisfactory as far as it goes,” he said, returning to the young woman the last paper which she had placed in his hand. “The documents show that Rainford is the real Earl of Ellingham; but there is no evidence to prove that your Charles Hatfield is his son.”

“We are well convinced of that fact,” said Mrs. Fitzhardinge.

“Yes--I suppose it may be admitted,” observed Percival, who had not the least idea that Charles Hatfield had ever passed and was still passing as the nephew of those whose were really his parents. “But there is still one question which must be fully cleared up;--and this is the legitimacy of the young man’s birth. If he be the lawfully begotten son of the rightful owner of the title and estates of the Earldom--then is he the heir, beyond all possibility of doubt: but if he be illegitimate----”

“The idea is absurd,” interrupted Mrs. Fitzhardinge. “There can be no hesitation in declaring that Thomas Rainford and Lady Georgiana had been privately married long before the man himself was condemned to death: else wherefore should she have exerted her interest to obtain a pardon for him at the hand of George the Fourth?”

“I remember the transaction,” said Percival; “and I have no moral doubt that all you tell me is perfectly correct. Indeed, I am so well assured of it, that I have not the least objection to discount the note of hand, on condition that the defective evidence be supplied me before I am called upon to make further advances.”

“Most certainly,” exclaimed Perdita. “Charles will give you every satisfactory proof of the validity of his claims. You require testimony to show that he is the lawfully begotten son of those who now pass under the name of Mr. and Lady Georgiana Hatfield?”

“The certificates of _their_ marriage and _his_ birth,” said the miser. “Where is the note of hand?”

Perdita produced it; and a little altercation then arose respecting the rate of discount. Mrs. Fitzhardinge manifested a greedy anxiety to conclude the bargain on the miser’s own exorbitant terms: but Perdita argued the point with him in a resolute manner. At last, however, an amicable understanding was arrived at; and the miser was permitted to deduct seventy-five pounds for the discount. Perdita received the amount which he then told down upon the table; and the old woman’s features grew distorted with rage--a rage the more intense, because she was forced to restrain it--when she found that her daughter did not offer to render her the guardian of the purse.

But Perdita had that day asserted an empire which she was resolved to maintain--a domination which she was determined to grasp indivisibly. Without positively offending or irritating her mother by pointed and overt insult, she nevertheless had made up her mind to act as the mistress in all things;--and thus had the punishment of the vile old woman already begun, even on account of the new schemes of wickedness which she had set on foot.

Having secured the precious packet of papers and the money about her person, the beautiful Perdita rose from her chair, saying, “We may now take our departure, mother.”

“One word first!” exclaimed Percival, a sudden reminiscence striking him: then, turning towards Mrs. Fitzhardinge, he said, “My dear madam, I have some news to impart which I had almost forgotten in the absorbing nature of the business that has occupied us for the last hour,--news which will not a little astonish you----”

“Then pray keep me no longer in suspense!” exclaimed Mrs. Fitzhardinge, Perdita’s conduct not having put her into the best of possible humours.

“Just before you knocked at the door this night----”

“Well, well?” ejaculated the impatient woman.

“A man was with me----”

“And that man?” repeated Mrs. Fitzhardinge, gasping for breath, as if she anticipated the reply.

“Was your husband!” added the miser.

A hideous expression passed over the countenance of Mrs. Fitzhardinge,--an expression of mingled hate, apprehension, and rage; and she staggered for a moment as if she were about to fall.

But subduing her emotions, she approached the miser, and said in a low, hoarse, grating tone, “Does he know that I am in London?--is he aware that I am in England--passing by the name of Fitzhardinge----”

“No--no,” replied Percival hastily: for he saw by the old woman’s manner that she would not thank him were he to inform her that he had made her husband acquainted with so many particulars concerning her.

“You are sure--you are certain?” demanded she, breathing somewhat more freely.

“Since Mr. Percival has already answered you satisfactorily, mother, wherefore require additional assurances?” said Perdita, who was in haste to depart--for it was now waxing very late.

“Because I would sooner meet one of those hideous snakes that I have seen in Australia, than encounter that man!” responded the old woman. “I know not why,--but I hate him--I loathe and abhor him----”

“Come along, mother,” interrupted Perdita, impatiently: “Mr. Percival cares nothing about all this.”

“True! but one word more,” cried Mrs. Fitzhardinge. “Tell me, sir--is that man--_my husband_,”--and the words appeared almost to choke her,--“is he well off--or poor and wretched?”

“He seemed to be very miserable,” answered the miser;--“so miserable that he wished to obtain assistance from me! But I--I never give,” he added, after a moment’s hesitation.

“I believe you, sir,” remarked Perdita, a faint smile of contempt curling her haughty but beauteous lip. “Now, mother, at last you are ready, I presume?”

“Allow me to light you to the door,” said Percival; and, with a bow, he preceded the two females into the passage.

He opened the front door, and Perdita, wishing him “good night” bounded forth first into the open air--for she felt relieved at escaping from the miser’s cheerless abode:--her mother followed more slowly--and just as she passed by Percival, who stood on the threshold officiously holding the candle, the light streamed fully on the countenance of the old woman. At that same instant Mrs. Dyer--the widow who lived at the next house--was returning home from a neighbour’s; and she caught a complete view of the face of Mrs. Fitzhardinge. It struck the good woman at the moment that she had seldom beheld such a repulsive, sinister countenance: but she was accustomed to see strange-looking people visit the miser’s abode;--and the circumstance therefore made no

## particular impression on her mind.

She merely said “Good night, sir,” to the miser, and forthwith entered her own abode.

Percival’s door closed at the same instant; and Mrs. Fitzhardinge having overtaken her daughter, the two retraced their way to the City Road, whence they took a cab to Suffolk Street.

##