The place where the husband and wife met thus, after a separation of upwards of nineteen years, was what the poor term “a kitchen,” but which rather merited the designation of “a cellar.” The roof was low and arched—the rough brick-work of the walls, once smeared with white-wash, was now dingy all over—and in the day-time a gleam of light was admitted by means of a miserably small window protected and also darkened by a grating set in the foot-way of the street. The den contained a fire-place, where the inmate might cook his victuals if he were able to bear the intolerable heat of a fire in the midst of summer; and at the extremity facing the window was a small bed. A table, two chairs, a few articles of crockery, and a washing-stand, completed the appointments of this wretched place, which was dimly lighted by a solitary candle.

The reader is already aware that Torrens was much altered in personal appearance: nevertheless, his wife had recognised him in the street without any difficulty. But it was not precisely the same on his part: had he met her in an accidental manner, he would not have known her, so remarkable was the change that had taken place in her. Yet he did know her now—for he had seen her in the little parlour at Percival’s house; and the moment she stood before him on the threshold of his present hiding-place, a cry of horror and alarm escaped his lips.

Mrs. Mortimer closed the door, and, taking a chair, motioned her husband likewise to be seated—a kind of command which he mechanically obeyed; for something told him that he was in the power of the woman whom he hated and abhorred.

“We meet after a long, long separation,” she said, in a low tone, which left him still in utter doubt as to whether the object of her visit was peace or war.

“Yes—yes,” he observed, nervously: “but wherefore should we meet at all?”

“Not to exchange caresses and endearing words—not to unite our fortunes or our misfortunes, as husband and wife,” responded the old woman. “Of that you may be well assured!”

“Then, again I ask—wherefore should we meet?” demanded Torrens.

“Because this interview suits my purposes,” returned Mrs. Mortimer, with a malignant grin; “and I may as well commence by assuring you that you are completely in my power.”

“In your power!” repeated the old man, casting a ghastly look of mingled apprehension and appeal on her who thus proclaimed her authority, and who seemed resolved to exercise it.

“Yes—in my power,” she exclaimed, in an impressive manner. “Do you know that I was arrested on suspicion of being the murderess, or at all events concerned in the murder—”

“Murder! oh—my God!” moaned Torrens, clasping his hands together in convulsive anguish, as he glared wildly around.

“Do not affect ignorance of the fact,” said Mrs. Mortimer: “because you are doubtless well aware that I was arrested for your crime.”

“No—no: you cannot prove that I did it—you can prove nothing!” cried Torrens, with a species of hysterical violence.

“I can prove that you were the murderer of Percival,” responded the old woman, fixing her eyes sternly upon her husband.

“Liar—wretch—I defy you!” exclaimed Torrens, his energy suddenly reviving as he saw the absolute necessity of meeting with boldness a charge which he felt convinced his wife could not prove against him: for how could she possibly entertain anything more serious than a bare suspicion?

“Harsh words and abuse will not intimidate me,” said she, in a quiet voice; “and all these variations in your manner—nervousness at one moment, terror the next, and then excitement—only tend to confirm me in my ideas. Listen, old man—and see whether I have just ground for those ideas, and whether you could explain away my tale, if told to the nearest police-magistrate.”

Torrens groaned audibly, and fell back in his chair—but not insensible—only in the exhaustion of his physical and the prostration of his moral energies; and his eyes glared in consternation on the countenance of the accusing fiend whose very presence would have been intolerable, even if he had committed no crime for her to be able to accuse him of.

“Listen, I say,” resumed the implacable old woman. “You were at Percival’s house a few moments before myself and daughter called upon him. You seemed to be very miserable—so miserable that you wished to obtain assistance from him. These were the very words he used to me; and he observed likewise that he never gave—consequently you extorted nothing from him. But you watched through the window-shutters, from the outside, the interview which took place between him and myself and daughter: you beheld the gold and the notes displayed upon the table; and when the old miser was once more alone, you entered the house—and—and you murdered him with a bludgeon!”

Torrens started convulsively, and endeavoured to give utterance to an ejaculation of denial; but his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth, and his throat was as parched as if he had been swallowing ashes.

“Yes—you murdered him,” repeated Mrs. Mortimer, apparently dwelling with fiendish delight upon the horrible accusation: “you beat the wretched man to death—your blows were dealt with a cruel, a merciless effect. Then you plundered the iron safe—you took all the treasure contained in the tin-case—gold and bank-notes to the amount of several thousands of pounds!”

“It is not true—it is not true!” said Torrens, partially recovering the power of speech.

“But it is true—all true—precisely as I now repeat the details,” cried Mrs. Mortimer, emphatically.

“You are mad to think me the possessor of such a treasure, when you find me in this miserable place, with thread-bare garments, and surrounded by every proof of a poverty amounting almost to utter destitution,” said Torrens, his courage to meet the charge somewhat reviving as he flattered himself that the argument just used was decisive and unanswerable.

“Do you imagine me to be so thoroughly ignorant of the world as to become your dupe on such easy terms?” demanded the old woman, in a tone of withering scorn. “Look at all I have passed through, and then ask yourself whether it be possible to deceive and mislead me! No, no—I understand it all. You believe that suspicion will never fall upon the wretched inmate of such a wretched place,” she continued, glancing slowly around the cellar—“and your calculation is a correct one. Here might you have concealed yourself—here might you have passed some weeks in apparent poverty, until the storm should have blown over. But it was destined that one person should obtain a clue to your guilt and a trace to your lurking-hole—and that person is myself! Nay, to convince you how well all your late proceedings are known to me, I have only to mention the fact that a few days ago you visited the cottage which once bore your name——”

“Ah!” ejaculated Torrens, startled by this new proof of how well-informed his hated wife in reality was concerning his movements.

“Yes—and to the fair inmate of that dwelling,” she added, with a look full of malignant meaning, “you admitted that you were poor no longer, but that you wished you indeed were the penniless and half-starving wretch you had so recently been! Thus the very outpourings of your remorse, old man, have furnished me with arguments—damning arguments—against you, and confirmed all my previous suspicions, if such confirmation were for an instant needed.”

“Why do you now come to me?” asked Torrens, in a faint and faltering tone, while his entire frame trembled nervously, and his countenance became so ghastly, that it was absolutely hideous to behold.

“My purpose is stern and immoveable,” replied the old woman.

“And that purpose—is——” faltered Torrens, trembling like an aspen.

“The surrender of every shilling—yes, every shilling—of the treasure which you plundered from the murdered Percival,” was the answer.

“Malediction!” ejaculated the wretched man, starting wildly from his seat as if he had received a sudden wound: then, sinking back again through sheer exhaustion, he pressed his hand to his throbbing brows, murmuring and lamenting in broken sentences such as these:—“My gold—my notes—the treasure I lost my soul to gain—the riches I had hoped to enjoy—the wealth to acquire which I imbrued my hands in blood—the blood of a fellow-creature—no—no—you shall not have my treasure.”

And he started up, flinging his arms wildly about him, while his eyes rolled horribly in their sockets, as if he were attacked by delirium.

Mrs. Mortimer sate calm and motionless, resolved to allow the paroxysm to pass ere she reiterated her stern demand. She knew—she saw that he was in her power,—now more so than ever, since he had admitted the dread crime by his unguarded exclamations.

“Woman, you will drive me mad!” suddenly cried her husband, falling back again into his seat, and looking at her with a hyena-like rage expressed upon his countenance.

“I do not seek such a catastrophe,” she observed, coolly.

“But you an urging me to it,” he replied, with savage fierceness. “No—no—I will not surrender my gold: you cannot compel me!”

“It is for you to decide whether you will adopt that alternative, or pass hence in a few minutes to the nearest station-house,” responded Mrs. Mortimer, her voice being still characterised by a calmness and deliberation indicative of the most implacable sternness of purpose.

“The station-house!” moaned Torrens, with a cold shudder: then, again becoming dreadfully excited, he exclaimed, “I will die first—and you shall perish also! Yes—I will murder you, and afterwards——”

“This is child’s play!” said Mrs. Mortimer, laughing at the threat, as she took up a knife which lay upon the table. “Advance towards me another pace—and I will plunge this sharp blade into your heart. The treasure, which is no doubt concealed somewhere in the room, will then fall into my hands all the same.”

“You are determined to rifle me of all I possess—to plunder me—to make me penniless!” cried Torrens, falling back in his seat, and giving way to his despair. “Can nothing move you? But, listen—listen: I will give you half—yes—one-half of the whole amount——”

“I came not to receive terms, but to dictate them,” interrupted Mrs. Mortimer. “And now reflect well upon your position, old man;—and remember also that your wild ravings may draw listeners to the door, and your guilt will be no longer a secret existing between you and me. Then, naught—naught can save your neck from the halter!”

“My God! she speaks truly,” murmured Torrens, bewildered by the dreadful thoughts that rushed to his brain as the woman spoke so calmly and deliberately of the ignominious death which might overtake him: “yes—she speaks truly!” he repeated; “and yet, if I give up all—surrender everything—on what am I to live? how am I to sustain my miserable existence?”

“You had no kind thought—no compassion for me, when you had friends to help you, and I was banished across the wide ocean,” said Mrs. Mortimer: “you cared not what became of me at that time, Torrens—and I have now no pity, no sympathy for you! I am aware that you loathe and detest me;—but your aversion surpasses not that which I entertain for you. There we are well matched: it is however in our relative positions that I have gained the ascendancy and can wield the authority of a despot. My crime is of old date, and has been expiated by many long, long years of horrible exile and servitude in a penal colony: your crime is new—the blood is scarcely dry upon your hands—your victim is scarcely cold in his grave—and your guilt can only be expiated on the scaffold.”

“Spare me—spare me,” groaned the wretched man, clasping his hands together in an anguish which, assassin as he was, would have moved any other than the soul-hardened, implacable Mrs. Mortimer.

“Spare you, indeed!” she repeated, in a contemptuous tone: “in what way can I spare you? If you ask me not to betray you into the hands of the officers of justice, I at once reassure you on that head—but with the one condition that you surrender up to me, and without further parley, every sixpence of the amount you have secreted somewhere in this place. I do not seek your life: I wish you to live, that you may be miserable—that you may know what starvation is—that you may wander the streets, houseless and penniless—dependent upon eleemosynary charity—begging your bread——”

“Merciful heaven! it is a fiend who is addressing these frightful words to me now!” ejaculated Torrens, surveying his wife with horror and astonishment.

“No—it is a woman,—a woman whom you deserted in her bitter trouble, and who now wreaks her vengeance upon you,” said Mrs. Mortimer. “Carry back your reminiscences some nineteen years or upwards, and contrast our positions then. You found friends and relations to console you while still in gaol, and to assist you after your release. But did you come near me? did you even send a word or a line to sympathise or to proffer aid! Miserable wretch that you are, I could wish that you were ten thousand times more miserable still!”

“Oh! that is impossible—impossible!” exclaimed Torrens, his cadaverous countenance denoting, by its hideous, painful workings, the sincerity—the profound sincerity that prompted the averment he had just made. “Were you to search the earth over, you could not find a being more miserable than I! And now—and now,” he continued, in a faltering tone, while tears trickled down his furrowed cheeks,—“now, will you have compassion upon me?”

“No—ten thousand times no!” ejaculated Mrs. Mortimer. “And I warn you to hasten and surrender your wealth—or I shall lose all power of restraining my impatience.”

Torrens rose from his seat, cast one look of malignant—diabolical hate upon the merciless woman, dashed the traces of grief away from his cheeks, and then turned towards the bed.

Mrs. Mortimer followed him with her eyes—those eyes now so greedy, suspicions, and anxious lest by any possibility her prey should escape her!

The wretched old man, whose heart experienced all the pains of hell, slowly and with trembling hands raised the miserable mattresses; and from beneath he drew forth a small parcel, wrapped in brown paper and tied with a thick string. This he handed to Mrs. Mortimer, who, heedless of the terrible glance which accompanied it, hastened to open the packet and examine its contents.

And now her triumph was complete;—for the parcel enclosed gold and notes to an amount which she proceeded in a leisurely manner to compute.

“Five thousand four hundred pounds,” she said aloud, casting a malignant look upon Torrens, who had resumed his seat and appeared to be the victim of a despair that must terminate in the total wreck of his reason. “And here,” she continued, now musing to herself rather than speaking for his behoof,—“here is a document that may prove of some importance to me,—the promissory note of the young man who called himself Viscount Marston.”

Thus speaking, she carefully packed up the parcel once more, and secured it about her person.

“And you will not leave me a guinea—a single guinea?” asked Torrent, in a low, hollow voice—his entire aspect indicating that he was almost stupified by the merciless cupidity of his wife.

“Not a single guinea,” she replied. “The only consolation I can afford you is the assurance that your secret is safe with me. If you are ever sent to the scaffold—it will not be through my instrumentality.”

With these words, she retreated towards the door, walking backwards, so as to keep her eyes fixed upon Torrens the whole time, and thus be prepared for a sudden attack should he meditate mischief, or, in an ungovernable paroxysm of rage and despair, attempt it.

But the old man moved not from his seat, although he appeared to reel and sway unsteadily backward and forward in his chair; and at the moment when Mrs. Mortimer placed her hand on the latch, he fell heavily upon the floor.

She was about to depart when it struck her that, if he were dead, unpleasant suspicions might attach themselves to her, should she hurry away without raising any alarm; and she accordingly hastened towards him. He was senseless—but the spark of life was not extinct; and now through fear did the woman perform those duties to which she never could have been otherwise urged in respect to him. She raised him in her arms—she placed him on the bed—removed his neckcloth—and sprinkled water upon his face. In a few minutes he began to revive, and his eyes opened slowly.

“Where am I?—is it a dream?” he murmured in a faint tone: then, as his recollection returned with speed and vividness, and he knew the countenance that was bending over him, and remembered why the woman herself was there, he exclaimed, “Fiend! give me back my gold!”

“Never!” was the emphatic word that fell upon his ear in reply—and in another moment he was alone.

No—not alone: for Despair was now his companion.

And Despair is an appalling guest:—for, murderer as the man was, he had some kind of worldly consolation left in his treasure until the implacable woman wrested it from him. But now that only solace was gone—and he was left to the horror of his thoughts, and to the ghost of his victim. Beggary was before him—beggary, with all its hideous train of evils, and those evils rendered the more terrible because beyond loomed the black and ominous gibbet!

Oh! how was it that madness did not seize upon the old man’s brain, and rob him of the power of making these agonizing reflections?

Was it that his punishment was to begin upon earth? If so, assuredly the retribution was appalling, even on this side of the tomb;—and he had not even left to him the consolation that the gold for which he had bartered his soul was still in his possession—still at his command, and available for his use!