  At half-past eleven on the following morning, Mr. Torrens entered the office of Mr. Howard, the solicitor. His countenance wore a smile of satisfaction, in spite of the various events which had lately occurred to harass him; for he was about to receive a large sum of money—and his fingers itched to grasp the bank-notes and the gold which he had seen stowed away in the safe on the preceding day. He already beheld his debts paid—his mind freed from pecuniary anxieties—and his speculations prospering in a manner giving assurance of the realization of a splendid fortune; and these pleasing visions, with which his imagination had cheered itself during the drive from the Cottage to the attorney's office, naturally tended to bestow on his countenance the expansiveness of good humour. And, after all, it is a pleasant thing to enter a place where one is about to receive a good round sum of money, even though the amount will not remain long in pocket, but must be paid away almost as soon as fingered. Mr. Torrens had never felt more independent than he did on this occasion; and the look which he bestowed upon a poor beggar-woman with a child in her arms, as he ascended the steps leading to the front-door of Mr. Howard's abode, was one Well—Mr. Torrens entered the office with a smiling countenance:—but he was immediately struck by the strange aspect of things which there presented itself. The place was in confusion. The clerks were gathered together in a group near the window, looking particularly gloomy, and conversing in whispers;—several gentlemen were busily employed in examining the japanned boxes which bore their names and contained their title-deeds;—and two or three females were weeping in a corner, and exchanging such dimly significant observations as—"Oh! the rascal!"—"The villain!"—"To rob us poor creatures!" Mr. Torrens recoiled, aghast and speechless, from the contemplation of this alarming scene. A chill struck to his heart: and, in common parlance, any one might have knocked him down with a straw. "Good heavens! gentlemen," he exclaimed, at length recovering the use of his tongue: "what is the meaning of this?" "Ask those youngsters there, sir," said one of the individuals engaged in examining the tin-boxes: and the speaker pointed towards the clerks in a manner which seemed to imply that the news were too shocking for him to unfold, and that it was moreover the duty of the lawyer's subordinates to give the required information. "Well, gentlemen, what is the matter?" demanded Mr. Torrens, turning to the clerks. "Has any thing sudden happened to Mr. Howard?" "Oh! very sudden indeed, sir," was the answer vouchsafed by one of the persons thus appealed to, and accompanied by a sinister grin. "Is he dead?" enquired Mr. Torrens, his excitement now becoming absolutely intolerable. "No, sir—he isn't dead exactly—but——" "But what?" cried Torrens, trembling from head to foot. "He's bolted, sir!" was the astounding answer. "Absconded!" murmured Mr. Torrens faintly;—and, reeling like a drunken man, he would have fallen had he not come in contact with the wall. Yes—it was indeed too true: Mr. Howard—the cold, phlegmatic, matter-of-fact, business-like lawyer—had decamped no one knew whither, though numbers had to mourn or curse his flight! "Are you ill, sir?" enquired one of the clerks, at the expiration of a few moments; for Mr. Torrens was leaning against the side of the room, his countenance pale as death, his eyes rolling wildly in their sockets, and his limbs trembling convulsively. "No—no—I shall be better in a minute," groaned the unhappy man. "But this blow—is cruel—indeed!" he gasped in a choking voice. "Two thousand pounds—ruin—ruin!" "Ah! there's many who'll be ruined by this smash, sir," said the clerk: "you're not the only one—and that's a consolation." A consolation indeed! It was none for Mr. Torrens, who saw himself ruined beyond all hope of redemption,—ruined in spite of the immense sacrifices he had made to avert the impending storm—the sacrifice of his daughter's innocence to Sir Henry Courtenay, and the sacrifice of himself to an abandoned and profligate woman! Miserable—miserable man! what hast thou earned by all thine intriguings—thy schemings—thy black turpitude—and thy deplorable self-degradation? Oh! better—better far is it to become the grovelling, whining beggar in the streets, than to risk happiness—character—name—honour—all, on such chances as those on which thou didst reckon! And now, behold him issue forth from that office into which he had entered with head erect, self-sufficient air, and smiling countenance:—behold him issue forth—bent down—crushed—overcome—ten years more aged than he was a few minutes previously,—and an object of pity even for that poor beggar-woman whom ere now he had treated with such sovereign contempt! Miserable—miserable man! has not thy punishment commenced in this world?—is there not a hell upon earth?—and is not thy heart already a prey to devouring flames, and thy tongue parched with the insatiate thirst of burning fever, and thy soul tortured by the undying worm? Oh! how canst thou return to thy house in the vicinity of which lies interred a corpse the discovery of which may at any time involve thee in serious peril?—how canst thou go back to that dwelling whence thine injured daughter has fled, and over the threshold of which thou hast conducted a vile strumpet as thy bride? When we consider how fearfully we are made,—how manifold are the chances that extreme grief—sudden ruin—and overwhelming anguish may cause a vessel in the surcharged heart to burst, or the racked brain to become a prey to the thunder-clap of apoplexy,—it is surprising—it is truly wondrous that man can support such an enormous weight of care without being stricken dead when it falls upon him! And yet to what a degree of tension may the fibres of the heart be wrung, ere they will snap asunder!—and what myriads of weighty and maddening thoughts may agitate in the brain, ere reason will rock on its throne, or a vein burst with the gush of blood! In the meantime occurrences of importance were taking place at Torrens Cottage. Mrs. Torrens—late Mrs. Slingsby—was whiling away an hour in unpacking her boxes and disposing of her effects in the wardrobe and cupboards of her bed-chamber; congratulating herself all the time on the success which her various schemes had experienced. She had obtained a husband to save her from disgrace; and that husband had set out to receive, as she fancied, a considerable sum of money, which would relieve him of his difficulties, and enable him to pursue his undertakings in such a manner as to yield ample revenues for the future! She was moreover rejoiced that Rosamond had quitted the house;—for, shameless as this vile woman was, she could not have failed to be embarrassed and constrained in her new dwelling, had that injured girl met her there! While Mrs. Torrens was thus engaged with her domestic avocations and her self-gratulatory thoughts in her bed-chamber, the stable-boy, who had been hired on the preceding day, was occupying himself in the garden. "Well, what do you think of your new missus?" he said to the maid-servant, who had just been filling a stone-pitcher at the pump in the yard. "She seems a decent body enow," was the reply. "But I haven't seen much of her yet. What are you doing there, Harry?" "Why, you must know that I'm rather a good hand "Ah! that's one of the young trees that Jeffreys planted—him who went away so suddenly yesterday morning, and which made me come and fetch you to help us here," observed the maid. "But, come—go on with your work," she added, laughing; "and let me see whether you really know how to handle a spade." "Well—you shall see," returned the boy; and he fell to work again with the more alacrity because a pretty girl was watching his progress. "But I'll tell you fairly," he said, after a few minutes' pause in the conversation, "this digging here is no proof of what I can do; because the ground is quite soft—and the more I dig, the surer I am that the earth has been turned up here very lately." "That I am certain it has not," exclaimed the maid-servant. "But I say that it has, though," persisted Harry. "Look here—how easy it is to dig out! Do you think I don't know?" "You fancy yourself very clever, my boy," said the female-domestic, laughing: "but you're wrong for once. We had no man-servant here before Jeffreys come—and he never dug there, I declare." "Now, I just tell you what I'll do for the fun of the thing," cried the lad. "I'll dig out all the earth as far down as it has been dug out before—because I can now see that a hole has been dug here," he added emphatically. "You're an obstinate fellow to stand out so," said the maid. "But I'll come back in five minutes and see how you get on." The good-natured servant hastened into the kitchen with the pitcher of water in her hand; and the lad continued his delving occupation in such thorough earnest that the perspiration poured down his forehead. By the time the maid-servant returned to the spot where he was digging, he had thrown out a great quantity of earth, and had already made a hole at least three feet deep. "Still hard at work?" she said. "Why, you have made a place deep enough to bury that little sapling in! And what a curious shape the hole is, to be sure! Just for all the world like as if it was dug to put a dead body in! I wish you wouldn't go on digging A cry of horror, bursting from the lips of the boy, interrupted the maid-servant's good-natured loquacity. "What is it, Harry?" she demanded, peeping timidly into the hole, from which the boy hastily scrambled out. "You talk of dead bodies," he cried, shuddering from head to foot, and with a countenance ashy pale;—"but look there—a human hand——" The maid shrieked, and darted back into the kitchen, uttering ejaculations of horror. Mrs. Torrens heard those sounds of alarm, and hastily descended the stairs. "Oh! missus," cried the boy, whom she encountered in the passage leading from the hall to the back door of the house; "such a horrible sight—Oh, missus! what shall we do?—what will become of us?" "Speak—explain yourself!" said Mrs. Torrens, amazed and frightened at the strange agitation and convulsed appearance of the boy. "Oh! missus," he repeated, his eyes rolling wildly, and his countenance denoting indescribable terror; "in that hole there—a dead body—a man's hand——" "Merciful heavens!" shrieked Mrs. Torrens, now becoming dreadfully agitated in her turn—for, rapid as lightning-flash, did the thought strike her that the corpse of Sir Henry Courtenay was discovered. "Yes, missus—'tis a man's hand, peeping out of the earth," continued the lad; "and I'm afraid I hacked it with the shovel—but I'm sure I didn't mean to do no such a thing!" The newly-married lady staggered, as these frightful words fell upon her ears—and a film spread over her eyes. But a sudden and peremptory knock at the front-door recalled her to herself; and she ordered the trembling maid, who was now standing at the kitchen entrance, to hasten and answer the summons. The moment the front-door was opened, two stout men, shabby-genteel in appearance, and smelling uncommonly of gin-and-peppermint, walked unceremoniously into the hall. "Is Mrs. Torrens at home, my dear?" said one, who carried an ash-stick in his hand: "'cos if she is, you'll please to tell her that two genelmen is a waiting to say a word to her." "What name?" demanded the servant-maid, by no means well pleased at the familiar tone in which she was addressed. "Oh! what name?" repeated the self-styled gentleman with the ash-stick: "well—you may say Mr. Brown and Mr. Thompson, my dear." "I am Mrs. Torrens, gentlemen," said that lady, who having overheard the preceding dialogue, now came forward; "and I suppose that you are the persons sent by the auctioneer about the sale of my furniture in Old Burlington Street." "Well—not exactly that neither, ma'am," returned the individual with the ash-stick. "The fact is we're officers——" "Officers!" shrieked the miserable woman, an appalling change coming over her. "Yes—and we've got a warrant agin you for forgery, ma'am," added the Bow Street runner, who was no other than the reader's old acquaintance Mr. Dykes. Mrs. Torrens uttered a dreadful scream, and fell senseless on the floor. "Come, young o'oman, bustle about, and get your missus some water, and vinegar, and so on," exclaimed Dykes. "Here, Bingham, my boy, lend a helping hand, and we'll take the poor creatur into the parlour." The two officers accordingly raised the insensible woman and carried her into the adjacent room, where they deposited her on the sofa—that sofa which had proved the death-bed of her paramour! In the meantime the servant-maid, though almost bewildered by the dreadful occurrences of the morning, hastened to procure the necessary articles to aid in the recovery of her mistress; and in a few minutes Mrs. Torrens opened her eyes. Gazing wildly around her, she exclaimed, "Where am I?"—then, encountering the sinister looks of the two runners, she again uttered a piercing scream, and clasping her hands together, murmured, "My God! my God!" For a full sense of all the tremendous horror of her situation burst upon her; and there was a world of mental anguish in those ejaculations. "She's a fine o'oman," whispered Dykes to his friend, while the good-natured servant endeavoured to console her mistress. "Yes, she be," replied Bingham; "what a pity 'tis that she's sure to be scragged!" "So it is," added Mr. Dykes. "And now, you stay here, old chap—while I just make a search about the place to see if I can find any of the blunt raised by the forgery." Thus speaking, the officer quitted the room. "Oh! ma'am, pray don't take on so," said the good-natured servant-maid, endeavouring to console her mistress. "It must be some mistake—I know it is,—you never could have done what they say! I wish master would come home—he'd soon put 'em out of the place." "My God! my God! what will become of me?" murmured Mrs. Torrens, pressing her hand to her forehead. "Oh! what shall I do? what will the world say? Just heavens! this is terrible—terrible!" At that moment the parlour door was opened violently, and Mr. Dykes made his appearance, dragging in the lad Harry, who was straggling to get away, and blubbering as if his heart were ready to break. "Hold your tongue, you damned young fool!" cried Dykes, giving him a good shake, which only made him bawl out the more lustily: "no one ain't a going to do you no harm—but we must keep you as a witness. Bless the boy—I don't suppose you had any hand in the murder." These last words brought back to the mind of Mrs. Torrens the dread discovery which had ere now been made in the garden, and the remembrance of which had been chased away by the appalling peril that had suddenly overtaken her: but at the observation of the Bow Street runner to the boy, she uttered a faint hysterical scream, and fell back in a state of semi-stupefaction. "Murder did you say, old fellow?" demanded Bingham. "Yes—summut in that way," returned Dykes. "At all events there's a man with his throat cut from ear to ear lying at the bottom of a hole in the garden——" "You don't mean to say he was left all uncovered like that?" exclaimed Bingham. "No—no," answered Dykes. "Them as did for him, buried him safe enough; and it seems that this boy has been a-digging there, and comes to a hand sticking out of the ground. So he's too much afeared to go down any farther; but I deuced soon shovelled Bingham departed to execute the commission thus confided to him; and Dykes remained behind in charge of the premises. It would be impossible to describe the wretchedness of the scene which was now taking place in the parlour. The lad Harry was crying in one corner, despite the assurances which Dykes had given him;—the maid-servant, horrified and alarmed at all the incidents which had occurred within the last quarter of an hour, was anxious to depart from a house which circumstances now rendered terrible; but she could not make up her mind to leave Mrs. Torrens, who was in a most deplorable condition;—for the unhappy woman lay, gasping for breath and moaning piteously, on the sofa—her countenance distorted with the dreadful workings of her agitated soul, and her eyes fixed and glassy beneath their half-closed lids! Dykes accosted the boy, and, was beginning to put some questions to him with a view to ascertain when it was likely that Mr. Torrens would return, when that gentleman suddenly drove up to the door in his gig. "Now, my lad," said Dykes, "go and open the door, and mind and don't utter a word about what has taken place here this morning." The boy hastened to admit Mr. Torrens, who passed him by without even appearing to notice his presence, and proceeded straight to the parlour in a mechanical kind of manner, which showed how deeply his thoughts were occupied with some all-absorbing subject. But the moment the ruined, wretched man opened the door, he shrank back from the scene which offered itself to his view; for the condition of his wife, and the presence of so suspicions-looking a person as Mr. Dykes told the entire tale at once—the forgery had been discovered! "Oh! master," exclaimed the servant-maid, "I am so glad you're come back;—for your poor dear lady——" "Yes, master—and that dreadful sight in the garden," interrupted the boy, whimpering again,—"the murdered man in the hole——" Mr. Torrens staggered—reeled—and would have fallen, had not Dykes caught him by the arm, saying, "Sit down, sir—and compose yourself. I'm very sorry that I should have been the cause of unsettling your good lady so, sir: but I'm obleeged to do my dooty. And as for t'other business in the garden—I s'pose——" "I presume you are an officer?" cried Mr. Torrens, suddenly recovering his presence of mind, as if he had called some desperate resolution to his aid. "That's just what I am, sir," answered Dykes. "And you have come here to—to——" "To arrest Mrs. Slingsby that was—Mrs. Torrings that is—for forgery, was my business in the first instance," continued Dykes; "and now its grown more serious, 'cos of a orkard discovery made in the garden——" "What?" demanded Torrens, with strange abruptness: but he was a prey to the most frightful suspense, and was anxious to learn at once whether any suspicion attached itself to him relative to that discovery, the nature of which he could full well understand. "The dead body—the murdered gentleman, master!" exclaimed the lad Harry, throwing terrified glances around him. "I do not understand you!" said Mr. Torrens, in a hoarse-hollow tone: "what do you mean? All this is quite strange—and therefore the more alarming to me." But the ghastly pallor and dreadful workings of his countenance instantly confirmed in the mind of Dykes the suspicion he had already entertained—namely, that Mr. Torrens was not ignorant of the shocking deed now brought to light: and the officer accordingly had but one course to pursue. "Mr. Torrens, sir," he said, "the less you talk on this here business, perhaps the better; 'cos every word that's uttered here must be repeated again elsewhere; and it will be my dooty to take you afore a magistrate——" "Take me!" ejaculated the wretched man: and his eyes were fixed in horrified amazement on the officer. "I'm sorry to say I must do so," answered Dykes. "Martha—Martha!" ejaculated Torrens, starting from the seat in which the officer had just now deposited him, and speaking in such wild, unearthly tones that those who heard him thought he had suddenly gone raving mad: "why do you lie moaning there? Get up—and face the danger bravely—bravely! Ah! ah! here is a fine ending to all our glorious schemes!"—and he laughed frantically. "Howard has run away—absconded—gone, I tell you! Yes—gone, with the two thousand pounds! But I did not murder Sir Henry Courtenay!" he continued, abruptly reverting to the most horrible of all the frightful subjects which racked his brain. "No—it was not I who murdered him—you know it was not, Martha!" And he sank back, exhausted and fainting, in the seat from which he had risen. "Sir Henry Courtenay!" cried Dykes. "Well—this is strange; for it's on account of forging his name that the lady is arrested—and notice of his disappearance was given at our office this morning." Late that evening the entire metropolis was thrown into amazement by the report "that a gentleman, named Torrens, who had hitherto borne an excellent character, and was much respected by all his friends and acquaintances, had been committed to Newgate on a charge of murder, the victim being Sir Henry Courtenay, Baronet." And this rumour was coupled with the intelligence "that the prisoner's wife, to whom he had only been married on the previous day, and who was so well known in the religions and philanthropic circles by the name of Slingsby, had been consigned to the same gaol on a charge of forgery." |
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