"Fly! Fly!—For God's sake fly! Lose not one moment of the precious respite which, by incredible efforts, I have contrived to secure you—a respite of but a few hours—and wrung from heartlessness and rapacity. In justice, much injured man! to yourself—to all you hold dear upon earth—to the precious interests intrusted to your keeping, and involved in your destruction—again I say Fly! Quit the country, if it be but for never so short a time, till you or your friends shall have succeeded in arranging your disordered affairs. Regard this hasty and perhaps incoherent note, in what light you please—but I tell you it comes, in sacred confidence, from a firm and inalienable friend, whose present desperate exertions in your behalf you will one day perhaps be able to appreciate. Once more I conjure you to fly!—From other and greater dangers than you at present apprehend. I see the rack preparing for you!—Will you stay to be tortured?—and in the presence of the incomparable beings who—but my feelings overpower me! Indeed, Mr. Aubrey, if you disregard this intimation through weak fears as to its writer's sincerity, or a far weaker, and a wild, notion of Quixotic honor and heroism—remember, in the moment of being overwhelmed, this note—and then do justice to its writer.—Your faithful, unhappy, distrusted friend,

"O. G.

"P.S.—For God's sake burn, or otherwise destroy, this letter, as soon as you shall have read it."

Such was the letter which got into Mr. Aubrey's hands just as the time which had been fixed by Messrs. Quirk, Gammon, and Snap, for payment of their bill, was expiring, and which occasioned him, as may be easily imagined, dreadful disquietude. It had found him in a state of the deepest depression—but yet vigorously striving to preserve, in the presence of his wife and sister, a semblance of composure and cheerfulness. More to pacify them than to satisfy himself, he had walked about town during the two preceding days till nearly dropping with exhaustion, in fruitless quest of those who might be disposed to advance him a thousand pounds on his own personal security, and on terms he scarce cared how exorbitant, to free him, at all events for a while, from his present exigency. All had been, however, in vain—indeed he had had no hopes from the first. And what was then to be done? His soul seemed dying away within him. At times he almost lost all consciousness of his situation, and of what was passing around him. It appeared to be the will of Heaven that his misfortunes should press him down, as it were, by inches into the dust, and crush him. Those there were, he well knew, who needed but to be apprised of his circumstances, to step forward and generously relieve him from his difficulties. But where was all that to end? What real good could it serve? Awfully involved as he was already—one, alone, of his friends being at that moment under a liability which must be discharged within a few months, of nearly eleven thousand pounds—was he to place others in a similar situation? What earthly prospect had he of ever repaying them? Lamentable as was his position, his soul recoiled from the bare thought. But then came before his anguished eye, his wife—his sister—his children; and he flung himself, in an ecstasy, on his knees, remaining long prostrate—and, for a while, the heaven that was over his head seemed to be brass, and the earth that was under him, iron. His heart might be wrung, however, and his spirit heavy and darkened; but no extent or depth of misery could cause him to forget those principles of honor and integrity by which all his life had been regulated. He resolved, therefore, to submit to the stroke apparently impending over him, with calmness, as to inevitable ruin; nor would he hear of any further applications to his friends, which, indeed, he felt would be only encouragement to those who held him in thraldom, to renew their exactions, when they found each succeeding pressure successful. Poor Kate had told him, as soon as her letter had been put into the post, with trembling apprehension as to the consequences, of her application to Lady Stratton; but did she think her fond broken-hearted brother could chide her? He looked at her for a moment, with quivering lip and eyes blinded with tears—and then wrung her hand, simply expressing a hope, that, since the step had been taken, it might be, in some measure at least, successful.

Mr. Gammon's letter, as I have already intimated, filled Mr. Aubrey with inexpressible alarm. Again and again he read it over with increasing agitation, and at the same time uncertain as to its true character and import—as to the real motive and object of its writer. Was he guilty of the duplicity which Mrs. Aubrey and Kate so vehemently imputed to him? Was he actuated by revenge? Or was he, as represented by Mr. Quirk's letter, overpowered by his partners, and still sincere in his wishes to shield Mr. Aubrey from their rapacity? Or was Mr. Gammon suggesting flight only as a snare? Was Mr. Aubrey to be seduced into an act warranting them in proceeding to instant extremities against him? What could be the other matters so darkly alluded to in the letter? Were they the two promissory notes of five thousand pounds each, which he had deposited with Mr. Gammon, who at length was peremptorily required by Mr. Titmouse to surrender them up, and permit them to be put in suit? They were payable on demand—he shuddered! Might it be, that Titmouse was desperately in want of money, and had therefore overpowered the scruples of Gammon, and disregarded the sacred pledge under which he assured Titmouse the notes had been given? Mr. Aubrey rejoiced that Mr. Gammon's letter had been placed in his hands by the servant when alone in his study, whither he had gone to write a note to Mr. Runnington; and resolved not to apprise Mrs. Aubrey and Kate of its arrival. The fourth day after the receipt of Messrs. Quirk and Snap's letter had now elapsed. Mr. Aubrey did not venture to quit the house. All of them were, as may well be imagined, in a state of pitiable distress, and agitation, and suspense. Thus also passed the fifth day—still the blow descended not. Was the arm extended to inflict it, held back, still, by Mr. Gammon continuing thus the "incredible efforts" spoken of in his note?

The sixth morning dawned on the wretched family. They all rose at a somewhat earlier hour than usual. They could scarce touch the spare and simple breakfast spread before them, nor enjoy—nay, they could hardly bear—the prattle and gambols of the lively little ones, Charles and Agnes, whom at length they despatched back again to the nursery; for they were, in the highest possible state of excitement and anxiety, awaiting the arrival of the postman—this being the first morning on which they could, in the ordinary course, receive a letter from Lady Stratton in answer to that of Kate. 'T was now a little past ten. The breakfast things had been removed; and on hearing the agitating though long-expected rat-tat of the postman a few doors down the street, Mrs. Aubrey and Kate started to the window. Their hearts beat violently when their eye at length caught sight of him, with his arm full of letters, knocking at the door opposite. Oh, had he a letter for them? How long were their opposite neighbors in answering his summons, and in paying the postage! Then he stood for nearly a minute laughing with a servant in the adjoining area—intolerable indeed was all this, to the agitated beings who were thus panting for his arrival! Presently he glanced at the packet in his hand, and taking one of the letters from it, crossed the street, making for their door.

"Heavens! He has a letter!" cried Miss Aubrey, excitedly—"I sha'n't wait for Fanny!" and, flying to the front door, plucked it open the instant after the postman had knocked. He touched his hat on seeing, instead of a servant, the beautiful but agitated lady, who stretched forth her hand and took the letter, exclaiming, "Fanny will pay you"—but in an instant her cheek was blanched, and she nearly fell to the floor, at sight of the black border, the black seal, and the handwriting, which she did not at the instant recognize. For a moment or two she seemed to have lost the power of speech or motion; but presently her trembling limbs bore her into the parlor. "Oh! Charles—Agnes—I feel as if I were going to die—look"—she faltered, sinking into the nearest chair, while Mr. Aubrey, with much agitation, took the ominous-looking letter which she extended towards him. 'T was from Mr. Parkinson; and told the news of Lady Stratton's death, and the lamentable circumstances attending it; that—as the reader has heard—she had died intestate—and that Mr. Titmouse had, as next of kin, become entitled to administration to her effects. All this disastrous intelligence was conveyed in a very few hurried lines. "Oh, my God!" exclaimed Mr. Aubrey, on having glanced over them. His color fled, and he pressed his hand against his forehead. "She is dead!" said he, in a low tone, at the same time giving Kate the letter, and hastening to Mrs. Aubrey, who seemed nearly fainting. Each had uttered a faint scream on hearing his words. Mrs. Aubrey swooned in his arms —and Kate sat like a statue, without even glancing at the fatal letter which she held in her hand, but gazing in a sort of stupor at her brother. She was unable to rise to Mrs. Aubrey's assistance—of whose state, indeed, she appeared, from her vacant eye, to be hardly aware. At length a slight sigh announced the returning consciousness of Mrs. Aubrey; and at the same time Miss Aubrey, with a manifestly desperate effort, regained her consciousness, and with a cheek white as the paper at which she was looking, read it over.

"This is very—very—dreadful—Heaven is forsaking us!" at length she murmured, gazing wofully at her brother and sister.

"Say not so—but rather God's will be done," faltered Mr. Aubrey, his voice and his countenance evincing the depth of his affliction. "God help us!" he added in a tone which at length, thrilling through the overcharged heart of his sister, caused her to weep bitterly; and if ever there was a mournful scene, it was that which ensued, ere this doomed family, slowly recovering from the first stunning effects of the shock which they had just received, had become aware of the full extent of their misery. They had ever felt towards Lady Stratton—who, as has been already said, had been poor Kate's godmother—as towards a parent; and their affection had been doubled after the death of Mrs. Aubrey. Now she was gone; she who would have stood for a little while at least between them and ruin, was gone! And by an inscrutable and awful Providence, that which she had sacredly destined to them, and made great sacrifices to secure to them—and which would have effectually shielded them from the cruelty and rapacity of their enemies—had been diverted from them, into the coffers of the most selfish and worthless of mankind—who seemed, indeed, as if he had been called into existence only to effect their ruin; even, as it were, the messenger of Satan to buffet them! At length, however, the first natural transports of their grief having subsided, their stricken hearts returned to their allegiance towards Heaven; and Mr. Aubrey, whose constancy at once strengthened and encouraged his partners in affliction, with many expressions of sincere and confident piety and resignation reminded them that they were in the hands of God, who intended all earthly suffering—however unaccountable—however harsh and apparently undeserved its infliction—to contribute infallibly to the ultimate benefit of His children. And he reminded them, on that melancholy occasion, of the example afforded by one whose griefs had far transcended theirs—the patriarch Job; on whom were suddenly—and to him apparently without any reason or motive, except the infliction of evil—accumulated almost every species of misfortune which could befall humanity. The sudden and total loss of his substance, and of all his servants, he appears to have borne with fortitude. At length, however, was announced to him the loss of all his sons and daughters——

"Then Job arose and rent his mantle, and shaved his head, and fell down upon the ground and worshipped,

"And said, Naked came I out of my mother's womb, and naked shall I return thither: the Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away: blessed be the name of the Lord.

"In all this Job sinned not, nor charged God foolishly."

Out of respect to the memory of their dear, venerable, departed friend, they drew down all the blinds of their little house, thereby spreading around them a gloom similar to that within. A sad, a mournful little group they looked! This last sorrow seemed for a while to divert their thoughts from the peril which momentarily menaced them. They talked with frequent emotion, and with many tears, of their late friend—recalling, fondly, innumerable little traits of her gentle and benignant character. Towards the close of the day their souls were subdued into resignation to the will of the all-wise Disposer of events: they had, in some measure, realized the consolations of an enlightened and scriptural piety.

They met the next morning, at breakfast, with a melancholy composure. The blinds being drawn down, prevented the bright sunshine out of doors from entering into the little room where their frugal breakfast was spread, and where prevailed a gloom more in unison with their saddened feelings. To all who sat round the table, except little Charles, the repast was slight indeed: he had shortly before begun to breakfast down-stairs, instead of in the nursery; and, merry little thing!—all unconscious of the destitution to which, in all human probability, he was destined—and of the misery which oppressed and was crushing his parents—he was rattling away cheerfully, as if nothing could disturb or interrupt the light-heartedness of childhood. They all started on hearing the unexpected knock of the general postman. He had brought them a letter from Dr. Tatham; who, it seemed, was aware of that which had been the day before despatched to them by Mr. Parkinson. The little doctor's letter was exceedingly touching and beautiful; and it was a good while before they could complete its perusal, owing to the emotion which it occasioned them. 'T was indeed full of tender sympathy—of instructive incentives to resignation to the will of God.

"Is not that indeed the language of a devout and venerable minister of God?" said Mr. Aubrey—"whose figure is daily brightening with the glory reflected from the heaven which he is so rapidly approaching? In the order of nature, a few short years must see him, also, removed from us."

"Then we shall indeed be desolate!" said Miss Aubrey, weeping bitterly.

"Heaven," continued her brother, "is speaking to us through one of its ministers in this letter! Let us listen in reverent humility!" They remained silent for some moments, Mr. Aubrey re-perusing the long and closely written letter of which he had been speaking. Presently he heard a knock at the street door—an ordinary single knock—such as was by no means unusual at that period of the morning; yet he scarce knew why—it disconcerted him. He kept, however, his eye upon the letter, while he heard Fanny opening the door—then a word or two whispered—after which the parlor door was hastily opened, and Fanny stood there, pale as death, and unable, evidently from fright, to speak—a heavy step was heard in the passage—and then there stood behind the terror-stricken girl a tall stout man in a drab great-coat, with a slouched hat, and a thick walking-stick in his hand—looking over her shoulder into the parlor, whose dismayed occupants soon shared the panic of poor Fanny.

"Beg your pardon, sir," said he, civilly advancing into the room, and removing his hat—"is your name Charles Aubrey?"

"It is, sir," said Mr. Aubrey, rising from his chair—by which time a second man was standing at the door.

"You're my prisoner, sir," said the man, stepping close up to the wretched Aubrey, and touching him on the shoulder, at the same time holding out a thin slip of paper—the warrant by virtue of which he was then acting. The moment that he advanced towards Mr. Aubrey, a dreadful shriek burst from Mrs. Aubrey and Kate, who sprang forward, and threw their arms wildly round him. He implored them to restrain their feelings—though evidently greatly agitated himself.

"Will you let me look at your warrant?" said he, mildly, to the man who had arrested him, and remained standing close beside him. Mr. Aubrey, glancing over the fatal slip of paper, saw that he was arrested for fourteen hundred pounds and upwards at the suit of Messrs. Quirk, Gammon, and Snap.[6]

"You see, sir, it's only my duty to do this here," said the officer, respectfully, apparently touched by the agony of the two beautiful women who still clung wildly round one about to be torn ruthlessly from their arms;—"don't take on so, ladies—there 's no great harm done yet."

"For mercy's sake, Agnes! Kate! as you love me!—Be calm! You afflict me beyond measure," said Mr. Aubrey, who, though he had grown very pale, yet preserved under the circumstances a remarkable degree of self-possession. 'T was, however, a scene which he had been endeavoring to realize to himself, and prepare for daily, if not hourly, for the last week.

"Oh, mercy! mercy!—for God's sake have mercy on him! On us!"—exclaimed Mrs. Aubrey and Kate.

"Oh, good men! kind men!—have mercy!" cried Kate, desperately—"What are you going to do with him?"

"No harm, miss, you may depend on 't—only he must go with us, seeing we 're obligated to take him."

"For Heaven's sake, don't—don't, for mercy's sake!"—cried Kate, turning her agonized face towards the man—her hair partially dishevelled, and her arms still clasping her brother with frantic energy. Mrs. Aubrey had swooned, and lay insensible in her husband's arms, supported by his knee; while Fanny, herself half-distracted, was striving to restore her by rubbing her cold hands.

"Lord, ladies! don't—don't take on in this here way—you're only a-hurting of yourselves, and you don't do the gentleman any good, you know—'cause, in course, he's all the sorrier for going," said the second man, who had by this time entered the room, and stood looking on concernedly. But Miss Aubrey repeated her inquiries with wild and frantic impetuosity, for some time not aware that Mrs. Aubrey lay insensible beside her.

"Jemmy—run and fetch the lady a sup of water from the kitchen—she's gone into a dead faint—run, my man!" said the officer to his follower, who immediately obeyed him, and presently returned with a glass of water; by which time, both Kate, and her brother, and Fanny, were endeavoring, with great agitation, to restore Mrs. Aubrey, whose prolonged swoon greatly alarmed them, and in whose sufferings, the sense of their own seemed for a while absorbed. The two men stood by, grasping their huge walking-sticks, and their hats, in silence. At length Mrs. Aubrey showed symptoms of recovery—uttering a long deep sigh.

"I say—master," at length whispered the follower, "I'll tell you what it is—this here seems a bad business, don't it?"

"Jemmy, Jemmy!" replied his master, sternly, "You a'n't got half the pluck of a bum!—There's nothing in all this when one's used to it, as I am."

"P'r'aps the gemman don't rightly owe the money, after all."

"Don't he? And they've sworn he does?—Come, come, Jem, no chaffing! The sooner (I'm thinking) we have him off from all this here blubbering, the better."

"Bless'd if ever I see'd two such beautiful women afore. I don't half like it; I wish we'd nabbed him in the street—and" he lowered his whisper—"if there's much o' this here sort o' work to be done, I've had enough of being a bum already, an' 'll go back to my business again, bad as times is!"

"Kind—good men!" said Kate, approaching them, and speaking with forced calmness—pushing aside her disordered hair from her pale cheeks, "Can't you leave him here—only a day longer?"

"Can't, miss—it's quite unpossible; it's not to be done for no money short of debt and costs," said the officer, respectfully, but rather doggedly—as if he were getting tired of the scene—"one would think we were a-going to murder the gemman! Once for all, if so be as he will only go as a gemman should, to my little place in Chancery-Lane—(my name's Grab, miss, at your service, and there a'n't a better conducted lock-up nor mine in London, I assure you, nor where debtors is more comfortably looked arter)—he's no need to be there above a day or two—it may be less—and of course his friends will come and bail him out; so don't be a-going on so when it's no manner o' use!"

"Charles! My love!" murmured Mrs. Aubrey, faintly—"they surely will not separate us? Oh! let us go together; I don't care where we go to, so long as I am with you."

"Do not ask it, my darling! my heart's love!" replied Mr. Aubrey, tenderly, as he supported her in his arms, and against his knee—and a tear fell from his eye upon her cheek—"I shall be exposed to but little inconvenience, I am certain; there can be no violence or insult offered me so long as I submit myself peaceably to the laws! And I shall soon, please God, be back!"

"Oh, Charles! I shall die—I shall never survive seeing you carried away!" she replied—and her manner was becoming increasingly vehement.

"Agnes, Agnes!" said her husband, reprovingly, "the mother must not desert her children; my heart will ache every moment that I am absent, if I think that my dear little ones have not a mother's protection."

"Kate will take care of them, love!" said Mrs. Aubrey, faintly; and her husband tenderly kissed her forehead. While this hurried colloquy between the wretched couple was proceeding, Kate was talking in low but impassioned tones to the two officers, who listened to her respectfully, but shook their heads.

"No, miss—it can't be; it can't indeed."

"But you shall have everything in the house for your security—I have still a good many handsome dresses; jewels, all—all; surely they will produce something; and then there's plate, and books, and furniture—you can't think Mr. Aubrey's going basely to run away!"——

"If, as how, miss, (you see,) it was only ourselves that you had to do with—(but, Lord love you, miss! we 're only officers, and has our duty to do, and must do it!)—why, we'd go a little out of our way for to oblige a lady; but the people you must go to is the gemmen whose names is here," pointing to the warrant; "they're the people as the money's owing to—Quirk, Gamm"——

"Don't name them! They are fiends! They are villains! They are robbing, and then ruining, my wretched brother!" exclaimed Miss Aubrey, with dreadful vehemence.

"Kate, Kate!" cried Mr. Aubrey, kindly but peremptorily—"in mercy to me, be silent! Restrain your feelings, or really I must hasten my departure."

"Oh, Charles!" faltered Miss Aubrey, sinking down on a chair exhausted, and burying her face in her handkerchief.

"Now, sir—if you please," commenced Grab, turning to Mr. Aubrey, "we must be thinking of going, seeing, I expect, I've another job on hand to-day; would you prefer coaching, or walking it? Excuse me, sir—I've seen many such things as this; and I know it's only a haggrawating of your feelings to be stopping here—the longer the worse! What must be, had better be done at once, and got over with. I've been a-telling this here young lady a many times, that it's no use fretting—and that in course you'll be soon back again, when you've done what's needful; so hadn't my man here better go and get a coach?"

"It is so, indeed!" exclaimed Mr. Aubrey, with a profound sigh—and endeavored for some time by all the means in his power to soothe and pacify his wretched companions.

"Can I speak a word with you alone, before I go?" he presently inquired of the officer.

"In course, sir," replied Grab; and promising to return within a minute or two's time, Mr. Aubrey quitted the room with Grab close at his heels; and presently they were both standing in his little study.

"Betwixt ourselves, sir," quoth Grab, in a confidential tone, "you've rather keen hands to deal with;" here he laid his finger along his nose, and winked his eye—"and you'll lose no time in turning yourself about. You understand, sir?"

"Perfectly," replied Mr. Aubrey, with a sigh. "Who gave you your instructions in this matter?"

"Mr. Snap—the junior partner—it was him that brought this here warrant to me"——

"Are you sure? Was it not Mr. Gammon?"

"No, sir—Snap—Snap; that little cockatoo of a chap. Mr. Gammon called at my office half an hour afterwards, to be sure"——

"I thought so," interrupted Mr. Aubrey, quickly, his face flushing, and feeling relieved from a vast pressure.

"Ay," continued Grab, phlegmatically, "he'll see you don't come to much harm in this matter"——

"What do you mean?" inquired Mr. Aubrey, with surprise.

"Lord! I could tell by his way. He called to say that, since they had resolved to go agin you, he hoped, we 'd show you every attention, and deal easy by you"——

"Indeed!"

"Ay—indeed! And I think he said it was a cruel business—nay, I'm sure he did; and that, as for him, he washed his hands on 't!" Mr. Aubrey seemed confounded.

"I don't somehow think him and his partners are on the best of terms together—but that's no business o' mine, you know, sir! And now, sir, excuse me, but we must be jogging."

"But, my friend, is there really no way," inquired Mr. Aubrey, with manifest perturbation, "by which I can delay accompanying you for a few hours"——

"Oh can't, sir—unpossible!"

"You can remain in possession here—I will be in your custody—I have a little plate, books, and furniture, which would surely stand sufficient security"——

"It 's no use, sir; go you must—and that without much longer shilly-shallying. It's no use!"

Aubrey seemed for a moment overpowered by his emotions.

"I fear, myself, that there is no alternative," said he; "but it will almost break the hearts of those ladies—one of whom is my wife"——His voice faltered.

"You take my advice, sir! Let my man start off for a coach—you have a shirt or two put up, and an amusing book—or a bit of a cribbage-board, or a pack of cards, if they're at hand—and give 'em the slip; if you'll believe me, sir, it 's much the best way; and when you're once out o' the house, they'll come to, and make up their minds to it—never fear 'em."

"Send, then, for a coach—delay, I see, is worse than useless," said he, hastily, hearing steps approaching the study door, which was thrust open, and Mrs. Aubrey and Miss Aubrey entered, unable any longer to endure his absence—and as if fearful lest, in mercy to them, he should be contriving to leave them secretly. Grab, having despatched his follower for a coach, at Mr. Aubrey's earnest request to be left alone for a few minutes, withdrew—but first cast a keen scrutinizing eye at the window—and then the chimney—and then, having closed the door, stood outside, in a position which commanded both door and window.

"Now, my own Agnes! my sweet Kate!" commenced Aubrey, in a low, earnest tone, having bolted the door to secure themselves from interruption during the few precious moments which remained to them before the arrival of the coach—"I must, within a very few minutes, leave you! Remember—remember, loves!—I am unfortunate, but, I am not disgraced!—I look on this as a dispensation of Providence—an infinitely wise, and good Providence; let us all learn submission, and resignation! Whether or not we are really the victims of treachery and hypocrisy, I am unable at present to tell; but let us learn to bear this last crowning indignity with the fortitude of Christians!—relying on it, that God will overrule the most trying and disastrous events for our eventual good! Kneel down! Let us bow before the throne of Heaven, and supplicate its blessing and support, in this our greatest extremity!" He said this calmly; but his face was deadly pale, and his voice faltered—while they clung round him and heaved convulsive sobs, as, half unconsciously, they sank on their knees with him. Then they rose—and certainly a gracious Providence had not listened in vain to the earnest, heartfelt cries uttered by those persecuted and heart-broken beings; for they felt a sense of composure stealing over their troubled bosoms—as if they had seen for a moment a bright light glancing through the gloom of their sorrows. Yet poor nature was wrung—wrung indeed! Mr. Aubrey proceeded to make some little preparations for his departure—putting a five-pound note into his pocket—and leaving but little more behind him; and the servant being summoned into the room, was despatched to put up a change of linen for him. He then implored and conjured them, as they loved him, to struggle against their feelings;—and to rely upon his pledge to send them, within two hours at the furthest, intelligence of his movements—assuring them of his confident belief, that in less than twenty-four hours he should have returned to them. While he was speaking in this strain, Mrs. Aubrey suddenly quitted the room, and after a moment's absence returned, her pallid, agitated countenance overspread with a wild smile of delight, as she exclaimed breathlessly—"There, love! Dearest Charles! He says there is no harm in the world in my going with you in the coach—and, indeed, we may have rooms to ourselves!"

"My sweet Agnes"——

"I will—I will go with you, Charles! Nothing shall prevent me—even if I leave you at the door of the place you are going to!" It was in vain for Mr. Aubrey to protest—as he did, both earnestly and vehemently;—her impassioned importunities were irresistible, and she rushed breathlessly up-stairs to prepare her dress to accompany him on his brief but melancholy journey. Within a very few minutes she had returned, just as the sound of the coach-wheels approaching the door was heard. Mr. Aubrey and Kate perceived the dangerous excitement under which she was laboring, and dreaded its effects: yet what could be done? He could not prolong his stay—and it would be infinitely more dangerous to leave her behind, now that she had set her heart upon accompanying him, than to permit her to do so. She carried down little Agnes in her arms—and had been almost suffocating her and Charles, who walked after her, with kisses and convulsive embraces. Both the children were crying bitterly; and as soon as Mrs. Aubrey had reached the parlor door, and heard the coach-steps letting down, she fell into violent hysterics.

"I'll tell you what, sir," whispered Grab, as he stood close beside Mr. Aubrey, who was supporting Mrs. Aubrey—"it wouldn't be amiss if I was to say you should come along with me at once, while this poor lady's insensible—and then when she 'd have come to herself, and know'd you was gone, and no mistake—why—she'd in course think no more of it "——

"Oh! for God's sake—for God's sake! Remember your promise!" cried Aubrey, and in a voice which nearly reached the officer's heart: as it was, he simply shrugged his shoulders, and awaited the issue with no little impatience, but in silence. 'T was in the midst of this heart-rending scene, which ensued during the next half-hour, that Kate displayed the strength of character which so remarkably distinguished her; and, completely mastering her own agitated feelings, she essentially contributed towards Mrs. Aubrey's restoration to a state which would admit of her at length setting off. The children had been removed—Mr. Aubrey having bid them an agonizing adieu; for he knew not what accident or contrivance might occur to prevent his return to them—and after embracing his weeping sister, he supported Mrs. Aubrey, Grab closely following them, into the coach. All three having got in, "Jem," as he was called, shut up the door, jumped up on to the coach-box, and then they drove away. Poor Mrs. Aubrey, on taking her seat, drew from before her agitated yet beautiful countenance the long dark veil which she had drawn down while passing from the house into the coach, and gazed at Mr. Aubrey with such an expression of mingled tenderness and agony, as was almost sufficient to have broken even the stony heart of Grab. She also held her husband's hand convulsively grasped within her own—as though fearful of their being even yet violently separated from each other. As they went along, in answer to Aubrey's anxious inquiries concerning the nature of the scenes which awaited him, Mr. Grab told him that his—Grab's—lock-up was in Chancery-Lane, and would be found as comfortable a place as need be. He informed his prisoner, further, that he might have his choice,—whether to occupy a private room, with a bedroom opening into it—or go into the public room, where would be also some dozen other debtors,—and in which case, of course, Mrs. Aubrey must return home alone. Mr. Aubrey inquired what would be the expense of the private room, and was horrified on hearing—two guineas and a half a-day, paid in advance!—exclusive of board and attendance, which doubtless would be charged for on a commensurate scale. The prisoner and his wife gazed at each other in silence, and felt sick at heart.

"The smallest room—at the very top of the house—would suffice for both a sitting-room and bedroom," said Aubrey—"and we do not care a straw for furniture"——

"The room I told you of, or the public room, is all I've to offer you," replied Grab, somewhat doggedly—"and you needn't cry out before you're hurt; for it may be your friends will bail you out before the night—before much harm's done!" His wretched companions continued silent for the remainder of the journey, till the coach drew up opposite the door of the house of which they had been speaking. It was about half-way up Chancery-Lane, on the right-hand side as you entered from the Strand. 'T was a small, narrow, dingy-looking house, at the corner of a miserable court. The solitary window, level with the door, was strongly secured within by thick perpendicular iron bars. The outer door, at the top of a flight of about a dozen well-worn steps, stood open, leaving exposed to view an inner door, at about a couple of yards' distance from the outer one; and on this inner door was a brass plate bearing the terrifying name—

The upper part of the door was of glass, and secured on the inside, like the window, by strong iron bars. Aubrey's soul sank within him as his eye took in these various points of the dismal building—the very first which he had ever been compelled to enter. The follower, immediately on the coach drawing up, jumped down, and running up the steps of the house, knocked at the inner door, and hurrying back, opened the coach-door, and let down the steps.

"Now, Jarvey—what's the damage?" inquired Grab, before any of them got out.

"Six shillings, your honor."

"You must tip, sir," quoth Grab to Mr. Aubrey—who thereupon counted out all the silver he had except one solitary sixpence, and they descended, followed up the steps of the house closely by Grab. Their hearts failed them, as they heard the sound of heavy jingling keys from within opening the door; and the next moment they stood within a short, narrow, and dark passage—the sallow ill-looking man who had opened the door instantly closing, barring, and locking it upon them.

"This here's the public room," quoth Grab, with the confident air of a man who feels in his own house; and, half opening a door on his left—they caught a glimpse of a number of men—some smoking; others sitting with their feet on the table, reading the newspapers; others playing at cards; and almost all of them drinking, and either laughing, talking, or singing.

"Now, sir—does this here suit your fancy?" inquired Grab, rather sharply. Mr. Aubrey felt his wife leaning heavily on his arm. "Mercy! I shall faint! I feel choked!"—she whispered.

"Show us instantly upstairs, to your private room—cost what it may," said Mr. Aubrey, hastily.

"It's only fair to tell you, sir, you pay in advance—and for the whole day, though you should be out again in a quarter of an hour's time—it's the rule of the house."

"Show us upstairs, sir, without delay," said Mr. Aubrey, peremptorily.

"Jemmy—show 'em up!" exclaimed Grab, briskly—on which Jem went forward, followed by Mr. Aubrey, almost entirely supporting Mrs. Aubrey—who appeared very faint—Grab bringing up the rear—up the narrow and angular staircase. This led them into a tolerably well-furnished room; and Mrs. Aubrey, on entering it, sank exhausted on the sofa. Here, again, the two windows were strongly secured with iron bars, which gave a peculiarly miserable appearance to the room. The unhappy couple gazed around them for a moment, in silence.

"Beg your pardon, sir," said Grab, entering the room, "but must trouble you for two, twelve, six; always pay in advance, as I told you a-coming."

Aubrey involuntarily shuddering, took out his pocket-book—Mrs. Aubrey bursting into tears—and handed to Grab the only money he had—his five-pound note, requesting change.

"The lady would, perhaps, like a glass of negus?" inquired Grab.

"Certainly—bring up immediately a glass of cold sherry and water," replied Aubrey.

"That will be just two, five, six to bring back—shall have it directly, sir—change and all. Here's your bedroom, sir," he added—opening a small door opposite the window—and then withdrew by that through which they had entered. The moment that they were left alone, Aubrey folded his arms tenderly around his wife, and kissed her cold pale cheek; and then helped her to remove her bonnet, which, with its heavy black veil, evidently oppressed her. Her rich dark hair fell disordered over her tippet; and with her flushed cheek and restless eye, would have given the beholder a vivid picture of beauty and virtue in distress.

"Do promise me, Charles!" said she, looking fondly at him, "that I may go with you wherever they will allow you to take me!"

"I trust, Agnes, that I shall be released before long. This is really a comfortable room, considering!" he added, evading her question.

"If only Kate and the children were here," she replied tremulously. "Poor things! I wonder what they are doing just now—Kate will break her heart, poor girl, if we don't return soon!"

"Never fear, Agnes. But let us look what kind of a bedroom they have given us. I hope we shall have no occasion, however, to occupy it. Come, let us see!"

'T was very small and close, to be sure, and had but one narrow window, secured, like all the others, by strong iron bars. It overlooked a little flagged yard, about fourteen feet square, surrounded on all sides by high walls, portions of adjoining houses. It was here that the prisoners "took the air," and their escape was effectually prevented by close and strong bars of iron passing from side to side, at about ten feet distance from the ground. They looked down, and beheld two or three men sitting and standing beneath, who looked more like animals caged in a menagerie, than human beings. 'T was to Aubrey a sickening sight; and turning from the window, they both re-entered the front room, as Grab returned with the sherry and water, and the change, which he told down on the table. He then asked what they would like to have for dinner—cutlets, steaks, or chops—as he wished to know before Mrs. Grab went out "to order the house dinner." They seemed, however, to loathe the idea of eating, not a little to the annoyance of their truly hospitable host; Aubrey earnestly begging him to send off a message instantly, with his card, to Mr. Runnington.

"A couple of shillings for the man, sir," said Grab; and, having received it, withdrew, leaving Mr. and Mrs. Aubrey to themselves for nearly an hour and a half; at the end of which period, their hearts leaped for joy to see Mr. Runnington enter the room, with a countenance full of concern and sympathy.

"Well, but you shall not be much longer in this hateful hole, at any rate," said he, after some half-hour's anxious conversation with them; and ringing the bell, directed the man to send Grab up-stairs, and to fetch pen, ink, and paper. In a few minutes Grab appeared. "You've no objection, I suppose, Grab, to discharge Mr. Aubrey on my undertaking?"

"In course not, sir," replied Grab, readily; but he was not a little disappointed at so abrupt a close to his exactions. Mr. Runnington sat down and began to write. "You had better send off to the office, and see if there's anything else there," he added, (meaning that Grab should search, as he was bound to do, for any other writs against Mr. Aubrey which might be lodged with the sheriff, before discharging his prisoner out of custody.)

"You don't apprehend anything there, do you?" inquired Mr. Runnington, rather seriously, without taking his eye from the paper on which he was writing.

"Heaven only knows! But I think not," replied Aubrey.

The following was the undertaking given by Mr. Runnington, and which operated as an instant release of his oppressed and truly persecuted client:—

"Aubrey ats. Quirk and others.

"We hereby undertake to procure the execution of a good and sufficient bail-bond herein, for the above-named defendant, in due time.

"Runnington & Co.,

Defendant's Attorneys.

"To Mr. Grab,
Officer of the Sheriff of Middlesex."

With this document lying before them, and awaiting the messenger's return from the sheriff's office, Mr. Runnington and Mr. Aubrey conversed together anxiously on the subject of Messrs. Quirk, Gammon, and Snap's bill. Mr. Aubrey was sufficiently acquainted with the general course of practice to be aware, that beyond requiring him to put in bail to the action, (special bail, as it was called,) no effectual step could be taken against him for several months to come; i.e. till Michaelmas term in the ensuing November,[7] however eager and active the plaintiffs might be: so that he had an interval of at least four months, in which, as the phrase is, "to turn himself about," and endeavor to discover some mode of extricating himself from his present serious dilemma. After reminding Mr. Aubrey that neither a peer of the realm, nor a member of Parliament, nor an attorney,[8] could become bail for him, Mr. Runnington requested the names of two or three confidential friends to whom he might apply to become security for Mr. Aubrey; and as he should be at any time able to exonerate them from liability, by surrendering his person to his creditors, he felt no hesitation in applying to them to perform for him this act of kindness. "By the way," said Mr. Runnington, in the course of their conversation, and with apparent carelessness, "could I say a word or two to you on a little matter of business? And will Mrs. Aubrey excuse us for a moment?" turning towards her. She bowed, and they withdrew for a moment into the adjoining bedroom.

"Put this into your pocket," said Mr. Runnington, taking out the day's newspaper; "and when you have an opportunity, read the account of what took place yesterday in the Court of King's Bench. It startled me not a little, I can tell you; and the reason of my not having been at the office when your messenger arrived was, that I had not returned from Vivian Street, whither, and to the Temple, I had gone in search of you. For Heaven's sake, don't alarm Mrs. Aubrey, or Miss Aubrey; but, if anything occurs to you, do not lose one moment in putting yourself into communication with us. If possible, I will call at Vivian Street this evening." With this they returned to the sitting-room, nothing in their appearance calculated to alarm Mrs. Aubrey, or even attract her attention.

Shortly afterwards Grab entered the room.

"All right, sir!" said he to Mr. Runnington; and added, turning to Mr. Aubrey, "you're no longer in my custody, sir!"

"Oh, Charles! thank God!—Let us not stay another moment!" exclaimed Mrs. Aubrey, joyously starting up, and putting on her bonnet. "Oh, let us get once more into the open street!—the sweet fresh air!—Kate will go wild with joy to see us again—Oh, dear Mr. Runnington! how can we sufficiently thank you?" she added, turning towards him enthusiastically. Within a few minutes' time they had quitted that dismal scene; and were again apparently free. On first stepping into the bright cheering sunlight, and bustling noisy street, it had a wondrous sort of freshness and novelty—to them. Now they were free to go whithersoever they chose!—Oh, blessed Liberty!—let an Englishman lose thee for but an hour, to become aware of thy value!—It seemed to Mr. and Mrs. Aubrey, as if ten times the real interval had elapsed between their entering and quitting the scene of his incarceration. With what exhilarated spirits they hastened homeward! as if a millstone were no longer suspended from their necks. But Mr. Aubrey suddenly bethought himself of the newspaper given him by Mr. Runnington; and it cost him, indeed, a great effort to assume a cheerfulness so foreign to his feelings.

While, however, they are thus walking homeward, intending, in the event of Mrs. Aubrey becoming fatigued, to take a coach, let me, in order to enable the reader to appreciate the paragraph to which Mr. Runnington had called Aubrey's attention, turn for a while from this virtuous and afflicted couple, to trace the leading movements of that master-spirit of evil, Mr. Gammon; for which purpose, it will be necessary to take up our history from the evening of the day in which Mr. Aubrey had called at Mr. Gammon's chambers, to forbid him visiting any longer at Vivian Street. By that time, Mr. Gammon had thoroughly thought out his plan of operations. What had passed between him and Miss Aubrey and her brother, had satisfied him that the time for calling into action all his forces had arrived; and the exact end he proposed to himself was, to plunge Mr. Aubrey at once into apparently inextricable and hopeless difficulty—into total ruin—so as to render them all more accessible to Mr. Gammon's advances, and force Miss Aubrey into entertaining his addresses, as the sole means of effecting her brother's liberation. For this purpose, it would be necessary to make him debtor to so large an amount as would preclude the interference of even the most liberally disposed of his friends. Those might very probably go as far as fifteen hundred pounds on his behalf, who could not be brought to think of twelve thousand pounds—it being borne in mind, that one alone of Mr. Aubrey's friends, Lord De la Zouch, was already liable, on his behalf, to some eleven thousand pounds, which would become payable on the ensuing 24th of January. But the mask was not yet to be thrown off; Gammon resolved to appear the firm friend of Mr. Aubrey to the last; deprecating vehemently, and striving to avert from him, the very proceedings which he was all the while, with secret skill and vigor, urging on against him. He determined, therefore, to recall Titmouse's attention to the two promissory notes for £5,000 each; to pretend reluctance to allow them to be put in suit, and yet give him clearly to understand that he might do so, without fear of giving mortal offence to Mr. Gammon.

At the moment of the reader's being reintroduced to Mr. Gammon, that gentleman was sitting, about nine o'clock in the evening, at his chambers, beside a table, on which were placed a lamp, a number of papers, and coffee. In one hand he held the rough draft of his rent-charge, which had that day been sent to him by Mr. Frankpledge, and he was occasionally making pencil memoranda on the margin as he went along. He would sometimes pause in his task, as if his thoughts wandered to other subjects; his countenance looked harassed, his ample brow seemed laden with anxiety. Certainly, great as was his energy, clear as was his head, and accustomed as he was to the despatch of business of even the most difficult and varied description, all his powers were at that moment taxed to their very uttermost stretch, as a hasty glance round the room would have satisfied the reader. On the sofa lay several piles of loose papers. First, there were the draft briefs—and voluminous they were—which he was now preparing, or rather settling, in the following actions for bribery penalties, coming on for trial at the ensuing Yorkshire assizes:—

All these serious actions were being pushed forward with great vigor, at the instance of Lord De la Zouch, who had, moreover, directed them all to be made special jury causes.

Secondly, a monstrous mass of papers, also lying on the sofa, contained the heterogeneous elements, out of which it required a head as clear as Gammon's to draw up a brief for the defence in a very complicated case of conspiracy—"The King v. Middleton Snake, and Others,"—and which was coming on for trial at the ensuing King's Bench sittings for London; it having been removed, on account of its great difficulty and importance, by certiorari[10] from the Old Bailey. It ought to have been by this time prepared; yet Mr. Gammon had scarcely even looked at the papers, though the credit of their office was at stake, as the case had attracted a large share of public attention.

Thirdly, there were scattered about threatening masses of documents connected with the various joint-stock companies in which Mr. Gammon was concerned, either openly or secretly—either professionally or as a shareholder; the management of many of them requiring infinite vigilance and tact. These matters, however, and many others which had accumulated, till the bare thoughts of them oppressed and distracted him, he had altogether neglected, absorbed as he was by the pursuit of Miss Aubrey, and the consummation of his schemes and purposes respecting Titmouse and the Yatton property. As if all this had not been sufficient occupation for him, there was yet another of a totally different description. He was writing a series of very popular and powerful attacks in the Sunday Flash, upon a certain Tory ex-Minister—in fact, endeavors to write him down—and this with the privity, and even occasional assistance, of one whom Gammon intended, in due time, to make great use of, as soon as his Lordship should have sufficiently committed himself thus, and otherwise; viz. my Lord Blossom and Box. Now, Gammon had for three weeks running disappointed the numerous readers of the Sunday Flash, during which period, also, he had been almost baited to death upon the subject by old Quirk, the chief proprietor of the paper; and that very evening, the odious Viper, its editor, had been there, as it were, writhing and hissing about him till he had given a positive pledge to prepare an article against the ensuing Saturday. All these things put together, were enough for one strong-headed man to bear up against, and Gammon felt very nearly overwhelmed; and the reader will think it very excusable in Mr. Gammon, that he felt such difficulty in commanding his thoughts even to the interesting task of settling the draft of his own rent-charge on the Yatton property. He was not quite satisfied with the way in which Frankpledge had tinkered up the "consideration" shadowed forth in Gammon's instructions, and was just sketching off one compounded of a "certain sum of five thousand pounds of good and lawful money of Great Britain, by the aforesaid Oily Gammon, at or before the execution of these presents, paid to the said Tittlebat Titmouse, and the receipt whereof the said Titmouse thereby acknowledged, and from the same and every part thereof, released and discharged the said Oily Gammon, his heirs, executors, administrators and assigns" (!!!) and also "of the great skill, and exertion, and sacrifices of the said Oily Gammon, for and on behalf of the said Tittlebat Titmouse, in and in respect of the recovery of the Yatton property," &c. &c.

I say he had just finished off this little matter, and was varying one or two of the expressions, when a sharp knock at his door announced the arrival of the intelligent grantor of the aforesaid annuity, Mr. Titmouse himself, whose stylish cab was at that moment standing opposite to the entrance to Thavies' Inn, in Holborn, having brought him direct from the House of Commons, whither, however, he was to return by eleven o'clock, till which time he had paired off, in order to enable him to come and consult Mr. Gammon on one or two important matters. Poor Titmouse had conceived, since his memorable interview with Gammon, formerly related, a violent hatred of Mr. Gammon; but which was almost absorbed in his dread of that gentleman, who had such unlimited power over him. The sudden and serious diminution of his income by Gammon's rent-charge, almost turned his head upside-down, and occasioned a pother in his little bosom, which was all the greater for his being unable to admit any sympathizing friend into his confidence. He had become fidgety and irritable to a degree; his countenance and demeanor troubled and depressed; from all which, the more intimate among his brother senators naturally inferred that he had lost large sums at play, or was harassed by his election expenses; or had quarrelled with his mistress, or been found out by his wife; or been kicked, and dared not call out the aggressor; or that some other such accident as frequently happens to young gentlemen of fashion, had befallen him. Now, to be candid with the reader, Titmouse certainly was getting into rather deep water. Formidable creditors were beginning to look somewhat sternly after him from various quarters; his upholsterer was becoming troublesome; his wine-merchant insisted on at least four hundred pounds on account; Messrs. Jimcrack and Nicknack were surprised at having received no payment for sundry expensive articles of jewelry and vertu. His coach-maker, his tailor, a host of household creditors, were getting very restless; he had a running account of some £600 or £800 at the Gliddington, in respect of his Parliamentary and other dinners at that fashionable establishment; his yacht was a dreadful drain upon him; he had been unfortunate in his sporting speculations; in short, if Gammon had his anxieties, so had Titmouse his. He felt himself getting terribly out at elbows—so much so, that he could no longer give that calm and undivided attention to his Parliamentary duties, which his enlightened constituents had a right to expect at his hands: and in short, the sole occasion of his calling on Gammon, was to see if that gentleman could devise some mode of once more replenishing his empty coffers—a further mortgage on the Yatton property being the exact mode of doing so, which he was about to propose to Gammon. It required some tact, however, as he felt, to broach that subject in the present position of affairs; so he avowed that he had called to see if Mr. Gammon's deeds were ready for signing—as he, Titmouse, was anxious to get it off his mind. Time was very precious with Mr. Gammon; he therefore lost not a moment in plucking aside the thin disguise of Titmouse, and discovering the real object of his visit. Mr. Gammon looked very serious indeed, on hearing the account of Titmouse's prodigal expenditure, and remonstrated with him earnestly, and even authoritatively; but it instantly occurred to him—could there possibly be a better opportunity for broaching the subject of the two promissory notes?

"My dear Titmouse," said he, with great kindness of manner, "notwithstanding all I have felt it my duty to say, I do sincerely wish it were in my power to serve you in this emergency. But we really must spare old Yatton for a little—you've sadly burdened her already;—we shall be killing the goose to get at the golden egg, if we don't mind what we're about!"

"——! But what the devil's to be done, Mr. Gammon? For, 'pon my soul, I'm most particular hard up, and something must be done."

"We must bethink ourselves of our other resources, my dear Titmouse!—let us see"—he paused, with his hand resting on his forehead for a few moments—"Oh! by the way—certainly," he added suddenly—"but no! it's a thousand pities; but my word is pledged."

"Eh? what? does anything strike you, Gammon?—'Pon my life, what is it?" inquired Titmouse, pricking up his ears.

"Why, yes, certainly," replied Gammon, musingly—adding, as if he did not intend Titmouse to hear him, "to be sure, it would put ten thousand—nay, with the interest, nearly eleven"——

"The devil it would! What would? My stars, Mr. Gammon!" exclaimed Titmouse, eagerly—"Do let us know what it is!"

"Why, I was certainly thinking, at the moment," replied Gammon, with a sigh, "of that poor devil Aubrey's two notes for £5,000 a-piece and interest."

Titmouse's face suddenly fell. "Oh Lord! Is that all? Hang the fellow—he's a beggar—squeezed dry—nothing more to be got out of him!" he exclaimed with mingled chagrin and contempt. "A'n't worth powder and shot! Blood from a stone!—won't have anything worth taking this ten years to come!"

"Poor fellow!" quoth Gammon.

"'Pon my soul, Gammon, it's me you may say that of, I rather think!"

"Why," said Gammon, glancing rather keenly at Titmouse, "my first and greatest duty on earth, my dear Titmouse, is to you—to look after, to secure your interests; and candor compels me to say, that, whatever may be my feelings towards that unfortunate person, still, I think, you've only to squeeze him pretty hard, and blood would come from other people. Eh! you understand?"

"By Jove!—Indeed!—No! But would it really? How?—Squeeze away, then, and be——! Please bring an action against the fellow, the first thing in the morning! Put him in jail, and he'll get the money, I'll warrant him! Dem the fellow! why don't he pay his debts? It's devilish hard on me, a'n't it? Didn't I forgive him forty thousand pounds? By the way, I'd forgot there's the other ten thousand that Lord De la Zouch is surety for—when do we touch that?"

"Oh! we've taken a bond for that, which will not fall due before—let me see—the 24th of next January."

"'Pon my soul, what a cursed bore! But can't one do anything with it before then?"

"What! Sue on it before it's due?"

"No—egad! I mean, raise the wind on it. Surely Lord De la Zouch's name is"——

"Whew!" thought Gammon, "that stroke certainly had never occurred to me!—Ay, he's right, the little fool! Old Fang will advance £8,000 or £9,000, or more even—I'll see to it, by Jove!" Then he said aloud—"It may be possible, certainly, my dear Titmouse; but I see very great obstacles in the way."

"Some cussed law point—eh?"

"Yes—but I assure you I will turn my best attention to it," he added; and proceeded to bring back Titmouse to the point at which he had started off. "And speaking of poor Aubrey—it's certainly true that you have been, I may say, extravagantly liberal to him—forbearing beyond example; and I can't think that any one can be expected, when he knows a wave of his hand will put some eleven thousand pounds into his pocket, to stand by idle forever! It is not in human nature"——

"No; 'pon my life it isn't," quoth Titmouse, with a puzzled air, quite unable to make out whether Gammon intended to favor or discourage the notion of immediately proceeding against Aubrey; which Gammon observing, he continued—"At all events I should say, that if you consider that your own necessities"—

"Demme! I should think so!" interposed Titmouse.

"Required it—and, as you very properly observed, you are the best judge; certainly"——he paused; surely—thought he—Titmouse now saw his drift!

"Yes—'pon my soul!" exclaimed Titmouse.

"Why, in that case, it is only due to myself to say I can be no party to it: I have had to bear enough already that was due to others; and since I have solemnly pledged my word of honor to Mr."——

"What the devil do you mean, Gammon? Cuss me, if I can make you out a bit!" interrupted Titmouse, snappishly.

"You misunderstand me, my dear Titmouse! Once for all, I say, if you want the money, you must immediately sue on these notes; and my opinion is, you'll succeed—only, I must not appear in it, you know! But if you do choose to employ some other solicitor—there's that Mr. Spitfire, for instance—to compel me to give up the notes."

"Oh Lord! Honor! No, no!—So bless me Heaven! I didn't mean anything of the kind," cried Titmouse, alarmedly, fearful of offending Gammon, who could scarcely conceal his impatience and disgust at the stupidity of Titmouse.

"I cannot make you understand me, Titmouse! What I mean is, it is my duty not to let my feelings interfere with your interests. I now, therefore, recommend you—since you have suggested the thing—immediately to put yourself into the hands—as far as this little business is concerned—of some other solicitor, say Mr. Spitfire, in Scorpion Court; and whatever he advises you to do—do without hesitation. You will probably tell him that, if he demands the two notes on your behalf, I may, for form's sake, resist: but I know I shall be ordered to give them up! Well—I can't help it!"

"Honor now, Gammon! May I do as I like?" inquired Titmouse, stupidly.

"Honor!"

"And you won't be angry? Not a bit! eh?"

"On my sacred word of honor!" replied Gammon, solemnly, placing his hand on his breast.

"Then fire away, Flannagan!" cried Titmouse, joyfully snapping his fingers. "By Jove, here goes! Here's for a jolly squeeze! Aha! Ten thousand drops of blood!—by Jove, he'll bleed to death! But, by the way, what will Mr. Quirk say?"

"Curse Mr. Quirk!" cried Gammon, impatiently; "you know the course you are to pursue—you are your own master, surely? What has Mr. Quirk to do with you, when I allow you to act in this way?"

"To be sure! Well! here's a go! Wasn't it a lucky thought of mine to come here to-night? But don't you forget the other ten thousand—the two make twenty thousand, by Jove! I'm set up again—aha! And as soon as ever the House is up, if I don't cut away in my span-new yacht, with a lot of jolly chaps, to the East Indies, or some other place that'll take us a good six weeks, or so, to go and come back in. Hollo! Is that eleven o'clock striking?" he inquired with a start, taking out his watch; "It is, by Jove! and my pair's up; they'll be dividing—I'm off! Good-night."

"You remember where Mr. Spitfire lives'!" said Gammon, anxiously. "In Scorpion Court, Strand. I must say he's one of the most respectable men in the profession; and so quick!"

"Ah—I remember! I'll be with him the moment after breakfast!" replied Titmouse: Gammon shook him by the hand—feeling, when he had shut both his doors, as if he had been playing with an ape. "Oh, thou indefinable and undiscoverable principle regulating human affairs!" thought he, falling into a revery, a bitter scowl settling on his strongly-marked features; "of what nature soever thou art, and if any such there really be, what conceivable purpose canst thou have had in view in placing this execrable idiot and ME, in our relative positions?" He pursued this line of reflection for some time, till he had got into a far more melancholy and misanthropical humor than he had ever before fallen into—till, recollecting himself, and with a deep sigh, he rang for a fresh supply of coffee from his drowsy laundress; and then exerted himself vigorously till nearly five o'clock in the morning, at which hour he sank, exhausted, into bed.

During the ensuing day, sure enough, he received a communication signed "Simeon Spitfire," and dated from "Scorpion Court," informing him that its respectable writer "was instructed to apply to him, on the part of Mr. Titmouse, for the immediate delivery up of two promissory notes for £5,000 each, given by one Charles Aubrey to the aforesaid Titmouse," and "begging Mr. Gammon's immediate attention thereto." Gammon instantly copied out and sent an answer which he had carefully prepared beforehand—taking very high ground indeed, but slipping in, with a careful inadvertence, an encouraging admission of the strict legal right of Mr. Spitfire's client. 'T was, in short, a charming letter—showing its writer to be one of the most fastidiously high-minded men living; but producing not the least favorable effect upon the mind of Mr. Spitfire, who instantly forwarded a formal and peremptory demand of the two documents in question. Gammon wrote a second letter, alluding to an unguarded (!) admission made in his former communication, which he most devoutly hoped would not be used against him; and in terms of touching and energetic eloquence, reasserted that, though the letter of the law might be against him, he conceived that, in point of honor, and indeed of justice, he was warranted in adhering to the solemn promise which he had made to a gentleman for whom he entertained the most profound respect; and, in short, he flatly refused to give up the instruments demanded! Irrepressible was the exultation of Mr. Spitfire, on finding himself getting so much the better of so astute a person as Mr. Gammon! and he took an opportunity of showing to every one who came to his little office, how Mr. Gammon had laid himself open to the superior tactics of him—the aforesaid Mr. Spitfire!—He then, with profound astuteness, wrote a fine flourishing letter to wind up the correspondence, and stick into an affidavit; in the course of which he apprised Mr. Gammon that the Court of King's Bench would be immediately applied to, for a rule calling upon him, forthwith, to deliver up the documents in question. On this, Mr. Gammon drew up an imposing and admirable affidavit, setting forth all the correspondence; and, as soon as he had been served with the rule nisi, he instructed Sir Charles Wolstenholme, (the late Attorney-General,) Mr. Sterling, and Mr. Crystal, to "show cause" against it; knowing, of course, quite as well as did counsel, with whom he did not think it necessary to hold a consultation, (for fear they should press him to give up the promissory notes without showing cause,) that there was no earthly chance of successfully resisting the rule.—When he took his seat under Sir Charles, just before that learned person rose to show cause, he touched Mr. Gammon on the shoulder, and very warmly complimented him on the highly honorable and friendly feeling which he had manifested towards the unfortunate Mr. Aubrey; but "feared that the case, as far as the legal merits went, was too plain for argument;—but he had looked with unusual care over the affidavits on which the rule had been obtained, and at the form of the rule itself—and rejoiced to say he felt confident that he should be able to discharge it with costs:"—at which Mr. Gammon turned suddenly pale—with joyous surprise, as Sir Charles imagined—he not knowing Gammon so well as we do!—The reader is now in a position to appreciate the following report of what took place—and (inter nos) which said report had been drawn up for the Morning Growl, by Mr. Gammon himself.

Court of King's Bench. Yesterday.

(Sittings in Banco.)

Ex parte Titmouse.

"This was a rule, obtained by Mr. Subtle on a previous day of the term, calling upon Mr. Gammon, of the firm of Quirk, Gammon, and Snap, of Saffron Hill, Hatton Garden, to show cause why he should not forthwith deliver up to Mr. Titmouse, M. P. for Yatton, two promissory notes, each for the payment, on demand to that gentleman, of £5,000, with interest, by Charles Aubrey. Sir Charles Wolstenholme, Mr. Sterling, and Mr. Crystal, now appeared to show cause—and took a preliminary objection to the form of the rule. After a very long discussion, the Court decided that the rule might be moulded so as to meet the facts of the case, and directed cause to be shown on the merits.

"From the affidavits filed in answer to the rule, it appeared that, shortly after the termination of the late important case of Doe dem. Titmouse v. Jolter, (in which, it will be recollected, the lessor of the plaintiff succeeded in establishing his right to very large estates in Yorkshire,) Mr. Gammon had been very active in endeavoring to effect an amicable arrangement concerning the mesne profits; and, after great exertions, had persuaded his client Mr. Titmouse to enter into an arrangement highly advantageous to Mr. Aubrey—who was to be released, (as we understood,) from no less a sum than Sixty Thousand Pounds, due in respect of the mesne profits, on giving the two promissory notes which were the subject of the present application. It further appeared, that on obtaining Mr. Aubrey's signature to these promissory notes, Mr. Gammon had explicitly and repeatedly assured him that he need be under no apprehension of being called on for payment for several years; but that the notes should remain in the hands of Mr. Gammon, and should not be put in suit till after a twelvemonth's notice should have been given to Mr. Aubrey. It did not distinctly appear whether Mr. Titmouse was ever made aware of this understanding between Mr. Gammon and Mr. Aubrey—at all events, nothing had ever passed in writing upon the subject. Mr. Gammon, on the contrary, frankly admitted it to be possible that Mr. Titmouse might have been under the impression, while surrendering so great a claim against Mr. Aubrey, that the sum secured by the two promissory notes was to have been before this time liquidated. There was no affidavit made on the subject by Mr. Aubrey. It also appeared that Mr. Titmouse had not hitherto received any portion of the large amount, £20,000, yet due in respect of the mesne profits.

The affidavits read by the Attorney-General set forth a correspondence which had taken place between Mr. Titmouse's solicitor and Mr. Gammon, in which the latter insisted, in the most strenuous terms, upon the honorable engagement under which he conceived himself to be to Mr. Aubrey, and solemnly declared his belief that Mr. Aubrey was under a similar impression; at the same time, there were expressions in Mr. Gammon's letters, from which it was plain that he was aware of the right, in point of strict law, of Mr. Titmouse, to the documents in question. It also appeared from the affidavits of Mr. Titmouse, and was not denied by those of Mr. Gammon, that the former had repeatedly urged the latter to deliver up the notes, or commence proceedings against Mr. Aubrey—but that Mr. Gammon had, on all such occasions previous to the present one, succeeded in dissuading him from his purpose. It had, moreover, been alleged on behalf of Mr. Titmouse, that Mr. Gammon was acting in collusion with Mr. Aubrey to defeat the just claim of Mr. Titmouse; but this Sir Charles Wolstenholme indignantly disclaimed on the part of Mr. Gammon, whose conduct throughout showed the nicest sense of honor, and the utmost possible anxiety to interfere between an unfortunate gentleman and utter ruin. But,

"The Court, without calling on Mr. Subtle, (with whom were Mr. Goose and Mr. Mud,) said the rule must clearly be made absolute. The legal right of Mr. Titmouse to the notes was admitted by Mr. Gammon's own affidavit; and there was no pretence for holding that, as against Mr. Titmouse, Mr. Gammon, who was only one of that gentleman's attorneys, had any right to withhold the documents in question. No authority from Mr. Titmouse to Mr. Gammon to make the alleged representations to Mr. Aubrey, had been shown, and consequently that gentleman could in no way be bound by them. He was not even shown to have been aware of them. It was not pretended that Mr. Gammon, or any of his partners, had any lien on the notes, which must be therefore given up to Mr. Titmouse. With respect to the imputation against Mr. Gammon, of being in collusion with Mr. Aubrey, Lord Widdrington added, that from what his Lordship himself knew of Mr. Aubrey, it was impossible for a moment to imagine him capable of anything inconsistent with the strictest honor; and that Mr. Gammon's conduct showed that, though mistaken as to the extent of his power over the notes intrusted to him, he had acted from the purest motives, and evinced an honorable anxiety to serve the interests of one whom he believed to be unfortunate.—The rule was then made absolute; but on Mr. Subtle applying for the costs, the remainder of the day was occupied in an elaborate discussion upon the question—which, however, was eventually referred to the Master."

Nor was this all. The intelligent editor of the Morning Growl, happening to cast his eye over the above, while lying in proofs, made it the subject of an eloquent leading article, in which were contained many just and striking reflections on the continual inconsistency between law (as administered in England) and justice—of which the present—he said—was a glaring instance. It was truly lamentable—it seemed—to find truth and honor, generosity and justice, all sacrificed to the wretched technicalities, the petty quirks and quibbles, of the law—which required a radical reform. Indeed, the whole system of our jurisprudence called for the most searching revision, which, he hoped, would ere long take place. Then followed some powerful animadversions upon the conduct of Lord Widdrington, in giving effect to such pettifogging subterfuges as had that day served plainly to defeat the ends of justice; and the article concluded by calling upon us Lordship to resign his seat on the bench! and make way for a more liberal and enlightened successor, who would decide every case that came before him, according to the dictates of natural equity and common sense, without being trammelled by such considerations as at present fettered and impeded the due administration of justice. It did so happen, inter nos, that this same incompetent Lord Widdrington had called down upon himself and his court the foregoing philippic, by having imposed a smart fine upon the publisher of the Morning Growl, and super-added a twelvemonth's imprisonment, for an execrable libel upon an amiable and dignified ecclesiastic; and this, too, his Lordship had done, after overruling an almost interminable series of frivolous and vexatious technical objections to the proceedings, urged by the defendant's counsel, in conformity with the instructions which he had received, to take every possible advantage.