“Happy! No, Bill, I never shall know happiness again. I have been weak and ill of late. I’m dying, Bill, and I know it. Before you will dare to return here, I shall be laid, in the parish shell, cold enough in the grave of a pauper. Do you remember the little cottage near the Downs? Ah! those were my happy days. Then I was innocent, but you—but I wont speak of that, dearest, for I would not distress you.”
“Nay, Bess, compose yourself—”
“In the sleep of death? There is no other composure for me. You are going, and the strings of my heart snap as I look upon you for the last time. Oh! through misery and crime, Bill—and we have been miserable and criminal—I have loved you, dearer than the light of heaven! But, dearest, if you do escape and return, quit this awful life, for the sake of her whom you once vowed never to abandon—quit this den of villainy, and for God’s sake, oh, never enter it again!”
The tears gushed from my eyes at this appeal, and my whole frame was shaken.
“I promise—I swear it,” whispered I.
“Thank you, dearest. Take this little ring. You know its history. And now, for the last time, this kiss. Farewell!”
Her head sunk upon her breast. Bestowing an embrace upon her, I darted from her side, and sprang up the steps of the cellar. At the foot I paused for a moment. Bess had hidden her face in her lap, and the heaving of her breast, plainly perceptible through its thin covering, testified the agony of her spirit.
The labyrinths of the dark and dingy by-streets seemed familiar to me as the interior of my own house. In fact, I was becoming rapidly identified with the character, as well as with the person of the burglar. But as I sped on, the recollection of my former condition was forcibly recalled, as I came upon a tailor’s shop, ostentatiously placed at the corner of a well lighted street. The view of that shop acted as a talisman. It recalled me to a due sense, and to a most painful recollection of the transactions of the preceding night, and of my rencontre in Hyde Park with the usurper of my rights. I recollected perfectly well that I had received an invitation to a grand gala at Lord Flannery’s for this evening, of which I doubted not for an instant that my representative would avail himself. Julia, I also knew, had promised to be there. Curiosity, no less than jealousy, spurred me on. I felt a strong desire to see in what manner and to what advantage I should appear. I determined to make my way to his lordship’s, forgetting that if the police laid eyes upon me, I should dangle most loftily from the front of Newgate or the Old Bailey.
Onward I strode until I reached Grosvenor Square, from near which point I had started on my morning peregrinations. It was past eleven o’clock. I stationed myself in front of Lord Flannery’s mansion, where the glow of lights, crowds of liveried menials, and the sound of music indicated the commencement of the rout. Equipage after equipage rolled up, and depositing their inmates at the door, drove off in rapid succession. Crowds of fashionables swarmed the apartments. I waited for Julia’s arrival until my patience was nearly exhausted, and I was upon the point of giving the matter up in despair, when a magnificent turn-out drove up to the door, and Flashington Highflyer, Esquire, descended from the vehicle, attired in a most recherché evening dress, and handed out—proh pudor!—the Honorable Miss Julia Adeliza Dashleigh!
I was petrified with astonishment. There was the figure which had excited her laughter but the previous night, and which was evidently the present object of her favorable regard. As the pair passed me, the light from the hall shone strongly upon my features. My representative gave me, en passant, a most facetious dig in the small ribs with his elbow, and suddenly clapping his hands upon his pockets, exclaimed,