Yes—'twas two o'clock in the morning; and the hour was proclaimed by the iron tongues of Time, from the thousand steeples of the mighty metropolis.

How solemnly does the sound of those deep, sonorous, metallic notes break upon the dead silence of that period when darkness spreads its sable wing over an entire hemisphere!

And though 'tis the time for rest, yet repose and slumber are not the companions of every couch.

Crime, sickness, and sorrow close not their lids in balmy sleep, weighed down with weariness though they be: too much happiness has likewise an excitement hostile to the serenity of the pillow.

For sleep is a fickle goddess, who succumbs not to every one's wooing at the hour when her yielding is most desired: now coy and coquettish, she hovers around, yet approaches not quite close:—now sternly and inexorably obstinate, she keeps herself at a great distance, in sullen mood.

And when the iron tongues of Time proclaimed the hour of two, were the eyes of the wretched Torrens or his miserable, guilty wife closed in slumber?

No—no: beneath the same roof, though in compartments far asunder, they writhed and tossed upon their hard pallets, in feverish excitement—craving, longing for sleep to visit them,—and sleep would not!

In those hours of wakefulness, and amidst the solemn stillness and utter darkness of the night, how terrible are the trains of thought which pass in rapid procession through the guilty mind,—as if imagination itself were being hurried along an endless avenue of horrors—grim spectres, hideous phantoms, and appalling sights on the one hand and on the other!

Then with what tremendous speed does memory travel back through the vista of a mis-pent life, all the foul deeds of which become personified in frightful shapes, and muster themselves in terrible array on either side!

In his narrow stone-cell, the wretched Torrens felt as if he were in a coffin, suffocated, hemmed in around;—and yet his imagination possessed boundless space wherein to raise up the awful shapes that haunted his pillow.

Was it possible that he was there—in Newgate? Did he dream—was he the sport of a hideous phantasy? Could it be true that he was dragged away from his comfortable home—snatched as it were suddenly from the world itself—and flung into a felon's dungeon?

No—no: it was impossible—absurd. Ha! ha! the folly of the idea was enough to make one laugh!

But—oh! merciful heavens!—he extended his arms, and his hands touched the cold—rugged—uneven wall: thence they wandered to the iron of the bed-stead—and came in contact with the coarse horse-cloth which covered his burning, feverish limbs!

Then a dreadful groan burst from him,—a groan which, even were he ten thousand, thousand times more guilty than he really was, would have been lamentable, heart-rending to hear,—a groan of such ineffable anguish that Satan himself might have said, "This man hath suffered enough!"

Suffered!—holy God, how deeply—deeply has he suffered since the massive door of that mighty stone sepulchre first closed upon him,—appearing to shut out the pure air of heaven, the golden light of day, and to mark a point where even human sympathies could follow no farther!

Suffered!—the wretched felon whose foot is upon the first step of the scaffold, never suffered more than the crushed, ruined, accused Torrens;—for all his guilt had arisen from the lack of moral courage to meet misfortune face to face; and now that misfortune had thrust itself upon him, and compelled him to gaze on its pale and death-like countenance, he was completely weighed down.

His infamy in respect to Rosamond, lay as heavily upon his conscience as would have lain the crime of murder, had he really perpetrated it; and he suffered more on account of the deed which he had committed, but for which the law had not touched him, than on account of the charge of which he was innocent, but for which the law had seized upon him.

Miserable—miserable man! Darkness—silence—and sleeplessness were indeed terrible to him,—so terrible that, as he lay tossing upon his feverish pallet, he wished that he was dead:—yet, had he possessed the means of inflicting self-destruction, he would have been afraid to die!

He was not placed in a ward along with other prisoners; because the charge against him was so black and terrible—the charge of murder—that he was lodged in a dungeon by himself—a cell that had seen many, many previous occupants, most of whom had gone forth to the scaffold!

For in Newgate the possession of a room to oneself—if a room such a coffin of masonry can be called—is the horrible privilege of him who is accused of murder; and those whose alleged offences are of a less deep dye, herd together in common wards, where a fetid atmosphere is the medium of communicating the foulest ideas that words can convey or ears receive.

Oh! what a plague-spot is that horrible gaol—that pandemonium of Newgate—upon the civilisation of the metropolis of these realms!

Shame—shame, that it should be allowed to exist under the management of an incapable, ignorant, and monstrously corrupt body—the Aldermen of London:—shame, shame that it should be permitted to remain as a frightful abuse of local jurisdiction, just because no statesman has yet been found bold enough to wrest a barbarian charter from an overgrown, bloated, and despicable corporation!

The wife—the newly married wife of Mr. Torrens,—that woman so well known to our readers by the name of Martha Slingsby,—was not lodged by herself:—being accused of a crime one degree less heinous than that of murder, she was placed in a ward with several other females.

And she also heard the iron tongue of Time proclaim the hour of two in the morning;—and she also tossed upon a hard, sleepless, and feverish pallet.

For she had not even the solace of conscious innocence as an anodyne for her lacerated heart and wounded spirit: she knew that she was guilty of the crime imputed to her—and that knowledge lay upon her soul like a weight of lead.

And—O horror! she was well aware that the black deed of forgery would be indubitably fixed upon her: and the penalty of that deed was—death!

Yes:—death by the hand of the common executioner—an ignominious death upon the scaffold!

She knew that almost her very minutes were now numbered—that, as the clock struck eight on some Monday morning, not very far distant, she must be led forth to die—that after her trial, which was sure to end in her condemnation, she should be consigned to the condemned cell—that from this cell she must proceed through several dark and dismal passages to that door upon whose very threshold would appear the gibbet, black and sinister—that she would have to ascend, or perhaps be carried up, the steps to the platform of the horrible machine—that she should see myriads and myriads of human beings crowding around to behold her dying agonies—that she would be placed upon a drop soon to glide away from beneath her feet and leave her suspended in the air—that the few minutes during which she must stand upon that drop, while the chaplain said the parting prayer, would comprise whole years, aye, centuries of the bitterest, bitterest anguish—that her attentive ear would catch even the sound caused by the finger of the executioner, when he touched the bolt of the drop an instant before he pulled it back—and that her soul would be yielded up in the agonies of strangulation!

Thus—thus, in spite of herself, did the wretched woman's imagination picture in frightful detail the whole of the dreadful ceremony of a violent death: thus—thus did she shadow forth, in imagination, every feature—every minute particular of the appalling ordeal;—and, in imagination also, did she now pass through it all, as vainly she craved for sleep in the silence and the darkness of the prison-ward!

The dread routine of the whole ceremony assumed an historical exactitude, a palpable shape, and a frightful reality in her mind.

Terrible—terrible was it for her to think upon what she now was, and upon what she might have been.

Not a hope was left to her in this world: she must be cut off in the meridian of her years;—she must bid adieu for ever to all the pleasures, the enjoyments, the delights of society and of life!

Oh! for the power—oh! for the means to avert her maddening, harrowing thoughts from the prophetic contemplation of that fatal morning when she must walk forth to the scaffold—when the close air of that prison would suddenly change to the fresh breeze of heaven, as she stepped forth from the low dark door which the passer-by outside ever beholds with a shudder,—and when she should raise her eyes to that black and ominous frame-work, with the chain hanging from the cross-beam, and her own coffin beneath the drop! All this was horrible—horrible,—sufficient to deprive the strongest mind of its reasoning faculties, and to paralyse the boldest with excess of terror!

For, oh! the reward of crime is dispensed in two ways upon earth,—by the law, and by the criminal's own thoughts;—and far—far more dreadful is the punishment inflicted by the guilty conscience than by the vengeance of outraged justice. Even the horrors of the scaffold, immense—tremendous though they must be in the reality, are magnified a hundred-fold by the terror-stricken imagination!

From the examples of the wretched man and the guilty woman of whom we have been speaking, and on whose heads afflictions and miseries fell with such frightful rapidity and crushing weight,—from their examples let the reader judge of the folly—setting aside the wickedness—of crime.

Gold—deceitful gold—was the will-o'-the-wisp which led them on through the devious ways of iniquity, until they suddenly found themselves in Newgate!

For the woman forged for gold—and the man sold his daughter's virtue for gold; and from the moment when Torrens consented to that vile deed, every thing went worse with him—nothing was bettered—and the circumstances resulting from that one act, combined to overwhelm him with afflictions, and even to fix upon him a horrible charge of which he was really innocent!

To err, then, is to be foolish, as well as wicked;—and this grand truth has doubtless been felt and acknowledged, when too late, by many and many a wretched being within those very walls and that sombre enclosure of Newgate!

Newgate!—what numberless ties have been severed on its threshold;—and what countless thousands of individuals, on entering that dread portal one by one, have gnashed their teeth with rage at the folly, even though they have felt no compunction for the guilt, of the career which they pursued and which had its natural ending there!

It was ten o'clock in the morning, when a hackney-coach stopped at the door of the governor's house, which stands in the centre of the front part of Newgate; and a fine, tall, handsome young man, having leapt forth, assisted a closely veiled lady to alight from the vehicle.

They were almost immediately admitted into the office of the governor, the young lady clinging to her companion's arm for support, for she was labouring under the most dreadful mental anguish.

These persons were Clarence Villiers and his beauteous bride, Adelais.

Returning from Devonshire, whither they had been to pass the honeymoon, they heard on the road, ere they reached the metropolis, the astounding intelligence that the aunt of the one had been committed to Newgate on a charge of forgery, and that the father of the other was consigned to the same place under an accusation of the murder of Sir Henry Courtenay. They also learnt at the same moment and for the first time, that the wretched pair had only just been united in matrimonial bonds when this fearful fate overtook them; but they were too much shocked by the more grave and serious portion of the tidings which thus burst upon them, to give themselves even leisure to express their surprise at the less important incident of the marriage of Mr. Torrens and Mrs. Slingsby.

They had arrived in London on the preceding evening, and had repaired direct to Torrens Cottage, hoping—and, indeed, expecting as a matter of course—to find Rosamond there.

But they were disappointed—cruelly disappointed that anticipation!

The female servant and the lad were, however, still at the Cottage; and from the former they learnt tidings which enhanced, if possible, the grief that already rent the heart of Adelais, and which excited vague but terrible suspicions in the mind of Clarence.

For the servant informed them that Miss Rosamond went to stay with Mrs. Slingsby almost immediately after the wedding—that she remained there almost ten days, and came home the very night when the murder was committed, and seemed dreadfully unhappy during the short time that she did remain at the Cottage—and that she departed no one knew whither, the second day after her return, leaving a note for her father.

While Adelais sate weeping at these tidings, to her so completely inexplicable, a torrent of suspicions and terrible ideas rolled through the mind of her husband Clarence. For he knew—as the reader will remember—that Sir Henry Courtenay was not only the paramour of his aunt, but that he had likewise cast lustful looks upon Rosamond; and he was equally aware that the young girl's imagination had been excited and inflamed by the false representations his aunt had made in respect to the character of the baronet. Then that second visit of Rosamond to Old Burlington Street—her unhappiness on returning home—the assassination of Sir Henry Courtenay at Torrens Cottage—the sudden marriage of two persons who were almost entire strangers to each other—and the contemporaneous flight of Rosamond from her home,—all these incidents seemed of so suspicious and terribly mysterious a nature as to strike Clarence with dismay.

The version which Mr. Torrens had given Rosamond of the particulars of the murder—and which, as the reader is aware, was the true one so far as the actual perpetration of the deed itself was concerned—was unknown to Clarence, inasmuch as it had not been published in the newspapers;—for, when arrested by Dykes and Bingham, Mr. Torrens had immediately sent for able counsel, to whom he told his story previously to the examination before the magistrate, and by the advice of his legal assistant, the prisoner had contented himself by simply declaring his innocence, stating that he should reserve for his defence the explanations whereon that assertion was founded.

Thus Clarence Villiers could not help believing that Torrens was really guilty of the murder; and he shuddered at the idea which forced itself upon him, that his aunt was an accomplice in the crime. In fact, it naturally appeared as if that woman and that man had suddenly blended their congenial spirits for the purpose of working out deeds of the blackest dye; and he dreaded lest the honour of Rosamond had been wrecked in the frightful convulsion produced by that association.

But none of his awful misgivings did he impart to Adelais. On the contrary, he strove to console her by assurances of his hope that her father must be the victim of a terrible junction of adverse circumstances, and that his innocence would yet transpire. Such ideas he was in reality very far from entertaining;—but it cut him to the quick to behold the anguish of his young wife—and he uttered every thing of a consolatory nature which his imagination was likely in such a case to suggest as a means of imparting hope and affording comfort.

They remained at the Cottage that night; and on the ensuing morning repaired to Newgate, as we have already stated.

The governor, upon learning the degree of relationship in which Mrs. Villiers stood towards Mr. Torrens, expressed himself in terms of the kindest sympathy, and offered to proceed in the first instance to the prisoner's cell to prepare him for the meeting with his daughter and son-in-law. This proposal was thankfully accepted; and the governor, after remaining absent for about ten minutes, returned to conduct the young couple into the presence of the prisoner, with whom he left them.

Adelais threw herself into her father's arms, embraced him with a fondness that was almost wild and frantic, and sobbed bitterly upon his breast,—while Clarence Villiers stood a deeply affected spectator of the sad—the touching scene.

"My child—my dear child," exclaimed the father, more moved by paternal tenderness than he ever yet had been,—"I am innocent—I am innocent!"

"Almighty God be thanked for that assurance!" murmured Adelais, as she fell upon her knees, and bent her burning face over her father's emaciated hands:—for Mr. Torrens had become frightfully thin—altered—and care-worn,—and his entire appearance denoted how acute his mental sufferings had been.

"Clarence," he cried, after a few moments' pause during which he raised his daughter, and placed her upon a seat,—"Clarence, did you hear my declaration? I am innocent!"

"I heard it—and I rejoice unfeignedly—oh! most unfeignedly," returned the young man, not knowing what to think, but speaking thus to console his heart-wrung wife.

"But whether I can prove my innocence—whether I can triumph over the awful weight of circumstantial evidence which has accumulated against me," continued Mr. Torrens, "is a point which God alone can determine."

An ejaculation of despair burst from the lips of Adelais.

"For heaven's sake, compose yourself, dearest!" said Villiers. "You have heard your father declare his innocence——"

"Yes—yes," she cried: "but if the world will not believe him? It is not sufficient that we should be convinced of that innocence! Oh! my God—wherefore has this terrible affliction fallen upon us?"—then, suddenly struck by another idea, she exclaimed, "And Rosamond, dear father—what has become of my sister Rosamond?"

Mr. Torrens turned away, and burst into tears—for that question revived a thousand agonising reminiscences in his mind.

"My father here—my sister gone," mused Adelais, her manner suddenly becoming strangely subdued, and the wild intensity of her earnest eyes changing in a moment to an expression of idiotic vacancy;—"and Clarence—where is he? Methought he was with me just now——"

"Merciful God! her senses are leaving her!" exclaimed Villiers, in a frantic tone: then, throwing his arms around her, he said, "Adelais—my beloved Adelais—Clarence is here—by your side! Oh! look not at me so strangely, Adelais—do you not know me?—speak—speak!—I am Clarence—your husband—he who loves, who adores you! My God! she does not recognise me!"

And the young man started back, dashing his right hand with the violence of despair against his forehead; while Adelais remained motionless in the chair, gazing on him with a kind of vacant wonderment,—and the miserable father staggered against the wall for support, murmuring in a tone of ineffable emotion, "Great God! where will all this end?"

But at that moment the heavy bolts were drawn back—the door opened—Adelais uttered a scream of mingled amazement and delight—and in an instant Rosamond was clasped in her arms.

Long and fervent was that embrace on the part of the sisters: nor were Torrens and Clarence Villiers alone the witnesses thereof—for the heavy door of the stone cell had, ere it closed again, given admittance to Esther de Medina.

Fortunate for Adelais was it that Rosamond appeared at such a moment,—a moment when the reason of the young bride was rocking on its throne, and the weight of an idea no heavier than a hair would decide whether it were to be re-established on its seat or overturned for ever!

Faint and overcome by the sudden revulsion of feeling produced by this sudden meeting with her sister, Adelais slowly disengaged herself from Rosamond's arms, and falling back in the chair, beckoned Clarence towards her, saying, "My dearest husband—keep near me—stay with me—for I know not what dreadful ideas have been passing in my mind;—and it seemed to me for a time that I was in utter darkness—or that I was buried in a profound sleep."

"But you are better now, dearest?" exclaimed Clarence, overjoyed at this sudden return of her senses.

"Yes—I am better now," said Adelais; and, falling upon her husband's neck, she burst into a flood of tears.

Meantime Rosamond was weeping also in her father's arms; and the eyes of the generous-hearted—the amiable Esther de Medina were overflowing at the contemplation of this mournful and touching scene.

"Father—father," murmured Rosamond, her voice almost suffocated with the sobs which agitated her bosom,—"there is hope—every hope——"

"Hope!" ejaculated Mr. Torrens, catching at the word as if the halter were already round his neck and the cry of "a reprieve!" had fallen on his ears.

"Hope, did you say?" exclaimed Adelais, now so completely relieved by the issue her pent-up anguish and shocked feelings had found in copious weeping, that all the clearness of her intellect had returned.

"Hush—Rosamond!" said Miss de Medina, advancing towards the group: "hush—my dear madam," she added, turning hastily towards Adelais; "that word must not be breathed here aloud yet! Nevertheless, it is true that there is hope—and every hope—nay, even certainty——"

"Great God! I thank thee!" cried Adelais, clasping her hands together in fervent gratitude, while Mr. Torrens was so overcome by emotions of joy and amazement that he sank upon that prison-pallet whereon he had passed a night of such horrible watchfulness.

"I implore you to restrain your feelings as much as possible," said Esther, speaking in a low and mysterious tone, which made Torrens, Clarence, and Adelais suddenly become all attention and breathless suspense; "the proofs of your innocence, sir," she added, looking at the prisoner, "have been obtained! Nay—give utterance to no ejaculation—but hear me in silence! Within twenty-four hours from this time your guiltlessness will be proclaimed to the world. Already are the proofs in the hands of a magistrate but circumstances, with which I am not myself altogether acquainted, render that delay imperiously necessary. It would, however, have been cruel to have left you in ignorance of this important circumstance; and——"

"And this admirable young lady, at whose father's house I found a home," hastily added Rosamond, "would not refuse me the joy—the indescribable joy of being the bearer of these tidings. Nay—more: she offered to accompany me——"

"God will reward you for all your kindness to my sister, dear lady," said Adelais, embracing Esther with heart-felt gratitude and affection.

"You are doubtless anxious to learn how the proofs of Mr. Torrens' innocence have been obtained," resumed Esther, after a pause: "but my explanation must be very brief. Suffice it to say that in this mighty metropolis, which contains so much evil, there is a man bent only on doing good. Accident revealed to him certain particulars which convinced him of your innocence, sir," continued the beautiful Jewess, addressing herself now especially to Mr. Torrens: "upon the information which he thus received, he acted—and he has succeeded in obtaining and placing in the hands of a Justice of the Peace the confession of the real perpetrators of the awful deed——"

"Then the murderers are in custody, doubtless?" exclaimed Clarence, astonished and delighted at all he heard.

"They are not in the grasp of justice," answered Esther. "But on this head you must ask me no questions. Rest satisfied with the assurance that the innocence of Mr. Torrens will completely and unquestionably transpire—that he will soon be restored to you all—and that his secret friend watches over him even from a distance. Who that individual is, you cannot know—and perhaps never may. All the recompense he demands at your hands is the subduing in your minds of every sentiment of curiosity that may prompt you to pierce the mystery which shrouds his actions; and remember also that every syllable I have now uttered, is to remain a secret profoundly locked up in your own breasts until the proclamation of innocence shall be made from that quarter to which the solemn duty of publishing it has been entrusted."

"We should be wanting in common gratitude, indeed, to him who has thus interested himself in behalf of the innocent, were we to act in opposition to those injunctions," said Clarence Villiers. "But through you, lady, do we each and all convey our heart-felt thanks for that generous intervention which is to produce so vitally important a result."

"Yes—and to you also, dearest Miss de Medina, is our eternal gratitude due!" exclaimed Rosamond—an assurance that was immediately and sincerely echoed by Adelais, Clarence, and Mr. Torrens.

Hope had now returned to that prison-cell,—hope in all her radiance and her glory,—with her smiling countenance and her cheering influence!

The name of Mrs. Torrens—late Mrs. Slingsby—was not mentioned by a soul during this meeting: her husband uttered it not—Clarence, through motives of delicacy, remained silent likewise in that respect—and the sisters had too much to occupy their thoughts relative to their father's position and the hope of his speedy release, to devote a moment's attention to that woman.

For the interview was necessarily short, in consequence of the severity of the prison regulations; but when Mr. Torrens was again alone in his cell, he could scarcely believe that so sudden a change had taken place in his prospects.

On leaving the gaol, after having taken a tender and affectionate leave of their father, the sisters looked inquiringly at each other, as if to ask whither each was going.

"We have taken up our abode at the Cottage," said Adelais, breaking silence; "where we shall remain, doubtless," she added, glancing towards her husband, "until our father shall be restored to us."

Clarence signified his assent.

"I should be grieved to separate you from your sister immediately after your unexpected meeting to-day," said Esther, addressing herself to Adelais; "but if Rosamond will continue to make our house her home——"

"Yes—yes, my dear friend," exclaimed Rosamond, hastily: "I will intrude a little longer upon your hospitality—for I feel that my nerves have been too much shaken by recent occurrences to allow me to return to the Cottage, at least for the present."

The reader need scarcely be informed that the young lady desired to avoid the painful prospect of being alone with her sister and Clarence: for what explanation could she give of her flight from home?—an explanation which she knew would naturally be required of her.

Adelais, indeed, felt somewhat hurt at the decision which her sister had made in respect to remaining with Miss de Medina: but she concealed her vexation, and they parted with an affectionate embrace.

Thus, Clarence and Adelais proceeded to Torrens Cottage, while Esther and Rosamond returned in Mr. de Medina's carriage to Finchley Manor.

During their ride home in the hackney-coach, Villiers and his wife discussed all the incidents which had just occurred; but during a pause in the conversation, Adelais bethought herself for the first time that day of her mother-in-law.

"Clarence," she said, laying her hand upon her husband's arm, "we have been sadly culpable——"

"I know to what you would allude, dearest," interrupted Villiers. "To-morrow I shall call upon my wretched aunt; but it is by no means necessary for you to accompany me. Your father did not once mention her name during the interview: we will not seek to penetrate his motives for that silence—but we will endeavour to imitate him in that respect as much as possible."

"I do not clearly understand you, Clarence," said Adelais, gazing at him enquiringly.

"I mean that the less we speak concerning my aunt, the more prudent it will be, my love," responded Villiers; "for I fear that she will not prove to be innocent of the crime imputed to her—and, under all circumstances, you can owe her no sympathy nor respect, either as my relative or your mother-in-law."

Adelais made no answer; and Clarence immediately changed the conversation.