Chapter 27277771

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Chapter NumberXLIV -XlVII
Chapter Title
Chapter Urlhttp://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article27277771
Full Date1873-09-27
Page Number7
Corrections0
Word Count8451
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Last Corrected0000-00-00
Newspaper TitleThe Queenslander (Brisbane, Qld. : 1866 - 1939)
Trove TitleA Lost Life
article text

The Storyteller.

A LOST LIFE.

CHAPTER XLIV.

"NELLY, my good girl,you are a laggard this morning. I have rung twice," were the words Marion Rochester addressed to her maid, Nelly Warren, the morning after Vivian's examination

before a magistrate. " What detained jou P" " Indeed, ma'am, I am sorry I didn't hear your first bell, bat I was reading the 7imea. n " The Times /" laid her mistress, half smiling. " And what were you reading ?" " The account, ma'am, of the examination of Vivian and " " Ah," said Marion, quickly, "lam going to Lidy Egerton's. How did it end ?" "He is committed for trial, ma'am ; but he mad* a queer defence—what they call an alibi. His lawyer said that he could prove that Vivian was at the other end of the town at the hour the murder was committed, which was done exactly at 12 o'clock—so Lady Egerton said." "How did the others try and prove the aKbir asked Marion. " Why, ma'am, they said that he was lodging at • house near St. Catherine's Church (hard by where we used to live), in Kent Town, and that it atruok 12 as he came in; but I remember, and bo do mother and father, that that dock was slow that night, aad what's more, ma'am, a gentleman was lodging with us, named Everard, a gunsmith, and lie proved by his watch that the dock was wrong. I remember that night particularly, because a servant left us very sud denly that morning." "Your father and Mr Everard?" repeated Mrs Rochester; "and can you swear to all this?" " Yes, ma'am j is it evidence ?" " I think so. Give me your father's address, Felly." "Lady Egerton knows it, ma'am. Tou know she was at father's nearly two yean ago, when she was stabbed by this very man." "Very well," said Mrs Bochester; "I re member that she was there. Get me my bonnet and shawl, Nelly, for the sooner they know of this the better." And while the busy hum and whirl of life went on without, Arthur Vivian—the handsome Arthur Vivian, sat alone—a prisoner within the gloomy walls of Newgate; alone with his dark atheism and remorse, and black load of guilt. He had refused to see his father or wife, resisting all their entreaties. He had enough of remorse and shame to shrink from meeting those he had so wronged. And so he sat there •waiting his trial, which was to come on in the second week of April. It was now foar months since Louis St. John had returned to England. His love for Inex had died—passed away " as a tale that is told;" M he himself said to his mother, he could not lore another man's wife; but it had left a void, a blank in his heart. So he felt when he re turned to England with his regiment, and again met Margaret Arundel in the houae of Angelo Egerton. In person, in character, in everything, Mar garet was a direct contrast to tho Spaniard, and this very contrast and difference was the first thing which attracted St. John to her; it was a relief, but withal he was somewhat surprised to find that gradually her sweet fair face was con stantly in his thoughts and memory. Uncon sciously she had wound herself round his heart, and if his affection for her was not the same passionate love he had borne Inez, it was firmer, deeper, stronger, and lasting. And so one day he told Margaret how he loved her; he concealed nothing, but honorably told her all, and then he learned how long and faith fully she had loved him. Once again Louis St. John stood before Angelo Egerton, and asked him for a bride; and this time there was no shadow on that handsome face as ho placed her hand in Louis', and 89 id with his beautiful smile, " Take her, •Id friend, as a priceless treasure, for a true hearted woman is God's own gift."

Ohaptbs XLV, Kitzb, perhaps, had the Central Criminal Court been more crowded than it was on the 12th April, 18—; and that not merely with " the rulgar herd," bat peers, and peeresses, and many M.P.'s had not disdained to show themselrei there. Tho lqngth of time elapsing between the murder and the arrest of the ac cused man, the strange circumstances of the whole thing, including the important history of the portrait, which had been the means of his capture, and aboTe all, the high rank and fame of those most nearly conoerned—one a states man of fame and a minister, and Julian Rothe say, the artist of the portrait—all these things had made the trial of Arthur Vivian an excit ing one. Long before it was called on yoo might have •een, in a distant corner, where they could see without being noticed, a gray-haired man in clerical dress, and a young lady with a child in her arms. No one noticed them, and no one guessed who they were. Sir Henry Seton, tho attorney-general, with an eminent criminal law counsel, had been re tained for the prosecution, and for the prisoner were retained men of almost equal eminence, Mr Beresford, Q.C.,and his junior, Mr Hargrave. Hugh Bertram saw them come in beforo tho case was called, and he noticed too that nearly all those he had met at Falcontower Castle were there already—the St. Johns, and Walter Surrey, and Mrs Bochestor, with a gentleman whom he rightly guessed to bo hor husband. Then he saw a venerable looking old gentleman enter, leaning on the arm cf a youug girl iv black, whom be recognised as the Miss Herbert be had met in the north. They passed on and spoke to Mrs Bechoster, who placed the old man beside her; and while the roctor was watching them a murmur near tho door raado him turn to see Angelo Egertou como in with hu young wife and Margaret Aruurlol, followed by Julian and label Bothesay. They passed q-.ktly through the crowd and took their places with iho re^t, near tbeir solicitor and counsel, and thei r witnessed, who were seven in number—old Mr Eyerard, the gunsmith ; a Mr Morley, a well known London clockmaker; his foreman ; Sam Warren and his wife ; and a Brightstone boat man; and the surgeon who attended Inez. On the opposite side were only Vivian's solicitor, and four witnesses, whom it will be better to name iv their turn as they appear. A few more momenta and then the long expected triil w:is called on, and the next minute Arthur Viviau appeared, his slight, elegant figure erect, and hid gleaming black eyes and handsomo countenance hard and set in all its dark and evil beauty boldly facing them all, so liko the portrait (which thousands had been to see since his examination) that a risible

effect was produced. A murmur arose which was instantly repressed; the indictment was read; and the question how the prisoner pleaded, asked. There was a dead silence. Vivian leaned slightly forward, glanced round, and answered clearly and deliberately, " Not guilty!" As the words passed his lips, his eyes met Inez Egerton's fixed on him with that watchful steady gaze he remembered so well, and dreaded even now so much, and be turned aside with a fiercely muttered curse; but the voice of the Attorney-general made him look up again. " I appear, my lord, for the prosecution." Then the case fairly commenced by the Attorney-general opening it in a very concise speech, stating all the facts. Ho said that nearly ten years and a half be fore, in the August of the year 18—, the de ceased, Jesuita-Maria Lady Egerton, went to Brightstone with her son and his ward, Inez de Caldara, then six years of age; and Sir Angelo took a house at the corner of Brunswick-terrace, almost opposite to the Catholio chapel of Our Lady in Walter-street, into which street he begged it to be remembered the window of the deceased lady's bed-chamber looked; also that an agile person couid ascend or descend from it to the street by means of stuccoed facings, whioh were up the house and close to the win dow. The child was accustomed to sleep in Lady Egerton's own room, in a crib in the corner near the bed; and on the night of the 21st of September she (the little girl) was put to bed as usual. Lady Egerton and her son had been that evening to an evening ooncert, but they returned home before eleven. Sir Angelo remained in his study, reading; but his mother, the deceased, went to bed j and being tired, she did not put away the jewels she had on, but merely placed them in their oasket, and left them on an ottoman close to the widow. The jewels, the learned oounoil said, should be produoed. The child, Inei de Caldara, was awakened by a shriek and the report of a pistol, and sle distinctly saw a man escaping out of the window. Sir Angelo also heard the report, and subse quently the bullet was extracted from the body of the deceased. Beneath the window a man, an Italian named Giulio Doria, was seize J, and at the same time the dock of St. Mary's struck twelve. He wished to call particular attention to that fact. In the hand of the prisoner was found a pistol, evidently having been just fired, and in his pooket was found its fellow j the bullet fitted both; but the jewels stolen were not on him; though, as the policeman had noticed a man running away, he supposed him to be an accomplice. Doria said that he had been passing; that as he came up he saw a man run round the corner, and that he saw the pistol on tho ground, and had just pioked it up, when a cry of "Murder!" was raised and he wai seized, but he refused to give an account of him self at all, and was arrested for the murder. But Sir Angelo, for private reasons, believed him innooent; and the child, his ward, positively and persistently swore that Doria was not the murderer. However, he was committed, though all attempts to trace the man seen flying failed. Doria contrived to escape from prison, and was never retaken. " And now, my lord and gentlemen of the jury," said the attorney-general, " I am coming to the prisoner. Eight years passed, Sir Angelo and his ward remaining convinced that the murderer was still at large. Last January two years, Lady Egerton, then Miss de Caldara (and with the lady's permission I will so call her for the present), was sent to school at a place called Yellowfield, and there she met a Miss Margaret Arundel, with whom she formed a dose friendship. So firmly were the features of the man she had seen imprinted on her mind that, one day, Miss de Caldara drew his face from memory in crayons. Miss Arundel saw it, and remarked that it was exactly like her guardian's nephew, Arthur Vivian, and then Miss de Caldara arranged with her friend that she was to spend the holidays with her at her guardian's house, Forest Moor Grange. When there she discovered, concealed in a column of an old cloister on the premises, the jewels that had been stolen, and she also convinced herself that the Arthur Vivian she met there was the murderer she had seen eight years before. I may further add that when the prisoner found she had taken the jewels he stabbed her, left her for dead, and fled. The stiletto he used is now in court, and it is remarkable that the deceased lady Egerton was, before being shot, stabbed, and the wound pronounced by the physician to bo that made by a stiletto. I shall presently show the court that one of the pistols was sold to the prisoner, the other to a gentleman who, on the 21st of September, was passing for an Italian, for reasons he will explain. The de fence, I believe, is an alibi, but I shall show the court that the clock of St. Mary's was right to London time, and that of St. Catherine's ten minutes slow. I shall now proceed to produce ray proofs, and the first witneEs I call is Lady Egerton." Inez rose immediately, colorless as a beauti ful marble statue, but as calm and still. She had gone through too much to be unnerved by the hundroda of eyes fixed upon her, and even the counsel for the defence, experienced as ho was in brow-beating witnesses, glanced at her a* she was sworn, and whispered to his solicitor, "I am afraid she will not be shaken. Look at her face." "Do your best," said the solicitor. " Hush now." The attorney-general was Bpeaking. 11 Your name is Inez Egerton ?" II It is." "And you were formerly the ward of Sir Sir Angelo Egerton ?" " I wob from the age of five years old, when he brought me over from Spain." " What was your maiden name ?" " Caldara—lnez de Caldara." " Now, Lady Egertoc, how far back can you remember minute events or things ?" 111 can remember things that occurred in Spain when I was four years old. I can recol lect my father's confessor, whom I left at five years of age, so well that, a few years ago, when in Madrid, I recognised him as he passed the window." "Do you remember anything that happened in any particular year ?" *' Yes, I remember going to Brightstone in the August ef 18—, with my guarJian and my cousin Jesuita, the deceased." " Were you in Brightstone on the 21st of September ?" « Yes." "Do you recollect anything that occuredthat night ?" " Certainly." " State what you remember." " I remember," said Inez, and her voice throughout, though low and soft, was heard in the farthest corner as dear and dutinot as

a bell, "I remember that that evening Sir Angelo Egerton and his mother were out at a concert. I was put to bed as usual at half-past 8, and I went to sleep. I was awoke by a shriek and a loud report, and I rose up in bed, and distinctly s.aw a man escaping through the wind.w." " Did you see his face ?" " Yes. He looked back into the room, and I saw him as plainly as I now see his lordship or any one else here." " Now, Lady Egerton, look round and say whether you see that man." Inez raised her dark eyes, and her steady un flinching glance went straight to Vivian, who shivered beneath it as if that look withered him. " The prisoner is the man I saw that night," she said, calmly and firmly. "Are you sure?" " Positive." " Now look at this drawing"—he produced the crayon—" it bears date Jnne 27th, 18—, and is tinned Inez Jesuita Maria de Caldara, and a witness, Margaret Arundel. Is the first your name ?" " Yes—lnez Jesuita Maria are my Christian names." "It is written here that you drew it. Is that so?" " Yes. I drew it at school one half holiday. I did it before I ever again saw the man I had seen on the 2lßt of September escaping." " Did the lady whose name is here signed see you draw it ?" "Yes; and it was Margaret Arundel who told me it was her guardian's nephew, Arthur Vivian; and then I arranged with her to spend the holidays with her at Forest Moor, she en* gaging that his wife, Eveline (who has since died), should ask me; then I went." " When did you go to Forest Moor ?" asked the attorney-general, after a pause, during which the orayon was handed up to the bench and the jury. " I went down on the 17th of August," an swered Inez; "my husband's solioitor, Mr Sey mour, can prove that, for he took me down to the station, and put me into Mrs Vivian's brougham." I " What did you do there, at Forest Moor ?" " I tried to find the stolen jewels, whioh I was convinced Arthur Vivian had in his posses sion, because they were too marked to be safely parted with. I searched everywhere in vain, till one night, after I had been there six weeks, I found them concealed at the top of a column of the cloisters, and I sent them in the morning to town to my guardian." " What happened that day ?" I "The evening of that day I went to the bridge near the station to wait for the train. It was getting dusk when the prisoner came up to me there; and, after some words, charged me with falseness. He said,' You have taken a box from the cloisters;' and when I acknow ledged it, he drew a stiletto, and stabbed me." "And what then?" " I know no more { the wound was nearly fatal." " That will do for the present." The judge leaned forwards, and asked, " Are these jowels, and the stiletto, and pistols in courtP" " Yes, my lord," answered Sir Henry, hand ing them up. "Mr Beresford, do you cross examine ?" " Yes, Sir Henry;" and Beresford rose. " Lady Egerton, how old were you at the time of the murder ?" " I was just six years old." " Very young to remember so very distinctly," said Beresford, with a sneer. " Perhaps, Lady Egerton, you can also remember how it was that being in a crib in the corner, you could see the window ?" " Certainly I can explain ; and if words are not plain enough, I can in a minute give you a Bketch of the room, to the accuracy of whioh my husband can swear." " Explain it, then, if you please." "It is very simple. Lady Egerton's bed was co placed that the foot was to the window, and my little crib was in the corner to the left of the bed, looking from the window, so that by' raising myself even a little the whole of the window was plainly and broadly visible." "I think, Mr Beresford," interposed the judge, mildly, " that the witness has very dearly explained that point." Beresford bowed, and turned again to Inez. " You stated, I think, that the man you say you saw looked back, and that you saw his face —now, how could yon see him at night ?" "I suppose," said Inez, with quiet irony, " that Mr Beresford has heard of such a thing as a light in a bed-chamber at night, especially where children come in question. There was a lamp in the room." Beresford bit his lip, but went on. " Were you awoke suddenly ?" " Certainly." " Then you awoke, of course, in great agita tion and alarm, perhaps not thoroughly awake at first ?" " On the contrary, I was broad awake at once, and saw the man glaring in, though he did not see me. The whole circumstances were calcu lated to engrave that face indelibly on my mind, and that crayon is the best proof that they did so." " Now we come to that very crayon," said Beresford; " how was it that, if your memory was so very clear, you did not draw a likeness before ?" " Simply because, till the period at which I did do it, my knowledge of drawing wa9 insuffi cient to the task. It is more difficult to draw a likenes from memory than with an original be fore you." "Especially when such a very long time has passed eince the original was seen," said the counsel, with another sneer. The judge- here interposed in the same gentle, courteous manner. •' Lady Egerton, think well before you answer mo. Are you sure that you have nowhere seen the face you have drawn except in the Septem tember of 18—, or between that date and the August cf 18— ?" "Nowhere, my lord. I saw his fa?e that September night, and I never saw it again till I went to Forest Moor. Of this point lam positive." Beresford began to lose all hope of confusing tho clear-headed witness bo had got hold of, but ho made another attempt to throw doubt on her evidence by baring the deception she had practised. Lady Egerton, did you go to Forest Moor under your own name ?" I did not. I assumed that of Jesuita della Castro." " Then you went under fals.e colors, and baring regularly concooted a scheme of decep tion?" " I did," ehe replied, emphatically.

" In fact," added the counsel, ** you, a Spanish lady of birth, acted the part of • detective.** " Just m>, if you like to call it to," said Inez, with imperturbable ooolness. " That will do," said Beretford, giving it op at hopeless, and Inez, with a secret smile at hit baffled look, returned to her place, at any rate for tbe present, and Margaret Arnndel was called. She gave her evidence calmly and con sistently, nor could any cross-examining shake her, though Beretford tried to show that tbe jewels might have been in Inez de Oaldara's possession when she went to Forest Moor, but he failed of course. She said positively that the jewels were not in Inez de Caldara's posses* sion when she came to Forest Moor, for she had herself unpacked all her luggage. As Margaret's evidence was only in the main to confirm Inez's evidence, we will not give it at length. Egerton was next called. " I have only a few questions to ask you, Sir Angelo," said the attorney-general. "Do you recollect when your wife, then only your ward, finally left school?" "Yes, in the summer of 18-*-, nearly two years ago." " Do you remember the precise date you fetched her ?" " I did not fetch her myself. I was then in the ministry, and could not leave town. My friend, Mrs. Rochester, kindly fetched home my : ward when she fetched her own daughter." " And do you remember the exact date P" "I do not. I think it was on the 29th of June; but lam certain that she was at home on the 2nd of July, because that night I took her down to the House to hear a debate. I got her a Speaker's order, the date of whioh is July 2." " You are sure of that f " Quite." " Now, Sir Angelo, when did you first tee this crayon P" " It must have been on the Ist of July." •• Why on that day ?" "Because I distinctly recollect that my ward showed it to me tbe day before the one I took her to the House of Commons.** " And when did your ward leave you to ge to Forest Moor?" "Early on the 17th of August." "Then you saw the crayon drawing before she went to Forest Moor ?" " Most certainly," was the decided answer. "I will not trouble you any farther. Do you cross-examine, Mr Beresford ?** added Sir Henry, turning blandly to bis opponent. «' No, Sir Henry." " The next witness I call, my lord, is Mr Bothesay." The artist rose, took the oath, and entered the witness-box.** " Your name," began Bir Henry Seton, " is Julian Bothesay." " No!" was the startling and unexpected re ply. " I have for many years passed by the name of Bothesay, but my real name is Julian D'Arcy, of Friar's Lea." The counsel looked surprised, but bowed, and went on. " Do you recollect where you were on the 21st of September, 18— ?" " I was in Brightstone." "Why were you there then—did you live there?" " No; I was there that day to settle some affairs for an old friend whioh required secresy, and were of a nature that made me wish not to use or act in my own name, and I assumed for the time the name of Doria, with a correspond ing disguise." " Had you any weapon upon you any time that day or night ?" " Yes; before I left; London I bought a pistol of Pistoia manufacture, of Mr Everard, of Bond street. I had that upon me on the 21st of Sep tember." " Did yon buy only one pistol, or the pair?" " Only one ; its fellow had been sold." " Can you remember where you were some where about midnight of that 21st of Septem ber?" 11 Yes ; I was passing down Water street. I had entered it through an alley opening by the Catholic chapel, and as I emerged I saw a man run round the corner. That was just as Bt. Mary's clock was striking 12. I crossed, and as I did so I saw on the pavement, under the win dow of the corner house, a pistol lying. I picked it up, and was surprised to find it hot, and the exact fellow to my own. At that mo ment a cry of murder was raited, and I was seized." "Do you remember what followed? I don't mean details." "I was examined before a magistrate, and committed for trial, but I escaped from prison and fled abroad. I have been an exile for ten years." "Did you know the deceased lady or her family P" " Yes; my father, Colonel D'Aroy, left me when a child in the care of Sir Beginald Eger* ton, and at the time of Lady Egerton's death I was her son's ward." " Mr D'Arcy," said the foreman of the jury, " why was it that you fled and lived as an exile instead of taking your trial ?" " Because," said Julian D'Aroy, " I preferred exile to dishonor. I could not clear myself save by betraying my friend and my name, and even then the evidence against me was so very strong that if law hod acquitted me, a stain would have been upon my name." 11 Now, Mr D'Arcy, look at these two pistols," continued Seton, producing them; "you see they are a pair. Can you toll the one you bought from the one you picked up ?" Julian took tbe pistols and examined them carefully and closely. " No, I cannot," he said. " That will do." The othor witnesses called were Mr Everard, who sworo to having sold one pistol to Julian D'Arcy, and its fellow to a person whom he identiCed as the prisoner, in the year and month of the murder; and a clock-maker named Morley, who proved having made the clock of tbe Catholio chapel at Brightstone, and having repaired it shortly before tbe same eventful period. His examination closed tbo prosecu tion, and Mr Beresford rose to reply, while Sir Hoary leaned back in his seat and whispered to Sir Angolo, who was close to him, " They'll make nothing of it, Egerton. I cannot suffi ciently compliment your wife for her steady, unflinhing evidence; indeed,-all our witnesses behaved admirably." Beresford was now opening bis defence, in one of bis brilliant, if not always very logical speeches. He admitted tbe murder, there was no help for that—admitted that it -was com mitted at 12 o'clock by St. Mary's clock ; but he said that it was ten minutes fast, and St. Catherine's right. The-witness, Lady Egerton, who drew the crayon drawing, might have seen the prisoner in a hundred placet, and mistaken

him for the face the saw, or fancied the saw, glare into the room. She was a Spaniard, and the Southerns were confessedly very imaginative. She was at that time a very young ohild, awoke suddenly from sleep, and most likely, in the alarm and horror of the moment, either imagined she saw a face, or if she really saw one, her imagination invested it with character* istics the original never possessed. This address went on to weaken as far as possible tbe weight of the other evidence ad duced; and Mr Beresford then proceeded to call witnesses to prove, if he could, an alibi, by means of the landlord of the prisoner at Brightstone, and a dock-maker, whose evidence he used to show that the exactness of the dock of the Catholic chapel, on which so much de pended, could not fairly be relied on. But, though the counsel did all that man could do for his client, it was plain that he felt himself even that his case was a hopeless one. The defence was concluded, and the attorney* general, in one of his telling and well-argued speeohes, pulled to pieces in detail the evidence for the prisoner, and shortly snmmed up his bis argument as follows :— "Now, therefore, gentlemen of the jury, this is the case you have to consider. Lady Egerton swears positively to the prisoner. His face was so engraved upon her memory that years after she makes a speaking portrait of him, a portrait so exaotly like that from the resemblance alone he was identified. It is said that she might have imagined it from the idea preying on her mind—no doubt she might have imagined a face, but it passes belief that she could have imagined tbe very face, and a face so singularly remark able. Then the stiletto with whioh he attempted to murder Lady Inez Egerton is identified— stilettos are not utual in England, and you have tbe opinion, given long before by the surgeon* that Lady Egerton was stabbed with a fine in strument, like a stiletto, and the opinion given I now that such a weapon as that now produced would have made such a wound as that in flicted on the late Lady Egerton, and you have the pistol found by Mr D'Aroy traced to tbe prisoner. The only shadow of an attempt at defenco is an alibi, and that rests on which j cloak was right. You are asked to believe that a new clock, by the first maker in London, tet twelve hours before the hour in question, had gained ten minutes in that short space off time; instead of believing thut an old clock, by a second-rate maker, set soven days before, had lost ten minutes. If the other evidence was not conolusive you could have no doubt which view to take on this question. But I say that the other evidence is absolutely overwhelming, and I leave tbe matter in your bands, anticipating i that you can find but one verdict." | Sir Henry Beton sat down, and then the judge summed up, with that nice critical bal i ancing of facts and impartiality which does so much honor to the judges of England. He re counted all the evidence, and conduded by say ing that "if the jury thought St. Mary's clock right, they must then consider the other evi dence; but if they thought St. Catherine's clock right, and were satisfied that Gibson and and his wife had made no mistake, then, despite the other evidence, they must acquit the priso ner. If they came to the former conclusion, they must consider the evidence rogarding tho crayon drawing, and whether they believed that Lady Egerton had made it from a distinct re collection, or whether the likeness could be at ; tributed to chance or imagination." The jury retired, and there was silence. Vivian loaned coolly back with apparant care lessness, bat in reality sick and faint with tbe a^ony of suspense—so an hour that was like i years passed, and then the jury re-appeared. The judge asked the usual question, and you might have heard a pin drop as tbe foreman spoke—"Guilty!" A dead, fearful silence for a moment, then— | " Prisoner at the bar, have yon anything to say | why sentence of death shall not be passed upon [you?" "If I have, it is useless," said Vivian, reck lessly. " No, I have nothing to say." Tho judge ealmy assumed the black cap and ! passed sentence of death, concluding in tbe usual manner, " May God have mercy on your soul." Then Vivian turned towards him, with all hi« devilish beauty in bis dark face, and his fierce, dare-devil passions in his lurid black eyes. " God!" said the atheist j " There is no God ! " I answer my judges as Couthon answered his, ! ' After death is nothingness.' "

Chaptkb XLVI. Auoub now, indeed—alone with his dark atheism and hia gloomy remorM, that through all hia evil life had struggled vaguely with tht> deril in him—alone with hia heavy guilt and the weight of the fearful defiance he had hurled against Heaven! There he sat, bending forwards, his head rest on his hands; hia hair—that rich hair, whose beauty had been so fatal to himself—falling orer i his brow, and hia lurid black eyes raised to the barred window with an expression of fierce, reckless defiance, and yet of agonised remorse, that was at once horrible and touching. He did not fear death, because he could not realise that he must die, and so believing that the grave was death, dreading the remorse that he could not crush, be took into his heart the doctrine of , the Stoici—" That Nature has placed the end of life as th 9 summit of her gifts." He did not fear death, but he dired not face eternity—he dared not acknowledge or believe in a Gfod he had defied in every word, thought, and deed of his lost life. But with all that, he feared the night worst of all ; it closed in round him dark and gloomy 1 and heavy. He had a Tague dread of lyin^ down, of sleeping, of the silence. He heard again Jesuita'? dying cry, and saw her beautiful form bathed in her own life's blood. His dreams were haunted by a regretful pale form that was his mother, and yet Eveline, and yet through all had the tender eyes and gentle loving face of the fair Italion wife he had aban doned—abandoned, though she was the only woman for whom he had ever had any real feeling like lovo, as diatinct from the mere pass > ing pasaion of the moment. But with morning the gloomy shades which, to the assassin, had filled the night, vanished* and once more the man was tre desperate hardened atheist, fiercely refusing even to see the ohaplain, saying, "that he had lived without a priest, and would die without a priost!" But presently the gaoler again appeared. It | was visiting time, he said, and there was a lady waiting to see him. The idea of Inez instantly crossed Arthur's mind, and he demanded rapidly, "Is she tall, very dark, and foreign-looking ?" "No," the man answered; " she wasn't tall or dark, but she was foreign. Would he see her and the gentleman with her ?" He knew now who they were—his wife and

father. "No," he Mid, taming hit face away, " I will not tee them, not one!" , But the wm not to be so repulsed; the had followed, and m the gaoler came ont, »he glided past htm $ the door clanged to, and Arthur's wife was at bit feet, her infant in her ami. "Arthur, my husband, have mercy, have pity; it not Genevra your wifeP" pleaded the ?oft, gentle roice. But he turned hit face aside, and stretched out his arm to put her away. "Keep back," he said, and through all the fierce recklessness of tone and gesture there struggled yet a strange glimmering of better feeling. "Keep back; you are a murderer's wife! Do you hear that? My hand is a blood-stained hand. Do not touch it with yours, so pure and stainless. Keep back, Ge» nerra." " I will not keep back," she replied. "I will touch your hand. At the altar I rowed to lore yon and cling to you, in joy and sorrow, till death parted us twain, and I will not be put away in this your heaviest hour of need—l, your wedded wife, and the mother of your child." He started, and shrunk back shivering and covering his face. " Take it away, Genevra. Don't let it tonoh me; my hand would whither it; my very look would blast it as with a living curse. Take it away." " I will not," the said. "Oh, Arthur, it is your own son, your own child, and the touoh, the look of the father cannot harm it." She was kneeling at his feet, and Arthur Bertram turned, laid hit slight hand on her shoulder and gazed into the tiny face lying on her bosom, into the large soft dark eyes that met his own so wonderingly, Who shall say what tide of feelings and memories of his own innocent childhood rushed back upon bis soul P If the boy had winced or shivered beneath his gaze—if it had even turned its eyee to its mother or moaned —he would have turned away hardened, reckless, utterly lost; but the infant stretched its tiny arms towards him and smiled in hit faoe, that smile of perfect innocence and trust whioh was surely then God's tilent whisper in that prison chamber. " Genevra! Genevra! It bat your face, but my mother's smile," and suddenly and pat* sionately Arthur clasped the little child to hit breast, and the strong man, his reckless despe ration subdued, his hard, fierce spirit broken down, bowed hit head on that little child, and wept such tears as he had not wept since his childhood; full of bitter remorse, and anguish, and regret, as they were, they had yet in them the tear of repentance which opened the gate of heaven. " Oh, Grenevra! wife whom I lore, and hare wronged, pardon me! and my father, whose gray hairs I have dishonored, so that I dare not face him—entreat his forgiveness for his doomed SOD." "My son, I am here!" said a voice, and though neither had heard him enter, Hugh Hertram stood before them. Arthur recoiled as if strucV, almoit throw ing the child into its mother's arms, and for a minute he stood so, and never perhaps had he looked so beautiful as he did at that moment, facing the father he had dishonored; so for a moment of dead silence, and then Arthur sud denly sank at his father's feet, murmuring un consciously the word* his childhood had heard from his mother's lips—" Father, forgive me, f r I was no more worthy to be called thy son!" The father laid his hand on the bowed bead of his son. " My son, my son, not to me, but to Him who has said, ' Thou abalt do no murder!' to the God you have offended and denied." Arthur Bertram sprang to his feet as if a scorpion had stung him. " Ho," he said, with a look of dark despair; "it is too late. I have scoffed and disbelieved too long. I have lived an atheist, and my only hope is in dying an atheist. Shall I believe in your God to my own damnation ?" "Oh, Arthur, my son, child of my dead wife, believe, for your salvation! repent, and turn to God, for " he that comes to Him he will in no wise cast out. A bruised reed shall He not break, and smoking flax shall he not quench! 1" " My crime is too great, my sin too heavy to be forgiven. I dare not believe in God," an swered Arthur, veiling his faoe; "if I did he would cast me out into outer darkness." "His mercy endureth for ever," said the gentle priest. "'Joy shall be in heaven over one sinner that repenteth, more than over ninety-and-nine jast persons which need no re pontanoe.'" Then the wife stole to his side, and gently laid the little babe on hit breast, and the dark night of atheism fled before the holy light of God's smile of mercy and great lore, and' Arthur Bertram bowed his beautiful face and golden hair on bis child, and from his rery soul rose the appeal to heaven—" Oh, God, forgive me, and have mercy on me a sinner!" A lost life no more—lost no more, but saved.

Chapter XLVII. Thk memoir of Arthur Bertram is a short and a sad one, for it v a story of evil and wrong, which he addressed to his wife, and tent afterwards to Angelo Egerton. "You know my noble-hearted father, Ge nevra, and know tkat'no fault of his can hare been the cause of my fall. "My mother died when I was a child. If she had lived I might hare been another being, for only she could charm to silence the demon which I belieye was born in my very blood. Even as it is, her memory has been the one softer feeling 'which has saved me through all my eril life from being chained body and soul to perdition. " But she left me the fatal gift of her beauty and powers of foscination ; and those gifts hare been my curse. I will not pain you, gentle wife, by details which can enly wring your heart. " I was sent to college, and there I became one of the worat set to which my evil nature attracted me. " You wonder, G-enevra, how nnbolief ever wound its serpent coils round me. • A third cause of atheism is a custom of profane scoff ing in holy matters, which doth by little and little deface the reverence cf religion.' So wrote our great philosopher. This was what made me a renegade to my angel mother's faith. I sneered and scoffed till I could no longer wor ship what I only treated and saw treated as a jest; and I clung to my atheism as a drowning man clings to the Blender straw, which will break when he tests its strength. "At eighteen I had left—fled from the col lege, and forsworn my father, and lest he should trace and seek to reclaim me, I even dropped his name and went by another name. Before I was twenty 1 was the companion of professed

gamblers, and even worse—let that pass; they had robbers amongst them, men whose trad* was robbery, and that fatal September they ar ranged to rob Lady Egerton; and as I vil slight, agile, and utterly reckless, I was selected to do it. " Oh, Genevra, that horrible night! What wonder that that little Spanish child so remem bered my face P I did not mean to kill Lady Egerton, as heaven is my witness. I did not mean to kill her; but she woke and saw me, and I stabbed her—she shrieked, and in the wild desperation of the moment I shot her, seized the casket, dropped the pistol, and fled. One of my accomplices had a swift horse on the) beach, and so I reaohed home at 12 o'clock. Those fatal jewels! they were too marked { I dared not sell them—dared not even let my companions see them, and next day I fled abroad, and for more than two years I never set foot in England. When I did, it was under the name of Arthur Vivian, my Christian names. " Inez de Caldara, Lady Egerton, will hare told you all she knows of me and my first wife, Eveline; if not, ask her to do so, if you with to know. I pass briefly over the rest of my story. I met Stephen Stanfeld in a gambling house, and I got him in my power; for I, well versed in it, soon found he used loaded dioe. I thought his eldest daughter was her mother's heiress, and so she would have be>n, save that her grandfather had tied up his property when she married. " I never oared for Eveline, and I soon left her. Poor Evie, her death lies heavy on me, now ! Heaven forgive me the wrong I did her. How I met you—how I deceived you, Genevra, you know too well—spare me the recital. I left you because I dared not remain long anywhere, and I could not trust even you with the secret of my residence. I came to London, for it it the safest hiding-placo. "Wonder, Genevra, what you will, what made me, a haunted man, go that day to the National Gallery to see that portrait whose fame bad reaohed me, but I tell you it was no power of mine—it was a strong power that drew me there under the form of my own with. I thought before my trial that it was my erQ fate. I see now that it was God's meroiful hand. You know all now, Genevra." * • Later there came a short hurried letter to Vivian, written in Italian. " My husband, bow down before God, for hit mercy is beyond comparison; you are saved* Angelo Egerton, the noble, generous Egortoo, yielded to my prayer; hi wife interceded for you, and then he said that Julian D'Aroy'e name was dear ; it was all he oared for, and for the sake of your father, of me, of our child, he will do what he can to save you. " GxiizrKA."

Ohaptib XLVIIL, and Last. Ybibs have patted, and rolled away on the scroll of time. Once more there are dissolving views passing before us like a vision. See, in the dittanee, on the verge of a prime* ?al forest in the Far Wett, the sun is sotting behind the distant mountains and shedding itl gorgeous light on the plains and on every forest leaf; it falls too on a group there. There are not many. A venerable gray>headed old man •its) by the cottage-door, with a fair boy, yet in childhood, at his knee, and he looks over and anon, with a gentle smile, on a dark-eyed woman with a sweet Madonna face, who sits at the feet of a man yet young, and far more beautiful now than over he was in past days. There is a softened sadness nor* in his eyes and smile, and the setting sunbeams shine on hit burnished hair, as he bends over his wife, and then, turning, kneels at the old man's feet, and bows his gol len heai, whispering the touching appeal, " Bless me, even me, O nay Father!" The shades vanish in the mitt and distanot, There a crowd gathered before that tall, high house j they say it is a gaming house, and that some one within has killed himself. Hush! they are carrying out the body; it is an old man, his hair is white, and the dead faoe lookf horrible in the moonlight. They whisper in the crowd that his name if Stephen Stanfeld. A life lost—loot for ever. There is yet another scene that rites. Onoe more the ancient castle of Faloontower rises gradually against the sky ; but the yule log blares within, and a merry party are gathered there. See them all—Louis Be. John and gentle Margaret; and bis fair mother sits apart, with three beautiful children round her. Ask that dark, noble-looking boy, whose arm is ronnd his little sister, what his name is and his sister's, •nd he will answer, " Mine is Julian Egerton, and hers is Jesuit* ;" and that blue eyed boy beside them is Julian D'Arcy's only boy, Angelo. They are all there—Austin and Marion Bo* Chester, Walter Surrey and his wife Theresa, for her grandfather lie* asleep r ar away. There, side by side, stand Angelo Egerton and Julian D'Arcy, looking down on Inez, who sits by them with her youngest e'lild, an infant, in her arms, and she looks up ror and then with the old tender smile on her young, quiet faoe. Later her eon comes up, and draws ber away to the picture gallery, and stops before a large picture, whispering, "Mother, wbat does it mean?' And the fair young mother bend* down, and answers, " Years bonce, my son, when you are older, your mother's lips shall tell you tbe history of that portrait." E. S. «r lif our next,—the opening chapters of "Tht) Smuggler's Ward," a new ule, of great interest br S. Cobb, KBq.

A PBOTBar has been cutercd by Dr. Heurtley against Professor Tj nd ill's admission to a D.O.L. decree in tho Uniyersify of Oxford. The Timet, in remarking upon Dr. Heurtloy'i propositions, says —Wo regard them as raising serious and material questions which descrre to be answered, and nv»y l.i> answered conclusively. If "truth" mennn theological orthodoxy, and if, as Dr. Heurtley beliivs, the Athanasian Creed is an esst>utial standard of theological orthodoxy, wh.it <a'i bo taid for conferring an honorary degree on tho Art-hhifhop of Syrtt, for instance, who not only holds but is engaged in preaching doctrines more directly anti* Athanaeian than Frolcfgor Tyndall's epeoula* tions übout iniracli-s and pruyer ? If, on the other hand, "truth" means a great deal more than orthodoxy—if it it closely allied to whatsoever things are houest, just, pure, lovi ly, or wf good report—if tho perception <>{ it in phy-ics, as w<ll as in morale, is among the good and perfect gifts that come down from the Father of Li^ht, and it subject to no limitation at the bidiiing of Chur.h authority, th«.-n it may well be that an experimental philosopher who errs preatly on the nature of nurncles :md |>r<\or, but has shown maryt-lloui insight i. lit tl.o 13jok of .Nature, and helped other* to -i:i!<-h ir, i* rio unworthy citizen of a uuirci.-i.-t who§r motto is " Domittut illuminatlo vtea." T.• mm w),j really "sub verts tho fnilh" whirh the University of Oxford, in comufbn with all Christendom, is bound to uphold, is not the mm who honestly, though perhaps erroneously, fallows out the conclusion! of Imb reas n, but the ui^n who habitually, noto* rioufly, and coucpic.-uou-.ly volutes the dictates of hi* conscience, and helpi to corrupt society by his bad example.