Mr Small was, as we have observed, a navy agent—that is to say, he was a general provider of the officers and captains of his Majesty's service. He obtained their agency on any captures which they might send in, or he cashed their bills, advanced them money, supplied them with their wine, and every variety of stock which might be required; and in consequence was reported to be accumulating a fortune. As is usually the case, he kept open house for the captains who were his clients, and occasionally invited the junior officers to the hospitalities of his table, so that Mrs Phillips and Emma were of great use to him, and had quite sufficient to do in superintending such an establishment. Having thus made our readers better acquainted with our new characters, we shall proceed.

"Well, young man, I've heard all about you from my sister. So you wish to leave off vagabondising, do you?"

"Yes, sir," replied Joey.

"How old are you? can you keep books?"

"I am seventeen, and have kept books," replied our hero, in innocence; for he considered Mrs Chopper's day-books to come under that denomination.

"And you have some money—how much?"

Joey replied that he had so much of his own, and that his sister had so much more.

"Seven hundred pounds; eh, youngster? I began business with 100 pounds less; and here I am. Money breeds money; do you understand that?" and here Joey received a knuckle in his ribs, which almost took his breath away, but which he bore without flinching, as he presumed it was a mark of good will.

"What can we do with this lad, Sleek?" said Mr Small; "and what can we do with his money?"

"Let him stay in the counting-house here for a week," replied Mr Sleek, "and we shall see what he can do; and, as for his money, it will be as safe here as in a country bank, until we know how to employ it, and we can allow five per cent for it." All this was said in a shower of spray, which induced Joey to wipe his face with his pocket-handkerchief.

"Yes, I think that will do for the present," rejoined Mr Small; "but you observe, Sleek, that this young lad has very powerful interest, and we shall be expected to do something for him, or we shall have the worst of it. You understand that?" continued he, giving Joey a knuckle again. "The ladies! no standing against them!"

Joey thought there was no standing such digs in the ribs, but he said nothing.

"I leave him to you, Sleek. I must be off to call upon Captain James. See to the lad's food and lodging. There's an order from the gun-room of the Hecate." So saying, Mr Small departed.

Mr Sleek asked our hero where he was stopping; recommended him another lodging close to the house, with directions how to proceed, and what arrangements to make; told him to haste as much as he could, and then come back to the counting-house.

In a couple of hours our hero was back again.

"Look on this list; do you understand it?" said Mr Sleek to Joey; "it is sea-stock for the Hecate which sails in a day or two. If I send a porter with you to the people we deal with, would you be able to get all these things which are marked with a cross? the wine and the others we have here."

Joey looked over it, and was quite at home; it was only bumboating on a large scale. "O, yes; and I know the prices of all these things," replied he; "I have been used to the supplying of ships at Gravesend."

"Why then," said Mr Sleek, "you are the very person I want; for I have no time to attend to out-door work now."

The porter was sent for, and our hero soon executed his task, not only with a precision but with a rapidity that was highly satisfactory to Mr Sleek. As soon as the articles were all collected, Joey asked whether he should take them on board—"I understand the work, Mr Sleek, and not even an egg shall be broke, I promise you." The second part of the commission was executed with the same precision by our hero, who returned with a receipt of every article having been delivered safe and in good condition. Mr Sleek was delighted with our hero, and told Mr Small so when they met in the evening. Mr Sleek's opinion was given in the presence of Mrs Phillips and Emma, who exchanged glances of satisfaction at Joey's fortunate debut.



CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT.

IN WHICH THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE TURNS A SPOKE OR TWO IN FAVOUR OF OUR HERO.

If we were to analyse the feelings of our hero towards Emma Phillips, we should hardly be warranted in saying that he was in love with her, although at seventeen years young men are very apt to be, or so to fancy themselves. The difference in their positions was so great, that, although our hero would, in his dreams, often fancy himself on most intimate terms with his kind little patroness, in his waking thoughts she was more an object of adoration and respect,—a being to whom he was most ardently and devotedly attached,—one whose friendship and kindness had so wrought upon his best feelings, that he would have thought it no sacrifice to die for her; but the idea of ever being closer allied to her than he now was had not yet entered into his imagination; all he ever thought was that, if ever he united himself to any female for life, the party selected must be like Emma Phillips; or, if not, he would remain single. All his endeavours were to prove himself worthy of her patronage, and to be rewarded by her smiles of encouragement when they met. She was the lodestar which guided him on to his path of duty, and, stimulated by his wishes to find favour in her sight, Joey never relaxed in his exertions; naturally active and methodical, he was indefatigable, and gave the greatest satisfaction to Mr Sleek, who found more than half the labour taken off his hands; and, further, that if Joey once said a thing should be done, it was not only well done, but done to the very time that was stipulated for its completion. Joey cared not for meals, or anything of that kind, and often went without his dinner.

"Sleek," said Small, one day, "that poor boy will be starved."

"It's not my fault, sir; he won't go to his dinner if there is anything to do; and, as there is always something to do, it's as clear as the day that he can get no dinner. I wish he was living in the house altogether, and came to his meals with us after the work was done; it would be very advantageous, and much time saved."

"Time is money, Sleek. Time saved is money saved; and therefore he is worthy of his food. It shall be so. Do you see to it."

Thus, in about two months after his arrival, Joey found himself installed in a nice little bedroom, and living at the table of his patron, not only constantly in company with the naval officers, but, what was of more value to him, in the company of Mrs Phillips and Emma.

We must pass over more than a year, during which time our hero had become a person of some importance. He was a great favourite with the naval captains, as his punctuality and rapidity corresponded with their ideas of doing business; and it was constantly said to Mr Sleek or to Mr Small, "Let O'Donahue and I settle the matter, and all will go right." Mr Small had already established him at a salary of 150 pounds per annum, besides his living in the house, and our hero was comfortable and happy. He was well known to all the officers, from his being constantly on board of their ships, and was a great favourite: Joey soon discovered that Emma had a fancy for natural curiosities; and as he boarded almost every man-of-war which came into the port, he soon filled her room with a variety of shells and of birds, which he procured her. These were presents which he could make, and which she could accept, and not a week passed without our hero adding something to her museum of live and dead objects. Indeed, Emma was now grown up, and was paid such attention to by the officers who frequented her uncle's house (not only on account of her beauty, but on account of the expectation that her uncle, who was without children, would give her a handsome fortune), that some emotions of jealousy, of which he was hardly conscious, would occasionally give severe pain to our hero. Perhaps as his fortunes rose, so did his hopes; certain it is, that sometimes he was very grave.

Emma was too clear-sighted not to perceive the cause, and hastened, by her little attentions, to remove the feeling: not that she had any definite ideas upon the subject any more than Joey; but she could not bear to see him look unhappy.

Such was the state of things, when one day Mr Small said to Joey, as he was busy copying an order into the books, "O'Donahue, I have been laying out some of your money for you."

"Indeed, sir! I'm very much obliged to you."

"Yes; there was a large stock of claret sold at auction to-day: it was good, and went cheap. I have purchased to the amount of 600 pounds on your account. You may bottle and bin it here, and sell it as you can. If you don't like the bargain, I'll take it off your hands."

"I am very grateful to you, sir," replied Joey, who knew the kindness of the act, which in two months more than doubled his capital; and, as he was permitted to continue the business on his own account, he was very soon in a position amounting to independence, the French wine business being ever afterwards considered as exclusively belonging to our hero.

One morning, as Joey happened to be in the counting-house by himself— which was rather an unusual occurrence,—a midshipman came in. Joey remembered him very well, as he had been often there before. "Good morning, Mr O'Donahue," said the midshipman; "is Mr Small within?"

"No, he is not; can I do anything for you?"

"Yes, if you can tell me how I am to persuade Mr Small to advance me a little money upon my pay, you can do something for me."

"I never heard of such an application before," replied Joey, smiling.

"No, that I venture you did not, and it requires all the impudence of a midshipman to make such a one; but the fact is, Mr O'Donahue, I am a mate with 40 pounds a year, and upon that I have continued to assist my poor old mother up to the present. She now requires 10 pounds in consequence of illness, and I have not a farthing. I will repay it if I live, that is certain; but I have little hopes of obtaining it, and nothing but my affection for the old lady would induce me to risk the mortification of a refusal. It's true enough that 'he who goes a-borrowing goes a-sorrowing.'"

"I fear it is; but I will so far assist you as to let you know what your only chance is. State your case to Mr Small as you have to me to-day, and then stand close to him while he answers; if he puts his knuckles into your ribs to enforce his arguments, don't shrink, and then wait the result without interrupting him."

"Well, I'd do more than that for the old lady," replied the poor midshipman, as Mr Small made his appearance.

The midshipman told his story in very few words, and Mr Small heard him without interruption. When he had finished, Mr Small commenced, "You see my man, you ask me to do what no navy-agent ever did before—to lend upon a promise to pay, and that promise to pay from a midshipman. In the first place, I have only the promise without the security; that's one point, do you observe? (A punch with the knuckles.) And then the promise to pay depends whether you are in the country or not. Again, if you have the money, you may not have the inclination to pay; that's another point. (Then came another sharp impression into the ribs of the middy.) Then, again, it is not even personal security, as you may be drowned, shot, blown up, or taken out of the world before any pay is due to you; and by your death you would be unable to pay, if so inclined; there's a third point. (And there was a third dig, which the middy stood boldly up against.) Insure your life you cannot, for you have no money; you therefore require me to lend my money upon no security whatever; for even allowing that you would pay if you could, yet your death might prevent it; there's another point, (and the knuckles again penetrated into the midshipman's side who felt the torture increasing as hope was departing.) But," continued Mr Small, who was evidently much pleased with his own ratiocination, "there is another point not yet touched upon, which is, that as good Christians, we must sometimes lend money upon no security, or even give it away, for so are we commanded; and therefore, Mr O'Donahue, you will tell Mr Sleek to let him have the money; there's the last and best point of all, eh?" wound up Mr Small, with a thumping blow upon the ribs of the middy, that almost took away his breath. We give this as a specimen of Mr Small's style of practical and theoretical logic combined.

"The admiral, sir, is coming down the street," said Sleek, entering, "and I think he is coming here."

Mr Small, who did not venture to chop logic with admirals, but was excessively polite to such great people, went out to receive the admiral, hat in hand.

"Now, Mr Small," said the admiral, "the counting-house for business, if you please. I have very unexpected orders to leave Portsmouth. I must save the next tide, if possible. The ships will be ready, for you know what our navy can do when required: but as you know, I have not one atom of stock on board. The flood-tide has made almost an hour, and we must sail at the first of the ebb, as twelve hours' delay may be most serious. Now, tell me—here is the list of what is required; boats will be ready and men in plenty to get it on board;—can you get it ready by that time?"

"By that time, Sir William?" replied Small, looking over the tremendous catalogue.

"It is now eleven o'clock; can it all be down by four o'clock—that is the latest I can give you?"

"Impossible, Sir William."

"It is of the greatest importance that we sail at five o'clock; the fact is, I must and will; but it's hard that I must starve for a whole cruise."

"Indeed, Sir William," said Mr Small, "if it were possible; but two cows, so many sheep, hay, and everything to be got from the country; we never could manage it. To-morrow morning, perhaps."

"Well, Mr Small, I have appointed no prize-agent yet; had you obliged me—"

Our hero now stepped forward and ran over the list.

"Can you inform me, sir," said he to the flag-captain, "whether the Zenobia or Orestes sail with the squadron?"

"No, they do not," was the reply.

"I beg your pardon, Mr Small," said Joey, "but I do think we can accomplish this with a little arrangement."

"Indeed!" cried Sir William.

"Yes, Sir William; if you would immediately make the signals for two boats to come on shore, with steady crews to assist me, I promise it shall be done."

"Well said, O'Donahue!" cried the captain; "we are all right now, admiral; if he says it shall be done, it will be done."

"May I depend upon you, Mr O'Donahue."

"Yes, Sir William; everything shall be as you wish."

"Well, Mr Small, if your young man keeps his word, you shall be my prize-agent. Good morning to you."

"How could you promise?" cried Small, addressing our hero, when the admiral and suite had left the counting-house.

"Because I can perform, sir," replied Joey; "I have the cows and sheep for the Zenobia and Orestes, as well as the fodder, all ready in the town; we can get others for them to-morrow, and I know where to lay my hands on everything else."

"Well, that's lucky! but there is no time to be lost."

Our hero, with his usual promptitude and activity, kept his promise; and, as Mr Small said, it was lucky, for the prize-agency, in a few months afterwards, proved worth to him nearly 5,000 pounds.

It is not to be supposed that Joey neglected his correspondence either with Mary or Spikeman, although with the latter it was not so frequent. Mary wrote to him every month; she had not many subjects to enter upon, chiefly replying to Joey's communications, and congratulating him upon his success. Indeed, now that our hero had been nearly four years with Mr Small, he might be said to be a very rising and independent person. His capital, which had increased very considerably, had been thrown into the business, and he was now a junior partner, instead of a clerk, and had long enjoyed the full confidence both of his superior and of Mr Sleek, who now entrusted him with almost everything. In short, Joey was in the fair way to competence and distinction.



CHAPTER THIRTY NINE.



CHAPTER OF INFINITE VARIETY, CONTAINING AGONY, LAW, LOVE, QUARRELLING, AND SUICIDE.

It may be a subject of interest on the part of the reader to inquire what were the relative positions of Emma Phillips and our hero, now that four years had passed, during which time he had been continually in her company, and gradually, as he rose in importance, removing the distance that was between them. We have only to reply that the consequences natural to such a case did ensue. Every year their intimacy increased— every year added to the hopes of our hero, who now no longer looked upon an alliance with Emma as impossible; yet he still never felt sufficient confidence in himself or his fortunes to intimate such a thought to her; indeed, from a long habit of veneration and respect, he was in the position of a subject before a queen who feels a partiality towards him; he dared not give vent to his thoughts, and it remained for her to have the unfeminine task of intimating to him that he might venture. But, although to outward appearance there was nothing but respect and feelings of gratitude on his part, and condescension and amiability on hers, there was a rapid adhesion going on within. Their interviews were more restrained, their words more selected; for both parties felt how strong were the feelings which they would repress; they were both pensive, silent, and distant—would talk unconnectedly, running from one subject to another, attempting to be lively and unconcerned when they were most inclined to be otherwise, and not daring to scrutinise too minutely their own feelings when they found themselves alone; but what they would fain conceal from themselves their very attempts to conceal made known to other people who were standing by. Both Mrs Phillips and Mr Small perceived how matters stood, and, had they any objections, would have immediately no longer permitted them to be in contact; but they had no objections, for our hero had long won the hearts of both mother and uncle, and they awaited quietly the time which should arrive when the young parties should no longer conceal their feelings for each other.

It was when affairs were between our hero and Emma Phillips as we have just stated, that a circumstance took place which for a time embittered all our hero's happiness. He was walking down High Street, when he perceived a file of marines marching towards him, with two men between them, handcuffed, evidently deserters who had been taken up. A feeling of alarm pervaded our hero; he had a presentiment which induced him to go into a perfumer's shop, and to remain there, so as to have a view of the faces of the deserters as they passed along, without their being able to see him. His forebodings were correct: one of them was his old enemy and persecutor, Furness, the schoolmaster.

Had a dagger been plunged into Joey's bosom, the sensation could not have been more painful than what he felt when he once more found himself so near to his dreaded denouncer. For a short time he remained so transfixed, that the woman who was attending in the shop asked whether she should bring him a glass of water. This inquiry made him recollect himself, and, complaining of a sudden pain in the side, he sat down, and took the water when it was brought; but he went home in despair, quite forgetting the business which brought him out, and retired to his own room, that he might collect his thoughts. What was he to do? This man had been brought back to the barracks; he would be tried and punished, and afterwards be set at liberty. How was it possible that he could always avoid him, or escape being recognised? and how little chance had he of escape from Furness's searching eye! Could he bribe him? Yes, he could now; he was rich enough; but, if he did, one bribe would only be followed up by a demand for another, and a threat of denouncement if he refused. Flight appeared his only chance; but to leave his present position—to leave Emma—it was impossible. Our hero did not leave his room for the remainder of the day, but retired early to bed, that he might cogitate, for sleep he could not. After a night of misery, the effects of which were too visibly marked in his countenance on the ensuing morning, Joey determined to make some inquiries relative to what the fate of Furness might be; and, having made up his mind, he accosted a sergeant of marines, with whom he had a slight acquaintance, and whom he fell in with in the streets. He observed to him that he perceived they had deserters brought in yesterday, and inquired from what ship they had deserted, or from the barracks. The sergeant replied that they had deserted from the Niobe frigate, and had committed theft previous to desertion; that they would remain in confinement at the barracks till the Niobe arrived; and that then they would be tried by a court-martial, and, without doubt, for the double offence, would go through the fleet.

Joey wished the sergeant good morning, and passed on in his way home. His altered appearance had attracted the notice of not only his partners, but of Mrs Phillips, and had caused much distress to the latter. Our hero remained the whole day in the counting-house, apparently unconcerned, but in reality thinking and rethinking, over and over again, his former thoughts. At last he made up his mind that he would wait the issue of the court-martial before he took any decided steps; indeed, what to do he knew not.

We leave the reader to guess the state of mind in which Joey remained for a fortnight previous to the return of the Niobe frigate from a Channel cruise. Two days after her arrival, the signal was made for a court-martial. The sentence was well known before night; it was, that the culprits were to go through the fleet on the ensuing day.

This was, however, no consolation to our hero; he did not feel animosity against Furness so much as he did dread of him; he did not want his punishment, but his absence, and security against future annoyance. It was about nine o'clock on the next morning, when the punishment was to take place, that Joey came down from his own room. He had been thinking all night, and had decided that he had no other resource but to quit Portsmouth, Emma, and his fair prospects for ever; he had resolved so to do, to make this sacrifice; it was a bitter conclusion to arrive at, but it had been come to. His haggard countenance when he made his appearance at the breakfast-table, shocked Mrs Phillips and Emma; but they made no remarks. The breakfast was passed over in silence, and soon afterwards our hero found himself alone with Emma, who immediately went to him, and, with tears in her eyes, said, "What is the matter with you?—you look so ill, you alarm us all, and you make me quite miserable."

"I am afraid, Miss Phillips—"

"Miss Phillips!" replied Emma.

"I beg your pardon; but, Emma, I am afraid that I must leave you."

"Leave us!"

"Yes, leave you and Portsmouth for ever, perhaps."

"Why, what has occurred?"

"I cannot, dare not tell. Will you so far oblige me to say nothing at present; but you recollect that I was obliged to leave Gravesend on a sudden."

"I recollect you did, but why I know not; only Mary said that it was not your fault."

"I trust it was not so; but it was my misfortune. Emma, I am almost distracted; I have not slept for weeks; but pray believe me, when I say that I have done no wrong; indeed—"

"We are interrupted," said Emma, hurriedly; "there is somebody coming upstairs."

She had hardly time to remove a few feet from our hero, when Captain B—-, of the Niobe, entered the room.

"Good morning, Miss Phillips, I hope you are well; I just looked in for a moment before I go to the Admiral's office; we have had a catastrophe on board the Niobe, which I must report immediately."

"Indeed," replied Emma; "nothing very serious, I hope."

"Why, no, only rid of a blackguard not worth hanging; one of the marines, who was to have gone round the fleet this morning, when he went to the forepart of the ship under the sentry's charge, leaped overboard, and drowned himself."

"What was his name, Captain B—-?" inquired Joey, seizing him by the arm.

"His name—why, how can that interest you, O'Donahue? Well, if you wish to know, it was Furness."

"I am very sorry for him," replied our hero; "I knew him once when he was in better circumstances, that is all;" and Joey, no longer daring to trust himself with others, quitted the room, and went to his own apartment. As soon as he was there, he knelt down and returned thanks, not for the death of Furness, but for the removal of the load which had so oppressed his mind. In an hour his relief was so great that he felt himself sufficiently composed to go downstairs; he went into the drawing-room to find Emma, but she was not there. He longed to have some explanation with her, but it was not until the next day that he had an opportunity.

"I hardly know what to say to you," said our hero, "or how to explain my conduct of yesterday."

"It certainly appeared very strange, especially to Captain B—-, who told me that he thought you were mad."

"I care little what he thinks, but I care much what you think, Emma; and I must now tell you what, perhaps, this man's death may permit me to do. That he has been most strangely connected with my life is most true; he it was who knew me, and who would, if he could, have put me in a situation in which I must either have suffered myself to be thought guilty of a crime which I am incapable of; or, let it suffice to say, have done, to exculpate myself, what, I trust, I never would have done, or ever will do. I can say no more than that, without betraying a secret which I am bound to keep, and the keeping of which may still prove my own destruction. When you first saw me on the wayside, Emma, it was this man who forced me from a happy home to wander about the world; it was the reappearance of this man, and his recognition of me that induced me to quit Gravesend so suddenly. I again met him, and avoided him when he was deserting; and I trusted that, as he had deserted, I could be certain of living safely in this town without meeting with him. It was his reappearance here, as a deserter taken up, which put me in that state of agony which you have seen me in for these last three weeks; and it was the knowledge that, after his punishment, he would be again free, and likely to meet with me when walking about here, which resolved me to quit Portsmouth, as I said to you yesterday morning. Can you, therefore, be surprised at my emotion when I heard that he was removed, and that there was now no necessity for my quitting my kind patrons and you?"

"Certainly, after this explanation, I cannot be surprised at your emotion; but what does surprise me, Mr O'Donahue, is that you should have a secret of such importance that it cannot be revealed, and which has made you tremble at the recognition of that man, when at the same time you declare your innocence. Did innocence and mystery ever walk hand in hand?"

"Your addressing me as Mr O'Donahue, Miss Phillips, has pointed out to me the impropriety I have been guilty of in making use of your Christian name. I thought that that confidence which you placed in me when, as a mere boy, I told you exactly what I now repeat, that the secret was not my own, would not have been now so cruelly withdrawn. I have never varied in my tale, and I can honestly say that I have never felt degraded when I have admitted that I have a mystery connected with me; nay, if it should please Heaven that I have the option given me to suffer in my own person, or reveal the secret in question, I trust that I shall submit to my fate with constancy, and be supported in my misfortune by the conviction of my innocence. I feel that I was not wrong in the communication that I made to you yesterday morning that I must leave this place. I came here because you were living here—you to whom I felt so devoted for your kindness and sympathy when I was poor and friendless; now that I am otherwise, you are pleased to withdraw not only your good will, but your confidence in me; and as the spell is broken which has drawn me to this spot, I repeat, that as soon as I can, with justice to my patrons, I shall withdraw myself from your presence."

Our hero's voice faltered before he had finished speaking; and then turning away slowly, without looking up, he quitted the room.



CHAPTER FORTY.

IN WHICH OUR HERO TRIES CHANGE OF AIR.

The reader will observe that there has been a little altercation at the end of the last chapter. Emma Phillips was guilty of letting drop a received truism, or rather a metaphor, which offended our hero. "Did innocence and mystery ever walk hand in hand?" If Emma had put that question to us, we, from our knowledge of the world, should have replied, "Yes, very often, my dear Miss Phillips." But Emma was wrong, not only in her metaphor, but in the time of her making it. Why did she do so? Ah! that is a puzzling question to answer; we can only say, at our imminent risk, when this narrative shall be perused by the other sex, that we have made the discovery that women are not perfect; that the very best of the sex are full of contradiction, and that Emma was a woman. That women very often are more endowed than the generality of men we are ready to admit; and their cause has been taken up by Lady Morgan, Mrs Jamieson, and many others who can write much better than we can. When we say their cause, we mean the right of equality they would claim with our sex and not subjection to it. Reading my Lady Morgan the other day, which, next to conversing with her, is one of the greatest treats we know of we began to speculate upon what were the causes which had subjected woman to man; in other words, how was it that man had got the upper hand, and kept it? That women's minds were not inferior to men's we were forced to admit; that their aptitude for cultivation is often greater, was not to be denied. As to the assertion that man makes laws, or that his frame is of more robust material, it is no argument, as a revolt on the part of the other sex would soon do away with such advantage; and men, brought up as nursery-maids, would soon succumb to women who were accustomed to athletic sports from their youth upwards. After a great deal of cogitation we came to the conclusion, that there is a great difference between the action in the minds of men and women; the machinery of the latter being more complex than that of our own sex. A man's mind is his despot: it works but by one single action; it has one ruling principle—one propelling power to which all is subservient. This power or passion (disguised and dormant as it may be in feeble minds) is the only one which propels him on; this primum mobile, as it may be termed, is ambition, or, in other words, self-love; everything is sacrificed to it.

Now, as in proportion as a machine is simple so is it strong in its action—so in proportion that a machine is complex, it becomes weak; and if we analyse a woman's mind, we shall find that her inferiority arises from the simple fact, that there are so many wheels within wheels working in it, so many compensating balances (if we may use the term, and we use it to her honour), that although usually more right-minded than man, her strength of action is lost, and has become feeble by the time that her decision has been made. What will a man allow to stand in the way of his ambition—love? no—friendship? no—he will sacrifice the best qualities, and, which is more difficult, make the worst that are in his disposition subservient to it. He moves only one great principle, one propelling power—and the action being single, it is strong in proportion. But will a woman's mind decide in this way? Will she sacrifice to ambition, love, or friendship, or natural ties? No; in her mind the claims of each are, generally speaking, fairly balanced—and the quotient, after the calculation has been worked out, although correct, is small. Our argument, after all, only goes to prove that women, abstractedly taken, have more principle, more conscience, and better regulated minds than men—which is true if—if they could always go correct as timekeepers; but the more complex the machine, the more difficult it is to keep it in order, the more likely it is to be out of repair, and its movements to be disarranged by a trifling shock, which would have no effect upon one of such simple and powerful construction as that in our own sex. Not only do they often go wrong, but sometimes the serious shocks which they are liable to in this world will put them in a state which is past all repair.

We have no doubt that by this time the reader will say, "Never mind women's minds, but mind your own business." We left Emma in the drawing-room, rather astonished at our hero's long speech, and still more by his (for the first time during their acquaintance) venturing to breathe a contrary opinion to her own sweet self.

Emma Phillips, although she pouted a little, and the colour had mounted to her temples, nevertheless looked very lovely as she pensively reclined on the sofa. Rebuked by him who had always been so attentive, so submissive—her creature as it were—she was mortified, as every pretty woman is, at any loss of power—any symptoms of rebellion on the part of a liege vassal; and then she taxed herself; had she done wrong? She had said, "Innocence and mystery did not walk hand in hand." Was not that true? She felt that it was true, and her own opinion was corroborated by others, for she had read it in some book, either in Burke, or Rochefoucault, or some great author. Miss Phillips bit the tip of her nail and thought again. Yes, she saw how it was; our hero had risen in the world, was independent, and was well received in society; he was no longer the little Joey of Gravesend; he was now a person of some consequence, and he was a very ungrateful fellow; but the world was full of ingratitude; still she did think better of our hero; she certainly did. Well; at all events she could prove to him that— what?—she did not exactly know. Thus ended cogitation the second, after which came another series.

What had our hero said—what had he accused her of? That she no longer bestowed on him her confidence placed in him for many years. This was true; but were not the relative positions, was not the case different? Should he now retain any secret from her?—there should be no secrets between them. There again there was a full stop before the sentence was complete. After a little more reflection, her own generous mind pointed out to her that she had been in the wrong; and that our hero had cause to be offended with her; and she made up her mind to make reparation the first time that they should be alone.

Having come to this resolution, she dismissed the previous question, and began to think about the secret itself, and what it possibly could be, and how she wished she knew what it was; all of which was very natural. In the meantime our hero had made up his mind to leave Portsmouth, for a time at all events. This quarrel with Emma, if such it might be considered, had made him very miserable, and the anxiety he had lately suffered had seriously affected his health.

We believe that there never was anybody in this world who had grown to man's or woman's estate and had mixed with the world, who could afterwards say that they were at any time perfectly happy; or who, having said so, did not find that the reverse was the case a moment or two after the words were out of their mouth. "There is always something," as a good lady said to us; and so there always is, and always will be. The removal of Furness was naturally a great relief to the mind of our hero; he then felt as if all his difficulties were surmounted, and that he had no longer any fear of the consequences which might ensue from his father's crime. He would now, he thought, be able to walk boldly through the world without recognition, and he had built castles enough to form a metropolis when his rupture with Emma broke the magic mirror through which he had scanned futurity. When most buoyant with hope, he found the truth of the good lady's saying—"There is always something."

After remaining in his room for an hour, Joey went down to the counting-house, where he found Mr Small and Mr Sleek both at work, for their labours had increased since Joey had so much neglected business.

"Well, my good friend, how do you find yourself?" said Mr Small.

"Very far from well, sir. I feel that I cannot attend to business," replied Joey, "and I am quite ashamed of myself; I was thinking that, if you had no objection to allow me a couple of months' leave of absence, change of air would be very serviceable to me. I have something to do at Dudstone, which I have put off ever since I came to Portsmouth."

"I think change of air would be very serviceable to you, my dear fellow," replied Mr Small; "but what business you can have at Dudstone I cannot imagine."

"Simply this—I locked up my apartments, leaving my furniture, books, and linen, when I went away, more than four years ago, and have never found time to look after them."

"Well, they must want dusting by this time, O'Donahue, so look after them if you please; but I think looking after your health is of more consequence, so you have my full consent to take a holiday, and remain away three months, if necessary, till you are perfectly re-established."

"And you have mine," added Mr Sleek, "and I will do your work while you are away."

Our hero thanked his senior partners for their kind compliance with his wishes, and stated his intention of starting the next morning by the early coach, and then left the counting-house to make preparations for his journey.

Joey joined the party, which was numerous, at dinner. It was not until they were in the drawing-room after dinner, that Mr Small had an opportunity of communicating to Mrs Phillips what were our hero's intentions. Mrs Phillips considered it a very advisable measure, as Joey had evidently suffered very much lately: probably over-exertion might have been the cause, and relaxation would effect the cure.

Emma, who was sitting by her mother, turned pale; she had not imagined that our hero would have followed up his expressed intentions of the morning, and she asked Mr Small if he knew when O'Donahue would leave Portsmouth. The reply was, that he had taken his place on the early coach of the next morning: and Emma fell back on the sofa, and did not say anything more.

When the company had all left, Mrs Phillips rose and lighted a chamber candlestick to go to bed, and Emma followed the motions of her mother. Mrs Phillips shook hands with our hero, wishing him a great deal of pleasure, and that he would return quite restored in health. Emma, who found that all chance of an interview with our hero was gone, mustered up courage enough to extend her hand and say,—"I hope your absence will be productive of health and happiness to you, Mr O'Donahue," and then followed her mother.

Joey, who, was in no humour for conversation, then bade farewell to Mr Small and Mr Sleek, and, before Emma had risen from not a very refreshing night's rest, he was two stages on his way from Portsmouth.



CHAPTER FORTY ONE.

IN WHICH OUR HERO HAS HIS HEAD TURNED THE WRONG WAY.

Although it may be very proper, when an offence has been offered us, to show that we feel the injury, it often happens that we act too much upon impulse and carry measures to extremities; and this our hero felt as the coach wheeled him along, every second increasing his distance from Emma Phillips; twenty times he was inclined to take a postchaise and return, but the inconsistency would have been so glaring, that shame prevented him; so he went on until he reached the metropolis, and on arriving there, having nothing better to do, he went to bed. The next day he booked himself for the following day's coach to Manstone, and having so done, he thought he would reconnoitre the domicile of Major and Mrs McShane, and, now that Furness was no longer to be dreaded, make his existence known to them. He went to Holborn accordingly, and found the shop in the same place, with the usual enticing odour sent forth from the grating which gave light and air to the kitchen; but he perceived that there was no longer the name of McShane on the private door, and entering the coffee-room, and looking towards the spot where Mrs McShane usually stood carving the joint, he discovered a person similarly employed whose face was unknown to him; in fact, it could not be Mrs McShane, as it was a man. Our hero went up to him, and inquired if the McShanes still carried on the business, and was told that they had sold it some time back. His next inquiry, as to what had become of them, produced an "I don't know," with some symptoms of impatience at being interrupted. Under such circumstances, our hero had nothing more to do but either to sit down and eat beef or to quit the premises. He preferred the latter, and was once more at the hotel, where he dedicated the remainder of the day to thinking of his old friends, as fate had debarred him from seeing them.

The next morning Joey set off by the coach, and arrived at Manstone a little before dusk. He remained at the principal inn of the village, called the Austin Arms, in honour of the property in the immediate vicinity; and, having looked at the various quarterings of arms that the signboard contained, without the slightest idea that they appertained to himself, he ordered supper, and looking out of the window of the first floor, discovered, at no great distance down the one street which composed the village, the small ale-house where he had before met Mary. Our hero no longer felt the pride of poverty; he had resented the treatment he had received at the Hall when friendless, but, now that he was otherwise, he had overcome the feeling, and had resolved to go up to the Hall on the following day, and ask for Mary. He was now well dressed and with all the appearance and manners of a gentleman: and, moreover, he had been so accustomed to respect from servants, that he had no idea of being treated otherwise. The next morning, therefore, he walked up to the Hall, and, knocking at the door, as soon as it was opened, he told the well-powdered domestics that he wished to speak a few words to Miss Atherton, if she still lived with Mrs Austin. His appearance was considered by these gentlemen in waiting as sufficient to induce them to show him into a parlour, and to send for Mary, who in a few minutes came down to him, and embraced him tenderly. "I should hardly have known you, my dear boy," said she, as the tears glistened in her eyes; "you have grown quite a man. I cannot imagine, as you now stand before me, that you could have been the little Joey that was living at Mrs Chopper's."

"We are indebted to that good woman for our prosperity," replied Joey. "Do you know, Mary, that your money has multiplied so fast that I almost wish that you would take it away, lest by some accident it should be lost? I have brought you an account."

"Let me have an account of yourself, my dear brother," replied Mary; "I have no want of money; I am here well and happy."

"So you must have been, for you look as young and handsome as when I last saw you, Mary. How is your mistress?"

"She is well, and would, I think, be happy, if it were not for the strange disease of Mr Austin, who secludes himself entirely, and will not even go outside of the park gates. He has become more overbearing and haughty than ever, and several of the servants have quitted within the last few months."

"I have no wish to meet him, dear Mary, after what passed when I was here before? I will not put up with insolence from any man, even in his own house," replied our hero.

"Do not speak so loud, his study is next to us, and that door leads to it," replied Mary; "he would not say anything to you, but he would find fault with me."

"Then you had better come to see me at the Austin Arms, where I am stopping."

"I will come this evening," replied Mary.

At this moment the door which led to the study was opened, and a voice was heard—

"Mary, I wish you would take your sweethearts to a more convenient distance."

Joey heard the harsh, hollow voice, but recognised it not; he would not turn round to look at Mr Austin, but remained with his back to him, and the door closed again with a bang.

"Well," observed Joey, "that is a pretty fair specimen of what he is, at all events. Why did you not say I was your brother?"

"Because it was better to say nothing," replied Mary; "he will not come in again."

"Well, I shall leave you now," said Joey, "and wait till the evening; you will be certain to come?"

"O yes, I certainly shall," replied Mary. "Hush! I hear my mistress with Mr Austin. I wish you could see her, you would like her very much."

The outer door of the study was closed to, and then the door of the room in which they were conversing was opened, but it was shut again immediately.

"Who was that?" said our hero, who had not turned round to ascertain. "Mrs Austin; she just looked in, and seeing I was engaged, she only nodded to me to say that she wanted me, I presume, and then went away again," replied Mary. "You had better go now, and I will be sure to come in the evening."

Our hero quitted the hall; he had evidently been in the presence of his father and mother without knowing it, and all because he happened on both occasions to have his face turned in a wrong direction, and he left the house as unconscious as he went in. As soon as our hero had left the hall, Mary repaired to her mistress.

"Do you want me, madam?" said Mary, as she went to her mistress.

"No, Mary, not particular, but Mr Austin sent for me; he was annoyed at your having a strange person in the house, and desired me to send him away."

"It was my brother, madam," replied Mary.

"Your brother! I am very sorry, Mary, but you know how nervous Mr Austin is, and there is no reasoning against nerves. I should have liked to have seen your brother very much; if I recollect rightly, you told me he was doing well at Portsmouth, is he not?"

"Yes, madam; he is now a partner in one of the first houses there."

"Why, Mary, he will soon have you to keep his own house, I presume, and I shall lose you; indeed, your are more fit for such a situation than your present one, so I must not regret it if you do."

"He has no idea of taking a house, madam," replied Mary, "nor have I any of quitting you; your place is quite good enough for me. I promised to go down and meet him this evening, with your permission, at the Austin Arms."

"Certainly," replied Mrs Austin; and then the conversation dropped.

Our hero remained at the inn two days, a portion of which Mary passed with him, and then he set off for Dudstone; he did not make Mary a confident of his attachment to Emma Phillips, although he imparted to her the death of Furness, and the relief it had afforded him, promising to return to see her before he went back to Portsmouth.

Joey once more set off on his travels, and without incident arrived at the good old town of Dudstone, where he put up at the Commercial Hotel; his only object was, to ascertain the condition of his lodgings: for the first two years he had sent the rent of the room to the old woman to whom the house belonged, but latterly no application had been made for it, although his address had been given; and, occupied by other business more important, our hero had quite forgotten the affair, or if he did occasionally recall it to his memory, it was soon dismissed again. His key he had brought with him, and he now proceeded to the house and knocked at the door, surmising that the old woman was possibly dead, and his property probably disposed of; the first part of the surmise was disproved by the old woman coming to the door; she did not recognise our hero, and it was not until he produced the key of his room that she was convinced that he was the lawful owner of its contents. She told him she could not write herself, and that the party who had written to Portsmouth for her was dead, and that she felt sure he would come back at some time and settle with her; and, moreover, she was afraid that the furniture would be much injured by having been shut up so long, which was not only very likely, but proved to be the case when the door was opened; she also said that she could have made money for him, had he allowed her to let the lodgings furnished, as she had had several applications. Our hero walked into his apartment, which certainly had a very mothy and mouldy appearance. As soon as a fire had been lighted, he collected all that he wanted to retain for himself, the books, plate, and some other articles, which he valued for Spikeman's sake, and as old reminiscences, and putting them up in a chest, requested that it might be sent to the inn; and then, upon reflection, he thought he could do no better with the remainder than to make them a present to the old woman, which he did, after paying up her arrears of rent, and by so doing made one person, for the time, superlatively happy, which is something worth doing in this chequered world of ours. Joey, as soon as he had returned to the inn, sat down to write to Spikeman, and also to Mr Small, at Portsmouth, and having posted his letters, as he did not quit Dudstone until the next morning, he resolved to pay a visit to his former acquaintances, Miss Amelia and Miss Ophelia. His knock at the door was answered by Miss Amelia, as usual, but with only one arm unoccupied, a baby being in the other, and the squalling in the little parlour gave further evidence of matrimony. Our hero was obliged to introduce himself, as he was stared at as an utter stranger; he was then immediately welcomed, and requested to walk into the parlour. In a few minutes the whole of the family history was communicated. The old lady had been dead three years, and at her death the young ladies found themselves in possession of one thousand pounds each. This thousand pounds proved to them that husbands were to be had, even at Dudstone and its vicinity. Miss Amelia had been married more than two years to a master builder, who had plenty of occupation, not so much in building new houses at Dudstone as in repairing the old ones, and they were doing well, and had two children. Her sister had married a young farmer, and she could see her money every day in the shape of bullocks and sheep upon the farm; they also were doing well. Joey remained an hour: Mrs Potts was very anxious that he should remain longer, and give her his opinion of her husband; but this, Joey declined, and, desiring to be kindly remembered to her sister, took his leave, and the next morning was on his way to London.



CHAPTER FORTY TWO.

VERY PLEASANT CORRESPONDENCE.

As soon as Joey arrived at the metropolis, he went to the correspondent of the house at Portsmouth to inquire for letters. He found one of the greatest interest from Mr Small, who, after some preliminaries relative to the business and certain commissions for him to transact in town, proceeded as follows:—

"Your health has been a source of great anxiety to us all, not only in the counting-house, but in the drawing-room; the cause of your illness was ascribed to over-exertion in your duties, and it must be admitted, that until you were ill there was no relaxation on your part; but we have reason to suppose that there have been other causes which may have occasioned your rapid change from activity and cheerfulness to such a total prostration of body and mind. You may feel grieved when I tell you that Emma has been very unwell since you left, and the cause of her illness is beyond the skill of Mr Taylor, our medical man. She has, however, confided so much to her mother as to let us know that you are the party who has been the chief occasion of it. She has acknowledged that she has not behaved well to you, and has not done you justice; and I really believe that it is this conviction which is the chief ground of her altered state of health. I certainly have been too much in the counting-house to know what has been going on in the parlour, but I think that you ought to know us better than to suppose that we should not in every point be most anxious for your happiness, and your being constantly with us. That Emma blames herself is certain; that she is very amiable, is equally so; your return would give us the greatest satisfaction. I hardly need say I love my niece, and am anxious for her happiness; I love you, my dear friend, and am equally anxious for yours; and I do trust that any trifling disagreement between you (for surely you must be on intimate terms to quarrel, and for her to feel the quarrel so severely) will be speedily overcome. From what her mother says, I think that her affections are seriously engaged (I treat you with the confidence I am sure you deserve), and I am sure that there is no one upon whom I would so willingly bestow my niece; or as I find by questioning, no one to whom Mrs Phillips would so willingly entrust her daughter. If; then, I am right in my supposition, you will be received with open arms by all, not even excepting Emma—she has no coquetry in her composition. Like all the rest of us, she has her faults; but if she has her faults, she is not too proud to acknowledge them, and that you will allow when you read the enclosed, which she has requested me to send to you, and at the same time desired me to read it first. I trust this communication will accelerate your recovery, and that we shall soon see you again. At all events, answer my letter, and if I am in error, let me know, that I may undeceive others."

The enclosure from Emma was then opened by our hero; it was in few words:—

"My dear friend,—On reflection, I consider that I have treated you unjustly; I intended to tell you so, if I had had an opportunity, before you quitted us so hastily. My fault has preyed upon my mind ever since, and I cannot lose this first opportunity of requesting your forgiveness, and hoping that when we meet we shall be on the same friendly terms that we always had been previous to my unfortunate ebullition of temper.—Yours truly, EMMA."

That this letter was a source of unqualified delight to our hero, may be easily imagined. He was at once told by the uncle, and certainly Emma did not leave him to suppose the contrary, that he might aspire and obtain her hand. Our hero could not reply to it by return of post. If distress had occasioned his illness, joy now prostrated him still more; and he was compelled to return to his bed; but he was happy, almost too happy, and he slept at last, and he dreamt such visions as only can be conjured up by those who have in anticipation every wish of their heart gratified. The next day he replied to Mr Small's, acknowledging, with frankness, his feelings towards his niece, which a sense of his own humble origin and unworthiness had prevented him from venturing to disclose, and requesting him to use his influence in his favour, as he dared not speak himself; until he had received such assurance of his unmerited good fortune as might encourage him so to do. To Emma, his reply was in a few words; he thanked her for her continued good opinion of him, the idea of having lost which had made him very miserable, assuring her that he was ashamed of the petulance which he had shown, and that it was for him to have asked pardon, and not one who had behaved so kindly, and protected him for so long a period; that he felt much better already, and hoped to be able to shorten the time of absence which had been demanded by him and kindly granted by his patrons. Having concluded and despatched these epistles, our hero determined that he would take a stroll about the metropolis.



CHAPTER FORTY THREE.

A VERY LONG CHAPTER, WITH A VERY LONG STORY, WHICH COULD NOT WELL BE CUT IN HALF.

A man may walk a long while in the city of London without having any definite object, and yet be amused, for there are few occupations more pleasant, more instructive, or more contemplative, than looking into the shop windows; you pay a shilling to see an exhibition, whereas in this instance you have the advantage of seeing many without paying a farthing, provided that you look after your pocket-handkerchief. Thus was our hero amused: at one shop he discovered that very gay shawls were to be purchased for one pound, Bandanas at 3 shillings 9 pence, and soiled Irish linen remarkably cheap; at another he saw a row of watches, from humble silver at 2 pounds 10 shillings, to gold and enamelled at twelve or fourteen guineas, all warranted to go well; at another he discovered that furs were at half price, because nobody wore them in the summer. He proceeded further, and came to where there was a quantity of oil-paintings exposed for sale, pointing out to the passer-by that pictures of that description were those which he ought not to buy. A print-shop gave him an idea of the merits of composition and design shown by the various masters; and as he could not transport himself to the Vatican, it was quite as well to see what the Vatican contained; his thoughts were on Rome and her former glories. A tobacconist's transported him to the State of Virginia, where many had been transported in former days. A grocer's wafted him still farther to the West Indies and the negroes, and from these, as if by magic, to the Spice Islands and their aromatic groves. But an old curiosity-shop, with bronzes, china, marqueterie, point-lace, and armour, embraced at once a few centuries; and he thought of the feudal times, the fifteenth century, the belle of former days, the amber-headed cane and snuff box of the beaux who sought her smiles, all gone, all dust; the workmanship of the time, even portions of their dresses, still existing—everything less perishable than man.

Our hero proceeded on, his thoughts wandering as he wandered himself, when his attention was attracted by one of those placards, the breed of which appears to have been very much improved of late, as they get larger and larger every day; what they will end in there is no saying, unless it be in placards without end. This placard intimated that there was a masquerade at Vauxhall on that evening, besides tire-works, water-works, and anything but good works. Our hero had heard of Vauxhall, and his curiosity was excited, and he resolved that he would pass away the evening in what was at that time a rather fashionable resort.

It was half past six, and time to go, so he directed his steps over Westminster-bridge, and, having only lost three minutes in peeping through the balustrades at the barges and wherries proceeding up and down the river, after asking his way three times, he found himself at the entrance, and, paying his admission, walked in. There was a goodly sprinkling of company, but not many masks; there was a man clad in brass armour, who stood quite motionless, for the armour was so heavy that he could hardly bear the weight of it. He must have suffered a very great inconvenience on such a warm night, but people stared at him as they passed by, and he was more than repaid by the attention which he attracted; so he stood and suffered on. There were about twenty-five clowns in their motley dresses, seven or eight pantaloons, three devils, and perhaps forty or fifty dominoes. Joey soon found himself close to the orchestra, which was a blaze of light, and he listened very attentively to a lady in ostrich feathers, who was pouring out a bravura, which was quite unintelligible to the audience, while the gentlemen behind her, in their cocked hats, accompanied her voice. He was leaning against one of the trees, and receiving, without knowing it, the drippings of a leaky lamp upon his coat, when two men came up and stopped on the other side of the trunk of the tree, and one said to the other—"I tell you, Joseph, she is here, and with the Christian. Manasseh traced her by the driver of the coach. She will never return to her father's house if we do not discover her this night."

"What! will she become a Meshumed—an apostate!" exclaimed the other; "I would see her in her grave first. Holy Father! the daughter of a rabbi to bring such disgrace upon her family! Truly our sins, and the sins of our forefathers, have brought this evil upon our house. If I meet him here I will stab him to the heart!"

"Leemaan Hashem! for the sake of the holy name, my son, think of what you say; you must not be so rash. Alas! alas! but we are mixed with the heathens. She must be concealed in one of the Moabitish garments," continued the elder of the two personages, whom our hero had of course ascertained to be of the house of Israel. "Manasseh tells me that he has discovered from another quarter, that the Christian had procured a domino, black, with the sleeves slashed with white. That will be a distinguishing mark; and if we see that dress we must then follow, and if a female is with it, it must be thy sister Miriam."

"I will search now, and meet you here in half an hour," replied the younger of the two.

"Joseph, my son, we do not part; I cannot trust you in your anger, and you have weapons with you, I know; we must go together. Rooch Hakodesh! may the Holy Spirit guide us, and the daughter of our house be restored, for she is now my heart's bitterness, and my soul's sorrow!"

"Let me but discover the Gaw—the infidel!" replied the son, following the father; and our hero observed him put his hand into his breast and half unsheath a poniard.

Joey easily comprehended how the matter stood: a Jewish maiden had met by assignation or had been run away with by some young man, and the father and son were in pursuit to recover the daughter.

"That is all very well," thought our hero; "but although they may very properly wish to prevent the marriage, I do not much like the cold steel which the young Israelite had in his hand. If I do meet with the party, at all events I will give him warning;" and Joey, having made this resolution, turned away from the orchestra and went down the covered way, which led to what are usually termed the dark walks he had just arrived at the commencement of them, when he perceived coming towards him two dominoes, the shorter hanging on the arm of the taller so as to assure him that they were male and female. When they came to within ten yards of the lighted walk, they turned abruptly, and then Joey perceived that the taller had white slashed sleeves to his domino.

"There they are," thought our hero; "well, it's not safe for them to walk here, for a murder might be committed without much chance of the party being found out. I will give them a hint, at all events;" and Joey followed the couple so as to overtake them by degrees. As he walked softly, and they were in earnest conversation, his approach was not heeded until within a few feet of them, when the taller domino turned impatiently round, as if to inquire what the intruder meant.

"You are watched, and in danger, sir, if you are the party I think you are," said Joey, going up to him, and speaking in a low voice.

"Who are you," replied the domino, "that gives this notice?"

"A perfect stranger to you, even if your mask was removed, sir; but I happened to overhear a conversation relative to a person in a domino such as you wear. I may be mistaken, and if so, there is no harm done;" and our hero turned away.

"Stop him, dear Henry," said a soft female voice. "I fear that there is danger: he can have told you but from kindness."

The person in the domino immediately followed Joey, and accosted him, apologising for his apparent rudeness at receiving his communication, which he ascribed to the suddenness with which it was given, and requested, as a favour, that our hero would inform him why he had thought it necessary.

"I will tell you, certainly; not that I interfere with other people's concerns; but when I saw that one of them had a poniard—"

"A poniard!" exclaimed the female, who had now joined them.

"Yes," replied Joey; "and appeared determined to use it. In one word, madam, is your name, Miriam? If so, what I heard concerns you; if not, it does not, and I need say no more."

"Sir, it does concern her," replied the domino; "and I will thank you to proceed."

Our hero then stated briefly what he had overheard, and that the parties were then in pursuit of them.

"We are lost!" exclaimed the young woman. "We shall never escape from the gardens! What must we do? My brother in his wrath is as a lion's whelp."

"I care little for myself," replied the domino. "I could defend myself; but, if we meet, I shall lose you. Your father would tear you away while I was engaged with your brother."

"At all events, sir, I should recommend your not remaining in these dark walks," replied our hero, "now that you are aware of what may take place."

"And yet, if we go into the lighted part of the gardens, they will soon discover us, now that they have, as it appears, gained a knowledge of my dress."

"Then put it off," said Joey.

"But they know my person even better," rejoined the domino. "Your conduct, sir, has been so kind, that perhaps you would be inclined to assist us?"

Our hero was in love himself, and, of course, felt sympathy for others in the same predicament; so he replied that, if he could be of service, they might command him.

"Then, Miriam, dear, what I propose is this; will you put yourself under the protection of this stranger? I think you risk nothing, for he has proved that he is kind. You may then, without fear of detection, pass through the gardens, and be conducted by him to a place of safety. I will remain here for half an hour; should your father and brother meet me, although they may recognise my dress, yet not having you with me, there will be no grounds for any attack being made, and I will, after a time, return home."

"And what is to become of me?" exclaimed the terrified girl.

"You must send this gentleman to my address to-morrow morning, and he will acquaint me where you are. I am giving you a great deal of trouble, sir; but at the same time I show my confidence; I trust it will not interfere with your other engagements."

"Your confidence is, I trust, not misplaced, sir," replied our hero; "and I am just now an idle man. I promise you, if this young lady will venture to trust herself with a perfect stranger, that I will do your request. I have no mask on, madam; do you think you can trust me?"

"I think I can, sir; indeed, I must do so, or there will be shedding of blood; but Henry, they are coming; I know them; see—right up the walk."

Joey turned round, and perceived the two persons whose conversation he had overheard. "It is they, sir," said he to the gentleman in the domino; "leave us and walk back farther into the dark part. I must take her away on my arm and pass them boldly. Come, sir, quick!"

Our hero immediately took the young Jewess on his arm and walked towards the father and brother. He felt her trembling like an aspen as they came close to them, and was fearful that her legs would fail her. As they passed, the face of our hero was severely scrutinised by the dark eyes of the Israelites. Joey returned their stare, and proceeded on his way; and after they had separated some paces from the father and brother, he whispered to the maiden, "You are safe now." Joey conducted his charge through the gardens, and when he arrived at the entrance, he called a coach, and put the lady in.

"Where shall we drive to?" inquired our hero.

"I don't know; say anywhere, so that we are away from this!"

Joey ordered the man to drive to the hotel where he had taken up his abode, for he knew not where else to go.

On his arrival he left the young lady in the coach, while he went in to prepare the landlady for her appearance. He stated that he had rescued her from a very perilous situation, and that he would feel much obliged to his hostess if she would take charge of the young person until she could be restored to her friends on the ensuing morning. People like to be consulted, and to appear of importance. The fat old lady, who had bridled up at the very mention of the introduction of a lady in a domino, as soon as she heard that the party was to be placed under her protection, relaxed her compressed features, and graciously consented.

Our hero having consigned over his charge, whose face he had not yet seen, immediately retired to his own apartment. The next morning, about nine o'clock, he sent to inquire after the health of his protegee and was answered by a request that he would pay her a visit. When he entered the room he found her alone. She was dressed somewhat in the Oriental style, and he was not a little surprised at her extreme beauty. Her stature was rather above the middle size: she was exquisitely formed; and her hands, ankles, and feet, were models of perfection. She was indeed one of the most exquisite specimens of the Jewish nation, and that is quite sufficient for her portrait. She rose as he entered, and coloured deeply as she saluted him. Our hero, who perceived her confusion, hastened to assure her that he was ready to obey any order she might be pleased to give him, and trusted that she had not been too much annoyed with her very unpleasant position.

"I am more obliged to you, sir, than I can well express," replied she, "by your kind consideration in putting me into the charge of the landlady of the house: that one act assured me that I was in the hands of a gentleman and man of honour. All I have to request of you now is, that you will call at Number —- Berkeley Square, and inform Mr S—- of what you have kindly done for me. You will probably hear from him the cause of the strange position in which you found us and relieved us from."

As our hero had nothing to reply, he wrote down the address and took his leave, immediately proceeding to the house of Mr S—-; but, as he was walking up Berkeley Street, he was encountered by two men, whom he immediately recognised as the father and brother of the young Israelite. The brother fixed his keen eye upon our hero, and appeared to recognise him; at all events, as our hero passed them they turned round and followed him, and he heard the brother say, "He was with her," or something to that purport. Our hero did not, however, consider that it was advisable to wait until they were away before he knocked at the door, as he felt convinced they were on the watch, and that any delay would not obtain the end. He knocked, and was immediately admitted. He found Mr S—- pacing the room up and down in great anxiety, the breakfast remaining on the table untouched. He warmly greeted the arrival of our hero. Joey, as soon as he had informed him of what he had done, and in whose hands he had placed the young lady, stated the circumstance of the father and brother being outside on the watch, and that he thought that they had recognised him.

"That is nothing more than what I expected," replied Mr S—-; "but I trust easily to evade them; they are not aware that the back of this house communicates with the stables belonging to it in the mews, and we can go out by that way without their perceiving us. I've so many thanks to offer you, sir, for your kind interference in our behalf, that I hardly know how to express them. To one thing you are most certainly entitled, and I should prove but little my sincerity if I did not immediately give it you; that is my confidence, and a knowledge of the parties whom you have assisted, and the circumstances attending this strange affair. The young lady, sir, is, as you know, a Jewess by birth, and the daughter of a rabbi, a man of great wealth and high ancestry, for certainly Jews can claim the latter higher than any other nation upon earth. I am myself a man of fortune, as it is usually termed,—at all events, with sufficient to indulge any woman I should take as my wife with every luxury that can be reasonably demanded. I mention this to corroborate my assertion, that it was not her father's wealth which has been my inducement. I made the acquaintance of the father and daughter when I was travelling on the Continent; he was on his way to England, when his carriage broke down, in a difficult pass on the mountains, and they would have been left on the road for the night, if I had not fortunately come up in time, and, being alone, was able to convey them to the next town. I have always had a great respect for the Jewish nation. I consider that every true Christian should have; but I will not enter upon that point now. It was probably my showing such a feeling, and my being well versed in their history, which was the occasion of an intercourse of two days ripening into a regard for one another; and we parted with sincere wishes that we might meet again in this country. At the time I speak of, which was about three years ago, his daughter Miriam was, comparatively speaking, a child, and certainly not at that period, or indeed for some time after our meeting again in England, did it ever come into my ideas that I should ever feel anything for her but good-will; but circumstances, and her father's confidence in me, threw us much together. She has no mother. After a time I found myself growing attached to her, and I taxed myself, and reflected on the consequences. I was aware how very severe the Jewish laws were upon the subject of any of their family uniting themselves to a Christian. That it was not only considered that the party concerned was dishonoured before the nation, but that the whole family became vile, and were denied the usual burial rites. Perhaps you are aware that if a Jew embraces Christianity, the same disgrace is heaped upon the relations. With this knowledge, I determined to conquer my feelings for Miriam, and of course I no longer went to her father's house; it would have been cruel to put my friend (for such he certainly was) in such a position the more so as, being a rabbi, he would have to denounce himself and his own children.

"My absence was, however, the cause of great annoyance to the father. He sought me, and I was so pressed by him to return, that I had no choice, unless I confessed my reasons, which I did not like to do. I therefore visited the house as before, although not so frequently, and continually found myself in company with Miriam, and, her father being constantly summoned away to the duties of his office, but too often alone. I therefore resolved that I would once more set off on my travels, as the only means by which I could act honourably, and get rid of the feeling which was obtaining such a mastery over me. I went to the house to state my intention, and at the same time bid them farewell; when, ascending the stairs, I slipped and sprained my ankle so severely, that I could not put my foot to the ground. This decided our fate; and I was not only domiciled for a week in the house, but, as I lay on the sofa, was continually attended by Miriam. Her father would not hear of my removal, but declared that my accident was a judgment against me for my rash intention.

"That Miriam showed her regard for me in every way that a modest maiden could do, is certain. I did, however, make one last struggle; I did not deny my feelings towards her, but I pointed out to her the consequences which would ensue, which it was my duty as a friend, and her duty as a daughter, to prevent. She heard me in silence and in tears, and then quitted the room.

"The next day she appeared to have recovered her composure, and entered freely into general conversation, and, after a time, referred to the rites of their Church. By degrees she brought up the subject of Christianity; she demanded the reasons and authority for our belief; in short, she induced me to enter warmly into the subject, and to prove, to the best of my ability, that the true Messiah had already come. This conversation she took a pleasure in renewing, during my stay in the house; and as I considered that the subject was one that diverted our attention from the one I wished to avoid, I was not sorry to enter upon it, although I had not the least idea of converting her to our faith.

"Such was the state of affairs when I quitted the house, and again seriously thought of removing myself from so much temptation, when her brother Joseph arrived from Madrid, where he had been staying with an uncle for some years, and his return was the occasion of a jubilee, at which I could not refuse to appear. He is a fine young man, very intelligent and well informed, but of a very irascible disposition; and his long residence in Spain has probably given him those ideas of retaliation which are almost unknown in this country. He conceived a very strong friendship for me, and I certainly was equally pleased with him; for he is full of talent, although he is revengeful, proud of his lineage, and holding to the tenets of his faith with all the obstinacy of a Pharisee. Indeed, it is strange that he could ever become so partial to a Christian, respecting as he does the rabbinical doctrines held forth to the Jewish people, and which it must be admitted have been inculcated, in consequence of the unwearied and unjustifiable persecution of the tribes for centuries, by those who call themselves Christians, but whose practice has been at open variance with the precepts of the founder of their faith. However, so it was. Joseph conceived a great regard for me, was continually at my house, and compelled me but too often to visit at his father's. At last I made up my mind that I would leave the country for a time, and was actively preparing, intending to go without saying a word to them, when I found myself one morning alone with Miriam. She walked up to me as I was sitting on the couch I motioned to her to sit by me, but she stood before me with a stately air, fixing upon me her dark gazelle-like eyes.

"'Do you,' said she, in a slow and solemn tone of voice, 'do you remember the conversation which we had upon our respective creeds? Do you recollect how you pointed out to me your authorities and your reasons for your faith, and your sincere belief that the Messiah had already come?'

"'I do, Miriam,' replied I; 'but not with any view to interfere with your non-belief; it was only to uphold by argument my own.'

"'I do not say nay to that; I believe you,' said Miriam, 'nevertheless, I have that in my vest which, if it was known to my father or brother, would cause them to dash me to the earth, and to curse me in the name of the great Jehovah;' and she pulled out of her vest a small copy of the New Testament. 'This is the book of your creed; I have searched and compared it with our own; I have found the authorities; I have read the words of the Jews who have narrated the history and the deeds of Jesus of Nazareth, and—I am a Christian.'

"It may appear strange, but I assure you, sir, you cannot imagine the pain I felt when Miriam thus acknowledged herself a convert to our faith: to say to her that I was sorry for it would have argued little for my Christian belief; but when I reflected upon the pain and disgrace it would bring upon her family, and that I should be the cause, I was dreadfully shocked. I could only reply, 'Miriam, I wish that we had never met!'

"'I know what your feelings are but too well,' replied she; 'but we have met, and what is done cannot be undone. I, too, when I think of my relations, am torn with anxiety and distress; but what is now my duty? If I am, and I declare, not only by the great Jehovah, but by the crucified Messiah, that I am a sincere believer in your creed, must I shrink—must I conceal it on account of my father and my brother? Does not He say, "Leave all and follow me!" Must I not add my feeble voice in acknowledgement of the truth, if I am to consider myself a Christian? Must not my avowal be public? Yes, it must be, and it shall be! Can you blame me?'

"'Oh, no! I dare not blame you,' replied I; 'I only regret that religious differences should so mar the little happiness permitted to us in this world, and that neither Jew nor Christian will admit what our Saviour has distinctly declared—that there is no difference between the Jew and the Greek, or Gentile. I see much misery in this, and I cannot help regretting deeply that I shall be considered as the cause of it, and be upbraided with ingratitude.'

"'You did your duty,' replied Miriam. 'I have been converted by your having so done. Now I have my duty to do. I am aware of the pain it will occasion my father, my relations, and the whole of our tribe; but if they suffer, shall I not suffer more? Thrust out from my father's door; loaded with curses and execration; not one Jew permitted to offer me an asylum, not even to give me a morsel of bread, or a drop of water; a wanderer and an outcast! Such must be my fate.'

"'Not so, Miriam; if your tribe desert you—'

"'Stop one moment,' interrupted Miriam; 'do you recollect the conversation you had with me before we entered into the subject of our relative creeds? Do you remember what you then said; and was it true, or was it merely as an excuse?'

"'It was as true, Miriam, as I stand here. I have loved you long and devotedly. I have tried to conquer the passion, on account of the misery your marriage with a Christian would have occasioned your relations; but if you persist in avowing your new faith, the misery will be equally incurred; and, therefore, I am doubly bound, not only by my love, but because I have, by converting you, put you in such a dreadful position, to offer you not only an asylum, but, if you will accept them, my heart and hand.'

"Miriam folded her arms across her breast, and knelt down, with her eyes fixed upon the floor. 'I can only answer in the words of Ruth,' replied she, in a low voice and with trembling lips. I hardly need observe, that after this interview the affair was decided,—the great difficulty was to get her out of the house; for you must have been inside of one of the houses of a Jew of rank to be aware of their arrangements. It was impossible that Miriam could be absent an hour without being missed; and to go out by herself without being seen was equally difficult. Her cousin is married to a Jew, who keeps the masquerade paraphernalia and costumes in Tavistock Street, and she sometimes accompanies her father and brother there, and, as usual, goes up to her cousin in the women's apartment, while her male relations remain below. We therefore hit upon this plan: That on the first masquerade-night at Vauxhall she should persuade her father and brother to go with her to her cousin's; that I should be close by in a coach, and, after she had gone in, I was to drive up as the other customers do, and obtain two dominoes, and then wait while she escaped from the women's apartment, and came down-stairs to the street door, where I was to put her in the coach, and drive off to Vauxhall. You may inquire why we went to Vauxhall. Because as but few minutes would elapse before she would be missed, it would have been almost impossible to have removed her without being discovered, for I was well known to the people. You recollect that Manasseh, who was in the shop, informed them that my domino was slashed with white in my sleeves; he knew me when I obtained the dominoes. Had I not been aware of the violence of the brother, I should have cared little had he followed me to my house, or any other place he might have traced me to; but his temper is such that his sister would certainly have been sacrificed to his rage and fury, as you may imagine from what you have seen and heard. I considered, therefore, that if we once became mixed with the crowd of masks and dominoes at Vauxhall, I should elude them, and all trace of us be lost. I believe, now, that I have made you acquainted with every circumstance, and trust that you will still afford me your valuable assistance."

"Most certainly," replied our hero; "I am in duty bound. I cannot help thinking that they have recognised me as the party conducting her out of the dark walk. Did you meet them afterwards?"

"No," rejoined Mr S—-; "I allowed them to walk about without coming up to me for some time, and then when they were down at the farthest end, I made all haste and took a coach home, before they could possibly come up with me, allowing that they did recognise me, which I do not think they did until they perceived me hastening away at a distance."

"What, then, are your present intentions?" inquired our hero.

"I wish you to return with me to your hotel," replied Mr S—-; "I will then take a chaise, and leave for Scotland as fast as four horses can carry us, and unite myself to Miriam, and, as soon as I can, I shall leave the country, which will be the best step to allow their rage and indignation to cool."

"I think your plan is good," replied Joey, "and I am at your service."

In a few minutes Mr S—- and our hero went out by the back way into the mews, and, as soon as they came to a stand, took a coach and drove to the hotel.

They had not, however, been in company with Miriam more than five minutes, when the waiter entered the room in great alarm, stating that two gentlemen were forcing their way upstairs in spite of the landlord and others, who were endeavouring to prevent them. The fact was, that our hero and Mr S—- had been perceived by Joseph and his father as they came out of the mews, and they had immediately followed them, taking a coach at the same stand, and desiring the coachman to follow the one our hero and Mr S—- had gone into.

The waiter had hardly time to make the communication before the door was forced open, and the man was so terrified, that he retreated behind our hero and Mr S—-, into whose arms Miriam had thrown herself for protection. The father and brother did not, however, enter without resistance on the part of the landlord and waiters, who followed, remonstrating and checking them; but Joseph broke from them with his dagger drawn: it was wrenched from him by our hero, who dashed forward. The enraged Israelite then caught up a heavy bronze clock which was on the sideboard, and crying out, "This for the Gaw and the Meshumed!" (the infidel and the apostate), he hurled it at them with all his strength: it missed the parties it was intended for, but striking the waiter who had retreated behind them, fractured his skull, and he fell senseless upon the floor.

Upon this outrage the landlord and his assistants rushed upon Joseph and his father; the police were sent for, and after a desperate resistance, the Israelites were taken away to the police office, leaving Mr S—- and Miriam at liberty. Our hero was, however, requested by the police to attend at the examination, and, of course, could not refuse. The whole party had been a quarter of an hour waiting until another case was disposed of, before the magistrate could attend to them, when the surgeon came in and acquainted them that the unfortunate waiter had expired. The depositions were taken down, and both father and son were committed, and Joey, and some others bound over to appear as witnesses. In about two hours our hero was enabled to return to the hotel, where he found that Mr S—- had left a note for him, stating that he considered it advisable to start immediately, lest they should require his attendance at the police-court, and he should be delayed, which would give time to the relations of Miriam to take up the question: he had, therefore, set off, and would write to him as soon as he possibly could.

This affair made some noise, and appeared in all the newspapers, and our hero therefore sat down and wrote a detailed account of the whole transaction (as communicated to him by Mr S—-), which he despatched to Portsmouth. He made inquiries, and found that the sessions would come on in a fortnight, and that the grand jury would sit in a few days. He therefore made up his mind that he would not think of returning to Portsmouth until the trial was over, and in his next letter he made known his intentions, and then set off for Richmond, where he had been advised to remain for a short time, as being more favourable to an invalid than the confined atmosphere of London.

Our hero found amusement in rowing about in a wherry, up and down the river, and replying to the letters received from Mary and from Portsmouth. He also received a letter from Mr S—-, informing him of his marriage, and requesting that as soon as the trial was over he would write to him. Our hero's health also was nearly re-established, when he was informed that his attendance was required at the court to give his evidence in the case of manslaughter found by the grand jury against Joseph, the brother of Miriam.

He arrived in town, and attended the court on the following day, when the trial was to take place. A short time after the cause came on he was placed in the witness-box. At the time that he gave his depositions before the magistrate he had not thought about his name having been changed; but now that he was sworn, and had declared he would tell the truth, and nothing but the truth, when the counsel asked him if his name was not Joseph O'Donahue, our hero replied that it was Joseph Rushbrook.

"Your deposition says Joseph O'Donahue. How is this? Have you an alias, like many others, sir?" inquired the counsel.

"My real name is Rushbrook, but I have been called O'Donahue for some time," replied our hero.

This reply was the occasion of the opposite counsel making some very severe remarks; but the evidence of our hero was taken, and was indeed considered very favourable to the prisoner, as Joey stated that he was convinced the blow was never intended for the unfortunate waiter, but for Mr S—-.

After about an hour's examination our hero was dismissed, and in case that he might be recalled, returned as directed to the room where the witnesses were assembled.



CHAPTER FORTY FOUR.

IN WHICH THE TIDE OF FORTUNE TURNS AGAINST OUR HERO.

As soon as Joey had been dismissed from the witness-box he returned to the room in which the other witnesses were assembled, with melancholy forebodings that his real name having been given in open court would lead to some disaster. He had not been there long before a peace-officer came in, and said to him,—"Step this way, if you please, sir; I have something to say to you."

Joey went with him outside the door, when the peace-officer, looking at him full in the face, said, "Your name is Joseph Rushbrook; you said so in the witness-box?"

"Yes," replied Joey, "that is my true name."

"Why did you change it?" demanded the officer.

"I had reasons," replied our hero.

"Yes, and I'll tell you the reasons," rejoined the other. "You were concerned in a murder some years ago; a reward was offered for your apprehension, and you absconded from justice. I see that you are the person; your face tells me so. You are my prisoner. Now, come away quietly, sir; it is of no use for you to resist, and you will only be worse treated."

Joey's heart had almost ceased to beat when the constable addressed him; he felt that denial was useless, and that the time was now come when either he or his father must suffer; he, therefore, made no reply, but quietly followed the peace officer, who, holding him by the arm, called a coach, into which he ordered Joey to enter, and following him, directed the coachman to drive to the police-office.

As soon as the magistrate had been acquainted by the officer who the party was whom he had taken into custody, he first pointed out to our hero that he had better not say any thing which might criminate himself, and then asked him if his name was Joseph Rushbrook.

Joey replied that it was.

"Have you anything to say that might prevent my committing you on the charge of murder?" demanded the magistrate.

"Nothing, except that I am not guilty," replied Joey.

"I have had the warrant out against him these seven years, or thereabouts, but he escaped me," observed the peace-officer; "he was but a lad then."

"He must have been a child, to judge by his present appearance," observed the magistrate, who was making out the committal. "I now perfectly recollect the affair."

The officer received the committal, and in half an hour our hero was locked up with felons of every description. His blood ran cold when he found himself enclosed within the massive walls; and as soon as the gaoler had left him alone, he shuddered and covered his face with his hands. Our hero had, however, the greatest of all consolations to support him—the consciousness of his innocence; but when he called to mind how happy and prosperous he had lately been, when he thought of Emma—and that now all his fair prospects and fondest anticipations were thrown to the ground, it is not surprising that for a short time he wept in his solitude and silence. To whom should he make known his situation? Alas! it would too soon be known; and would not every one, even Emma, shrink from a supposed murderer? No! there was one who would not—one on whose truth he could depend; Mary would not desert him, even now; he would write to her, and acquaint her with his situation. Our hero, having made up his mind so to do, obtained paper and ink from the gaoler when he came into his cell, which he did in about two hours after he had been locked up. Joey wrote to Mary, stating his position in few words, and that the next morning he was to be taken down to Exeter to await his trial; and expressed a wish, if possible, that she would come there to see him; and giving a guinea to the turnkey, requested him to forward the letter.

"It shall go safe enough, young master," replied the man. "Now, do you know, yours is one of the strangest cases which ever came to my knowledge?" continued the man; "we've been talking about it among ourselves: why the first warrant for your apprehension was out more than eight years ago; and, to look at you now, you cannot be more than seventeen or eighteen."

"Yes, I am," replied Joey; "I am twenty-two."

"Then don't you tell anybody else that, and I will forget it. You see youth goes a great way in court; and they will see that you must have been quite a child when the deed was done—for I suppose by the evidence there is no doubt of that—and it won't be a hanging matter, that you may be certain of; you'll cross the water, that's all: so keep up your spirits, and look as young as you can."

Mary received the letter on the following day, and was in the deepest distress at its contents. She was still weeping over it, her work had been thrown down at her feet, when Mrs Austin came into the dressing-room where she was sitting.

"What is the matter, Mary?" said Mrs Austin.

"I have received a letter from my brother, madam," replied Mary; "he is in the greatest distress; and I must beg you to let me go to him immediately."

"Your brother, Mary! what difficulty is he in?" asked Mrs Austin.

Mary did not reply, but wept more.

"Mary, if your brother is in distress, I certainly will not refuse your going to him; but you should tell me what his distress is, or how shall I be able to advise or help you? Is it very serious?"