Six o'clock, seven, and even eight struck; and yet no one came. The monotonous tread of the sentry on guard at the Castle gate and the occasional challenge to some passing stranger were the only sounds I heard above the distant hum of the city, which grew fainter gradually as evening fell. At last I heard the sound of a key moving in a lock, the bang of a door, and then came the noise of many voices as the footsteps mounted the stairs, amid which Bubbleton's was pre-eminently loud. The party entered the room next to where I sat, and from the tones I could collect that Major Barton and Mr. Cooke were of the number. Another there was, too, whose voice was not absolutely new or strange to my ears, though I could not possibly charge my memory where I had heard it before.

While I was thus musing, the door opened noiselessly, and Bubbleton entering without a word, closed it behind him, and approached me on tiptoe.

“All right, my boy; they're doing the needful outside; ready in ten minutes: never was such a piece of fortune; found out a glorious fellow; heard of him from Hicks the money-lender; he'll go security to any amount; knows your family well; knew your father, grandfather, I believe; delighted to meet you; says he 'd rather see you than fifty pounds.”

“Who is he, for Heaven's sake?” said I, impatiently; for it was a new thing to me to receive anything like kindness on the score of my father's memory.

“Eh! who is he? He 's a kind of a bill-broking, mortgaging, bail-giving, devilish good sort of fellow. I 've a notion he 'd do a bit of something at three months.”

“But his name? what 's he called?”

“His name is,—let me see,—his name is—But who cares for his name? He can write it, I suppose, on a stamp, my boy; that 's the mark. Bless your heart, I only spoil a stamp when I put my autograph across it; it would be worth prime cost till then. What a glorious thing is youth,—unfledged, unblemished youth,—to possess a name new to the Jews, a reputation against which no one has 'protested' I Tom Burke, my boy, I envy you. Now, when I write George Frederick Augustus Bubbleton on any bill, warrant, or quittance, straightway there 's a grin around the circle,—a kind of a damned impertinent sort of a half-civil smile, as though to say 'nulla bona,' payable nowhere. But hold! that was a tap at the door. Oh, they want us.”

So saying, the captain opened the door and introduced me.

“I say, Tom,” cried he, “come here, and thank our kind friend, Mr.—Mr.—”

“Mr. Basset!” said I, starting back, as my eyes beheld the pale, sarcastic features of the worthy attorney, who stood at the table, conversing in a low tone with the Under-Secretary.

“Eh I what 's the matter?” whispered Bubbleton as he saw my color come and go, and perceived that I leaned on a chair for support. “What the devil 's wrong now?”

“You 've betrayed me to my greatest enemy,” said I, in a low, distinct voice.

“Eh! what? Why, you seem to have nothing but foes in the world. Confound it, that's always my luck; my infernal good-nature is everlastingly making a wrong plunge.”

“In that case, if I understand the matter aright, the bail is unnecessary,” said Mr. Cooke, addressing Basset, who never turned his head to the part of the room where we stood.

“No, sir; it is not necessary. While the law assists me to resume my guardianship of this young gentleman, I am answerable for his appearance.”

“The indentures are quite correct,” said Barton, as he laid the papers on the table, “as I believe Mr. Basset's statement to be also.”

“No bail necessary,” interrupted Bubbleton, rubbing his hands pleasantly; “so much the better. Wish them good evening, Tom, my hearty; we shall be back in time for supper. You wouldn't take an oyster, Mr. Cooke?”

“I thank you very much, but I am unfortunately engaged.”

“Not so fast, captain, I beg you,” said Basset, with a most servile but malignant expression in his features. “The habits I would inculcate to my apprentice are not exactly consistent with mess parties and barrack suppers.”

“Apprentice! apprentice!” said Bubbleton, starting as if stung by a wasp. “Eh! you 're surely not—not the—the—”

“Yes, sir; there's the indenture, signed and sealed, if you are desirous to satisfy yourself. The young gentleman himself will not deny his father's instructions concerning him.”

I hung down my head, abashed and ashamed. The tears started to my eyes; I turned away to wipe them, and feared to face the others again. I saw that Bubbleton, my only friend, believed I had practised some deceit on him; and how to explain, without disclosing what I dare not.

There was a bustle in the room; a sound of voices; the noise of feet descending the stairs; and when I again looked round, they were all gone save Basset, who was leisurely collecting his papers together and fastening them with a string. I turned my eyes everywhere, to see if Bubbleton had not remained. But no; he had left me like the rest, and I was alone with the man I most dreaded and disliked of all the world.

“Well, sir,” said Basset, as he thrust the papers into the pocket of his greatcoat, “I'm ready now.”

“Where to, sir?” replied I, sternly, as he moved to leave the room; for without thinking of how and why I was to succeed in it, a vague resolution of defiance flitted through my mind.

“To my house, sir; or to Newgate, if you prefer it. Don't mistake, young gentleman, for a moment, the position you occupy; you owe your liberation at this moment not to any merits of your own. Your connection with the disaffected and rebellious body is well known: my interest with the Government is your only protection. Again, sir, let me add, that I have no peculiar desire for your company in my family; neither the habits nor the opinions you have acquired will suit those you 'll meet there.”

“Why, then, have you interfered with me?” said I, passionately. “Why not have left me to my fate? Be it what it might, it would have been not less acceptable, I assure you, than to become an inmate of your house.”

“That question were very easily answered,” said he, interrupting me.

“Then, why not do so?”

“Come, come, sir; these are not the terms which are to subsist between us, nor is this the place to discuss our difference. Follow me.”

He led the way downstairs as he spoke, and, taking my arm within his, turned into the street. Without a word on either side, we proceeded down Parliament Street, and crossing Essex Bridge, followed the quays for some time; then turning into Stafford Street, we arrived at a house, when having taken a latchkey from his pocket. Basset opened the door and ushered me in, muttering half aloud as he turned the key in the lock, and fastened the bolt, “Safe at last!” We turned from the narrow hall into a small parlor, which, from its dingy furniture of writing-desk and stools, I guessed to serve as an office. Here my companion lit a candle from the embers of the fire, and having carefully closed the door, he motioned me to a seat.

“I have already told you, sir, that I am not in the least covetous of your company in my house; circumstances which I may or may not explain hereafter have led me to rescue you from the disgrace you must eventually have brought upon your family.”

“Hold, sir; I have none, save a brother—”

“Well, sir; and your brother's feelings are, I trust, not to be slightingly treated—a young gentleman whose position and prospects are of the very highest order.”

“You are his agent, I perceive Mr. Basset,” said I, with a significant smile.

“I am, sir,” replied he, with a deep flush that mounted even to his forehead.

“Then let me save you all further trouble on my account,” said I, calmly. “My brother's indifference to me or my fate has long since absolved me from any regret I might feel for the consequences which my actions might induce on his fortunes. His own conduct must stamp him, as mine must me. I choose to judge for myself; and not even Mr. Basset shall decide for me, although I am well aware his powers of discrimination have had the double advantage of experience on both sides of the question.”

As I said this, his face became almost livid, and his white lips quivered with passion. He knew not before that I was acquainted with his history, nor that I knew of his having sold to the Government information which brought his schoolfellow and benefactor to the scaffold.

“Come, come,” continued I, gaining courage, as I saw the effect my words produced, “it is not your interest to injure me, however it may be your wish. Is there no arrangement we can come to, mutually advantageous? We shall be but sorry companions. I ought to have some property under my grandfather's will.”

“There is, I believe, five hundred pounds,” said Basset, with a slow distinctness, as if not rejecting the turn the conversation had taken.

“Well, then, what will you take to cancel that indenture? You don't set a very high value on my services, I suppose?”

“You forget, I perceive,” said he, “that I am answerable for your future appearance if called on.”

“There was no bail-bond drawn out, no sum mentioned, if I mistake not, Mr. Basset.”

“Very true, sir; very true; but I pledged myself to the law adviser,—my character is responsible.”

“Well, well, let me have two hundred pounds; bum that cursed indenture—”

“Two hundred pounds! Do you fancy, then, that you are in the possession of this legacy? Why, it never may, in all likelihood it never will, be yours; it's only payable on your attaining your majority.”

“Give me one hundred pounds, then,—give me fifty; let me only be free, at liberty, and not absolutely a beggar on the streets.”

Basset leaned his head on the chimney, and seemed sunk in reflection; while I, wound up to the highest pitch of excitement, trod up and down the room, pouring forth from time to time short and broken sentences, declaratory of my desire to surrender all that I might chance to inherit by every casualty in life, to my last guinea, only let there be no constraint on my actions, no attempt to control my personal liberty.

“I see,” cried I, passionately,—“I see what hampers you. You fear I may compromise my family! It is my brother's fair fame you are thinking of. But away with all dread on that score. I 'll leave Ireland; I have long since determined on that.”

“Indeed!” said Basset, slowly, as he turned round his head, and looked me full in the face.

“Would you go to America, then?”

“To America? No,—to France! That shall be the land of my adoption, as it is this moment of all my heart's longings.”

His eyes sparkled, and a gleam of pleasure shot across his cold features, as if he caught a glow of the enthusiasm that lit up mine.

“Come,” cried he, “I 'll think of this. Give me till tomorrow, and if you 'll pledge yourself to leave Ireland within a week—”

“I 'll pledge myself to nothing of the kind,” replied I, fiercely. “It is to be free,—free in thought as in act,—that I would barter all my prospects with you. There must be but one compact between us,—it must begin and end here. Take a night if you will to think it over, and to-morrow morning—”

“Well, then, to-morrow morning be it,” said he, with more of animation in his tone; “and now to supper!”

“To bed, rather,” said I, “if I may speak my mind; for rest is what I now stand most in need of.”