CHAPTER CLXXI.

JACK RILY, THE DOCTOR.

The individual who thus intruded himself upon the presence of

the affrighted woman, was about forty years of age--of middle

height--somewhat stout--and of powerful form. He was not corpulent;

but his build denoted immense strength,--his shoulders being broad and

massive, and his limbs of large proportions. His neck was short and

thick, like that of a bull; and his huge hands, when clenched, appeared

as if they could fell an ox or batter down a wall.

His countenance was perfectly hideous. It was of dark complexion; and

on the right cheek was a large scar of livid red, as if the flesh had

been seared with a hot iron and left to heal without any surgical

assistance. The low but broad forehead was overshadowed with coarse,

black, matted hair, which the man wore long, and which he evidently

much neglected--so that it had a dirty appearance, in spite of its

jetty hue. His eyes were small and dark; and the whites--for we know

not what other name to give them--were of a yellow hue,--so that an

ominous fire seemed to animate those eyes, as if they reflected all

the bad passions of a polluted soul. The nose, which was large, thick,

and coarse, projected all on one side, and had enormous nostrils. Add

to all these elements of ugliness a hare-lip, with an opening so large

that it displayed two of the man’s large white teeth up to the very

gum, and the reader may form a tolerably accurate idea of the repulsive

aspect of this individual.

He was dressed in a greasy velveteen shooting-jacket, a rusty black

waistcoat, corduroy trowsers, and heavy high-lows; a blue cotton

handkerchief was negligently tied round his neck;--and his shirt,

which was none of the cleanest, was open in front, the buttons being

deficient--so that a portion of his hirsute chest was visible. On his

head he wore an old fur cap of a tawny colour, but sadly stained with

grease, as if it were tossed in any dirty nook or corner when not in

use.

As the man had no whiskers, and his complexion was so dark, it might

have been supposed that he had some African blood in his veins. Such

was not, however, the case;--he was born in England and of English

parents--aye, and had received an English education likewise. But

nature had given him a hideous aspect; and circumstances had imbued his

soul with the ferocity of a hyena and the subtlety of a serpent.

It is not often that the savage disposition is characterised by a

profound and latent cunning--because the violence of furious passions

usually absorbs all reflection in its sudden impulses and outbursts.

But this man was ferocious by nature, and subtle in consequence of

possessing a powerful intellect and having received a good education.

Not that intelligence and mental cultivation engender craft and

cunning: no--but they teach the necessity of consideration and

forethought;--and the result, in respect to the individual whom we are

describing, was that he knew the world so well as to be fully aware

that intrigue and machination frequently succeeded where brute force

could accomplish nothing.

Thus, when there was no need to have recourse to artifice, this man

appeared as a very demon let loose upon society: but when cunning could

gain an end, he was enabled to control his savage propensities and

exercise a complete domination over his ferocious instincts.

Such was the person who burst upon the view of the terrified Mrs.

Mortimer in the abrupt manner already described.

She had risen from her seat on the bed, and now stood gazing on him in

speechless apprehension and amazement: but he, not heeding the alarm

which his presence inspired, closed the door carefully behind him, and

then, throwing his greasy cap on a chair, approached the old woman,

saying, “So I understand you have been robbed, ma’am? Well--don’t give

way to despair: I think I can help you to the recovery of your money.”

“Ah!” ejaculated Mrs. Mortimer, considerably relieved by the hope thus

abruptly held out, and at the same moment animated by the conviction

that the man could not mean her any harm--as she had never seen him

before in her life; and, moreover, the house was neither deserted nor

lonely, and it was now the broad noon-day,--under which circumstances

crimes of violence were seldom perpetrated.

“Yes--I think I can help you,” repeated the man. “But there is plenty

of time before us--and we must have a chat over the matter in the first

instance.”

Thus speaking, he seated himself in a free and easy fashion; and

Mrs. Mortimer likewise took a chair--for she had now become deeply

interested in the present visit, despite the revolting ugliness of the

visitor.

“Who are you?” she asked: “and in what manner do you think you can aid

me?”

“One question at a time, my dear madam,” returned the fellow, with

cool familiarity. “First then, as to who I am. My name is Rily--Mr.

Rily amongst mere acquaintances--John Rily in a police-sheet--and Jack

Rily amongst intimate friends. But those who know me best call me _the

Doctor_, because, you see, I was brought up to the medical profession.

That was against my tastes, and only in obedience to the wishes of my

parents; and so, as soon as they hopped the twig--which was when I

was about two-and-twenty--I gave up mending broken legs, and took to

breaking into houses. Instead of feeling pulses, I fingered purses--and

found the new profession more profitable. Such a hand as this,” he

continued, with a horrible grin, as he extended his broad and horny

palm, “was rather intended to wield a crow-bar than a lancet, or grasp

a pistol in preference to a scalpel. Now, my dear ma’am, I think you

may begin to suspect who and what I am.”

“A burglar and a thief,” said Mrs. Mortimer, who had by this time

recovered all her wonted calmness. “Well--you are the more likely to

aid me in my present embarrassment--I mean, in the recovery of my

money: and, of course, you can dictate your own terms.”

“I am perfectly assured of _that_,” responded the Doctor, again

grinning maliciously with his horrid hare-lip, which seemed as if it

were about to split completely up his cheek. “But, at that same time,

I admit with all possible candour that I cannot act alone in this

business: and therefore you have that guarantee for my good faith.”

“But in what way do you propose to act?” demanded Mrs. Mortimer,

anxious to arrive at a more satisfactory understanding with her hideous

visitor.

“I will tell you,” answered Rily. “I am not known at this coffee-house;

and therefore I came in just now to take some refreshment and read the

paper. I saw you enter, and thought that yours was a countenance which

denoted a soul alive to mischief. That was the impression you made

upon me; for I must tell you that I am a bit of a phrenologist in my

way. However, I had almost ceased to think of you, when I saw you come

rushing out of the bar-parlour and bolt up-stairs like a mad woman.

Then I marked your countenance again--and I was seized with admiration

towards you on account of the horrible expression of your features. I

said to myself that if ever I had beheld a she-fiend, I had seen one

then.”

“I am much obliged to you for the compliment,” observed Mrs. Mortimer,

drily.

“Let me tell my story in my own way, my dear madam,” exclaimed Jack

Rily, with mock politeness. “Well, I saw you bolt up-stairs, and the

landlady after you; and I knew that there must be something queer in

the wind. So I waited quietly reading the paper until the landlady came

down again; and then I went to the bar to pay my money. A question or

two that I put elicited the information that you had been robbed by

two fellows pretending to be officers having a search-warrant; and the

landlady, in her garrulity, gave me a description of those individuals.

One of them--the old man--I know nothing of: he is a complete stranger

to me;--but the other I do know,--and what is more, I owe him a

grudge--it matters not why or for what. I thereupon told the landlady

that I thought I could help you in the matter; and before she had time

to make any answer, I rushed up to your room to introduce myself to

your notice.”

“Now I begin to understand you, Mr. Rily,” said the old woman. “You are

acquainted with one of the robbers--you probably know his haunts--and

you have a spite to vent upon him. Is this it?”

“Just so,” answered the burglar. “You must also learn that the reading

which I had of your countenance convinced me that I might with safety

tell you who and what I am: because I never have any child’s play in

the business I am engaged in. If you want to get back your money, you

must put confidence in me and act as I tell you; and the only way to

make you trust me, is to let you know my real character. You see in me,

then, a cracksman and a prig: but I am stanch to the back-bone amongst

pals.”

“And on what terms do you propose to aid me?” demanded Mrs. Mortimer.

“How much have these fellows robbed you of?” asked Rily.

The old woman hesitated for a few moments: she knew not whether it

were prudent to tell the truth to her new friend, who so deliberately

announced himself as a gentleman exercising a profession which could

not possibly be characterised by any particular scruples or punctilios.

“Well--just as you like, ma’am,” said Jack, rising from his seat. “By

declaring on to the swag,[16] I may get my reglars[17] from the two

prigs, whom I can easily trace out; and therefore, if you are afraid to

trust me, I shall be off at once. In this case, mind, you will never

see a penny of the money you have lost.”

“Stay, Mr. Rily--stay!” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, who perfectly

comprehended the man’s meaning, which was to the effect that he _might_

obtain some of the booty for himself without her co-operation; whereas

she could not recover a shilling unless assisted by him.

The burglar coolly reseated himself.

“You asked me of how much I was robbed?” she said, interrogatively.

“Yes,” was the laconic response.

“Five thousand four hundred pounds,” observed Mrs. Mortimer.

“My stars! is it possible?” exclaimed Rily, his horrible countenance

expanding with delight.

“It is the truth, I can assure you,” rejoined the old woman.

“Five thousand four hundred pounds,” repeated the burglar, in a slow

and measured tone, as if to prolong the enjoyment of the sweet music

which the mention of such a sum made for his auricular sense.

“It is a serious loss--is it not?” asked Mrs. Mortimer, anxiously

watching his countenance, its expression denoting hope--nay, even

indicating a certainty of success in the endeavour to recover the

amount: but that same tablet of the mind gave no assurance that the

man would act honourably towards her in the end, and content himself

only with a share.

“Five thousand four hundred pounds!” he again repeated, in a musing

tone. “Yes--’tis a serious loss! The recovery, however, would be two

thousand seven hundred a-piece: would that suit you?” he demanded,

turning abruptly towards her.

“What?” she said, affecting not to comprehend the question.

“Will you agree to give me one half of the sum, if I recover the

whole?” asked Rily. “That is plain English, I believe--and now it

depends on you whether our conversation shall be prolonged or not.”

“Yes--I will cheerfully give you one half,” returned Mrs. Mortimer,

making up her mind to keep to the bargain only in the case of her

inability to depart from it with safety to herself.

“Well and good,” resumed Rily. “I must now inform you that the tall

fellow who was with the old man is one of the most noted cracksmen

in London--a desperate ruffian, who would think no more of shooting

a person through the head than of eating his dinner. What his real

name is, I don’t know--I never heard--although he and I have been

acquainted for years past: but he is called _Vitriol Bob_, from a

little peculiarity which he has introduced into _his_ professional mode

of doing business.”

“I do not catch your meaning,” said Mrs. Mortimer--though not without

a shudder; for she _did_ entertain a vague suspicion of the frightful

origin of that singular pseudonym.

“I’ll explain myself more fully, ma’am,” returned the Doctor, “since

we have all the day before us, and may chatter a bit to while away

the time. You see that the individual of whom we are speaking,

has an awkward knack of lurking about in bye-streets and secluded

neighbourhoods, to way-lay gentlemen who happen to have gold chains

hanging over their waistcoats or out of their fobs: for those little

articles are pretty faithful evidences that the purses of such folks

are not entirely empty. Well, in case of a struggle, our friend is

apt to break a phial of vitriol over the face of his opponent, so

that he may get away, and also that the said opponent may be blinded,

and unable to identify him on any future occasion. Hence his name of

_Vitriol Bob_; and such is the terror he has inspired throughout the

districts of Kennington, Camberwell, Peckham, and thereabouts, that the

moment any gentleman returning home from a party or from the tavern

hears the ominous sound of ‘_Your money or your eyes_,’ he exclaims,

‘_Don’t throw the vitriol, and I’ll give up everything_.’”

“Is this possible?” cried Mrs. Mortimer, with a shudder that was colder

and more perceptible than the former one.

“Oh! quite possible, ma’am, I can assure you,” said the Doctor, calmly.

“You shall see Vitriol Bob to-night--and then judge for yourself

whether he looks like a fellow who could do such a thing, or not. A

more hang-dog countenance you never saw in your life. I know that I am

not particularly handsome,” he added with a horrible grin and leer:

“but I don’t look quite such a bravo as he does.”

Mrs. Mortimer thought that if Vitriol Bob were more hideous in outward

appearance than Jack Rily, he must be frightful indeed.

“This is the chap we shall have to deal with to-night,” continued the

burglar; “and therefore, as you perceive, we must go well prepared to

play the game properly. Who his companion is in the robbery, I can’t

make out----”

“But I know,” interrupted Mrs. Mortimer, hastily: “he is a

poor--weak--emaciated--nervous old man, whom I will undertake to subdue

and even bind with cords in a few moments. Oh! he shall find me a very

tiger-cat let loose upon him!” she added, her countenance suddenly

expressing a hyena-like ferocity.

“Now you do seem handsome--royally handsome--although in reality you

are so infernally ugly!” exclaimed Jack Rily. “That is the way in which

I like to see a woman look. Why--perdition seize me! but I could almost

love you. What a splendid couple we should make!”

And the idea tickled the wretch’s fancy to such an extent, that he

laughed until the tears streamed from his yellow eyes, and ran down his

dark countenance, while his hare-lip opened so wide that all his upper

teeth--large, perfect, white, and even--were displayed to the gums.

“Cease this disgusting mirth, sir,” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, unable to

restrain her feelings: for--ugly, criminal, and morally degraded as she

knew herself to be--the observations of the monster and his consequent

hilarity outraged her cruelly.

“Come--come; we must not be bad friends,” said Jack Rily, extending

his huge palm towards the old woman, who proffered her hand in return

through fear of offending the wretch that had become too useful for

her to lose him until the contemplated business should have been

accomplished. “There--that’s right,” he added, as he shook her hand

with a violence that made her wince: “now there is no ill-feeling

between us. But really you must pardon me for what I said, and

also forbear from taking offence so easily should I fall into such

remarks again. For, look you, madam,--I do not care about female

beauty--neither is old age disgusting to me. What I admire in a woman

is her disposition--her _mind_: and when I see you flaring up like a

hell-rat--when I behold you waxing infuriate as a beldame--I love you

better than if you was the most lovely virgin on the face of the earth.

However--enough of that----”

“Enough indeed!” cried Mrs. Mortimer, who experienced the most

ineffable repugnance--the most profound loathing for the monster that

thus dinned his hideous idiosyncrasies in her ears: but, veiling her

abhorrence as much as she could, she said, “And now, perhaps, you will

have the goodness to inform me how you intend to proceed in order to

recover this large sum of money.”

“The explanation is simple enough,” responded the Doctor. “Vitriol Bob

has a particular haunt--a certain lurking-hole, not a hundred miles

from here; and I happen to know where the place is. In fact, Bob and I

have been pals for a long, long time----”

“I thought you told me just now that you had a spite against him?”

interrupted Mrs. Mortimer, fixing her eyes keenly upon the Doctor, as

if to read the secrets of his inmost soul and learn whether he were

deceiving her.

“Ah! you may look, ma’am--and look as searchingly as you like,”

exclaimed Jack Rily, who understood what was passing in her mind: “but

you won’t find me out in any contradiction--nor yet to telling you

any lies. I said that Vitriol Bob and I had been friends for a long

time--and I said truly. But that doesn’t prevent me from having a

hankering to be avenged for a trick he played me, and which he does

not think I even suspect. The fact is, we robbed a house together;

and Bob in ransacking a chest of drawers, got hold of a bag full of

sovereigns. He stuck to them, and never uttered a word about them when

we afterwards divided the swag. I found it out through an advertisement

that appeared in the papers offering a reward for the apprehension

of the burglars, and specifying the things stolen. He never saw that

advertisement, I know; and I did not tell him of it. I however swore to

have my turn against him sooner or later;--and I bided my time. That

time is now come--and I shall let him know it before many hours are

over his head.”

“But are you certain that you can find him? and, even supposing that

you do succeed in tracing him to his lurking-hole, how do you know that

the old man will be there also?” demanded Mrs. Mortimer.

“There is no tracing out Vitriol Bob in the matter,” exclaimed Jack

Rily. “The moment he has committed a robbery, he always goes straight

to his usual haunt, and remains there for a few days till the storm

has blown over. As a mere precaution, he will compel his pal--this

old man--to go with him; because if the latter was taken up by the

Detectives, he might be induced to peach against Bob--and all that.

So I am sure we shall find them together: unless, indeed,” added the

Doctor, in a tone of diminishing confidence,--“unless, I say, the old

man knows that you dare not raise a hue and cry touching this robbery.”

“On the contrary,” returned Mrs. Mortimer, “that old man, whose name

is Torrens, has every reason to believe that I would persecute him

with the most implacable vengeance which a human being is capable of

experiencing or inflicting.”

“So much the better!” cried Jack Rily, grinning joyously: “in this case

we are sure of our prey.”

“And is the game to be played by violence, or by cunning?” asked Mrs.

Mortimer.

“By violence, my good lady--by violence, to be sure!” responded

the burglar, his eyes glowing savagely, with their ominous yellow

lustre--as if the orbs of a tiger were glaring upon the woman: and,

though the gorgeous sun-light was flooding the small chamber with

its golden haze, still shone that yellow lustre apart--distinct--and

sinister.

“By violence?” repeated Mrs. Mortimer, awful thoughts relative to

Vitriol Bob’s peculiar mode of proceeding rushing in upon her soul.

“How can it be done otherwise?” demanded Jack Rily. “When I first came

up to you just now, I was going to propose to enlist in the service a

pal of mine--and of Vitriol Bob’s also--who would aid and assist: but

then he would require his thirds as a matter of course. Since, however,

you have informed me that Bob’s companion in the robbery is an old,

emaciated, feeble man, and that you can master him by yourself, you and

I will keep the business in our own hands. I will undertake to tackle

Vitriol Bob, if you will make sure of the other.”

“And supposing that your opponent should overpower you?” said Mrs.

Mortimer.

“I will take care that he does not,” returned Rily. “Trust me to subdue

him----”

“And without bloodshed?” observed the old woman, shuddering--for,

depraved and wicked as she was, she grew cold and her heart sank within

her at the idea of murder.

“Come, if you’re squeamish, you had better abandon the project and

leave it all to me,” said the Doctor. “If Vitriol Bob should place my

life in danger, at that moment he is a dead man. Self-preservation,

ma’am, is the first law of nature. At the same time, I shall not kill

_him_, unless it is to save _myself_: of this you may be assured.”

The old woman remained silent for some moments. Should she embark

in an enterprise so replete with danger?--should she incur the risk

of becoming an accomplice in a murder? She trembled at the thought:

and yet her money--the money that she had come over to England to

obtain--would be totally lost to her were she to shrink from the

endeavour to recover it. It was true that, even if it were regained,

one half would pass into the hands of a stranger: but was it not better

to return to Paris with two thousand seven hundred pounds in her

pocket, than with an empty purse? The stake was worth venturing;--and

her indecision vanished.

“I am _not_ squeamish in the matter,” she said at length. “Our bargain

and our arrangements hold good in all respects. That villain Torrens

shall not have the laugh against me: on the contrary, I must be avenged

upon him!”

“There!--now you are my fine old hyena--my adorable tiger-cat, once

again!” cried the Doctor. “I long to see you pounce upon old Torrens,

as you call him; and I would give the best five years of my life,

could I endow you with a complete set of claws, instead of those

comparatively harmless finger-nails! Wouldn’t you tear his eyes out of

his head? wouldn’t you strike them deep into his flesh? Do you know

that Satan will obtain a glorious acquisition when the time comes for

him to make a fiend of you?”

And again the monster’s horrible hilarity rang through the little

chamber, as he threw himself back in the chair and laughed with the

most savage heartiness.

“For mercy’s sake! cease this unnatural gaiety,” exclaimed the old

woman, scarcely able to subdue her rage.

“Oh! I must laugh,” cried the wretch, sputtering through his frightful

hare-lip,--“if it is only to make you look as ferocious as you do now.”

Mrs. Mortimer turned towards the window with disgust; and the wretch’s

mirth died away in guttural sounds.

“Come, now--I told you that you must not be angry with me, madam,”

he said, at length. “It is my nature to laugh heartily at times--and

surely you won’t check such an innocent propensity. But I will take my

leave of you now; and at half-past ten to-night we must meet at some

place as near Stamford Street as you choose.”

“Where shall it be?” asked the old woman. “Name the spot--and I shall

be punctual to the moment.”

“There is a narrow lane running along the side of Christ Church

burial-ground,” responded the burglar, after a few moments’ reflection:

“it leads from the Blackfriars Road into Collingwood Street----I

suppose you know London well----”

“Oh! perfectly. Go on,” said Mrs. Mortimer.

“Well--we will meet in that crooked lane at half-past ten exactly,”

continued Jack Rily. “By the by,” he added, rising from his chair,

“you had better tell the landlady down stairs that you found out I

could do nothing for you, and that you have resigned yourself to put up

with your loss. It will prevent her from suspecting anything queer on

account of your going out so late and remaining away an hour or so.”

“Leave that to me,” replied Mrs. Mortimer: “I shall know how to make

all the excuses that are necessary. Indeed, if we are successful, I

shall not return again to this place,” she observed, sinking her voice

to a low whisper.

“Well--that is your business. And now good-bye for the present: at

half-past ten we meet in the place appointed.”

Mrs. Mortimer spoke a few words of assent; and the Doctor took his

departure, bestowing upon the woman a familiar nod, accompanied by

a grin and a leer, before he crossed the threshold and closed the

chamber-door behind him.

When Mrs. Mortimer was left alone, she began to ponder deeply upon the

particulars of this interview which had just terminated.

The man knew the hiding-place where it was presumed that Vitriol Bob

and Torrens had taken refuge; and it was doubtless some cellar or

dangerous place, where a crime might be committed with impunity, as

well as where the perpetrators of crime might conceal themselves.

Then, what guarantee had she that Rily would not make her his victim,

after availing himself of her services in subduing the plunderers and

recovering the stolen treasure?

She shuddered as she thought of the peril into which she was about to

precipitate herself: she trembled from head to foot as she pondered

upon the desperate character of the man who was to be her companion in

the night’s enterprise.

And yet--in spite of his revolting ugliness and his avowal of a dark

career of turpitude--there was something like fairness in his speech

respecting a partner in any enterprise in which he might be engaged:

moreover, had he not shown, by the mere fact of the spite which he

cherished against Vitriol Bob, that his ideas of the honour that ought

to prevail even amongst thieves, were of a fixed and positive nature?

Lastly, had he not stipulated upon the precise amount that he was

to retain for his services? And would he be thus minute and nice in

details, if he cherished the intention of self-appropriating the whole?

These arguments, which Mrs. Mortimer seriously revolved in her mind,

may not perhaps appear very convincing nor very satisfactory to the

reader; for, after all, they were only so many suppositions placed in

juxta-position with the atrocious character of an avowed desperado. But

let it be remembered that we often reason ourselves into what we _wish_

to believe, rather than into what we _ought_ to believe; and we tutor

our minds to put faith in those opinions that best suit our interests

rather than our safety. This is like “hoping against hope:” still it

is a general characteristic of human nature; and Mrs. Mortimer’s case

proved no exception to the general rule.

In fine, she came to the conclusion that Jack Rily was a monstrous

rogue in respect to the world, but an honest man towards his pals--that

he would strip society, were society a single individual, of its

last shirt, but would not lay his finger on the costliest robe if on

the back of an accomplice--and that he meant to act, with regard to

herself, in the fairest way possible.

Whether her expectations were fulfilled, will shortly appear.

We cannot, however, close this chapter without recording a few comments

upon that extraordinary disposition in human nature to reason one-self

into the belief which one wishes to adopt, to the repudiation of that

which one ought to adopt. For instance, the man who is floundering

about in a perfect morass of pecuniary troubles, from which he cannot

possibly see any chance of emerging, incessantly dins in his own mental

ears the most absurd sophisms to convince himself that his position

is not so desperate as it appears. “Well, something must turn up,” he

says: “things are sure to take a turn soon. I can get Jones to renew

the bill which he holds of mine, when it becomes due--Tomkins will

hold his bill over for a few weeks--and Brown will lend me the money

to satisfy Smith.” In this manner does the poor devil go on with his

castle-building, until he can no longer blow from his imagination’s

pipe another soap-bubble wherewith to amuse himself. Jones positively

refuses to renew--Tomkins proves inexorable in his demand for

instantaneous payment--Brown, having heard of his difficulties, will

not lend him a farthing--and Smith, anything but satisfied, puts a

clencher on the whole through the medium of the sheriffs’-officer.

Then, when the self-deluded wretch awakes from his dream, on finding

himself in gaol or on his way to the Bankruptcy Court, he says to

himself in the bitterness of his spirit, “I always knew it would come

to this!”--although for years he had been straining every effort of the

imagination to lull his mind into a contrary belief!

In the same way does the bashful lover, who has not as yet proposed

to the object of his affections, but who nevertheless longs to do so,

yet fears, because he has seen her smile more sweetly upon a handsomer

youth than ever she did on him,--in the same way does he strive to

persuade himself that she _does_ really love him--that he has observed

stealthy glances cast from her brilliant eyes towards him--that her

hand has trembled in his own--that her voice has faltered when she has

responded to his common-place remarks upon the weather, the opera,

and the new novel--that it is a mere flirtation between herself and

the _other_ handsome youth,--in fine, that she is dying to receive

the proposal which he has not the courage to make. And in this manner

does he tutor himself to lead a life of “pleasing pain,” though all

the while aware that the sorest misgivings lie at the bottom of his

heart, beneath the superstructure of delusive hopes and fond imaginings

which perforce he has conjured up there. Then, when at last he hears

from some kind friend that the beautiful Miss So-and-so was married

yesterday morning to the handsome young gentleman whom she had loved

all along, the self-deluded wretch exclaims, “Ah! I never thought that

she cared a fig for _me_!”

But worse--oh! far worse is it with the criminal! Let us take, for

instance, the confidential clerk, who, for the sake of a mistress or

through love of fine clothes and ostentatious display amongst his

acquaintances, pilfers from his master’s till. At first his peculations

were small and insignificant; but, being undiscovered, he grows bolder

and more deeply guilty,--while he endeavours to reason himself out of

the agonising fears that haunt him day and night--pursue him like the

spectres of murdered victims--and turn his wine into gall, and the

sweets of Beauty’s lip into bitterness. “It is impossible that I can

be detected,” he mentally exclaims a thousand times in an hour: “my

precautions are so well devised. In a large business such as this, a

few shillings are not missed. Besides, I so arrange the entries in

the books that the expenditure and the receipts are proportionate.

My employer, too, is kinder towards me than ever: I possess his

confidence--not for an instant would he suspect me! And even if I were

found out,--not that I can be,--but, I say, even if I were, he would

not suffer me to be disgraced--he would hush it up: he would never let

_me_ be dragged into the felon’s dock.” Thus will the infatuated being

reason on, although he sees that his master _is_ growing cold in his

manner, and that there _is_ a suspicion of foul play somewhere,--until

at length the explosion takes place--the self-deluded mortal is hurried

to a felon’s gaol--his employer proves inveterate and inexorable--he

is doomed to transportation--and in the convict-ship he exclaims in

terrible anguish of mind, while writhing as if in mortal agony upon his

hard pallet, “Fool that I was not to have stopped short while it was

yet time: for I always foresaw that this must inevitably be the end of

it all!”

Gentle reader--never against your own settled convictions endeavour to

set up a fabric of delusion: you may at length succeed in throwing the

former into the background, and persuading yourself to believe that the

latter is a substantial truth;--but you will in the long run discover

to your cost that you have stepped out of the broad and straight

highroad to flounder amidst the perils of an interminable bog.