in so doing. My servant shall go for the woman of the house at which she resides."

I wrote the address on a card, and gave it to Mrs. Watkins. "My character will bear investigation, sir," I resumed, when the woman had left the room. "I am known, and where I am known I

am respected."

Greaves was deeply impressed, not more by what I had said than by my manner of saying it.

"I see now," he said; "I beg pardon if I am wrong in my conjecture why this unhappy lady should dread the sight of her husband-"

I started and turned pale. "The sight of her husband, sir?" "I did not mean to offend," said Greaves kindly.

"Ah!" said I, I see what you mean now." I was willing he should continue in that error.

The doctor shortly left me to prepare something for his patient, which, however, he frankly told me he did not expect would be of much avail, promising to call again at night.

It was now nearly dark; my servant could not return in less than an hour; no time was to be lost. I descended into the garden, and digging a grave in a remote corner, silently committed Steiner's remains to the ground. It was a part of the garden never frequented; and I contrived so to overlay it with old lumber and broken garden-chairs which were strewn about in its vicinity, that nobody could have perceived that any recent labour had been per. formed there.

Mrs. Steiner died on that night, silently, without the utterance of a word. Not a glance revealed to me what she had seen, and what had killed her. I was safe, therefore,-safe-that one assurance pos. sessed me.

In the solitude of my own chamber, and on my knees, I thanked Heaven for that. I could not then think on the fearful and mysterious accident which had deprived me of my only friend in the world. The sole depository of a secret, whose utterance would destroy me, had been taken hence, and I was once more secure, Could it be supposed that any joy could be extracted from such circumstances, then I did rejoice that she was no more.

CHAPTER VII.

If I have dwelt upon no event of my life since I had occasion to mention Steiner, that has not in some measure referred to or been controlled by him, it is because there was not one worthy even of the name of incident which he did not directly or obliquely influence. Oh! that I had left Bromley's service when Steiner first entered into partnership with him! How different my life must, how happy it might have been.

These

It was shortly after the funeral of Mrs. Steiner that I began to hear that whispers were rife in the neighborhood respecting me. surmises-set afloat, doubtless, by my servant-bore exclusive reference to Mrs. Steiner, and to my supposed treatment of her; some even going so far as to hint their belief that she had not come by her death fairly. Hartwell also had called upon me several times pend. ing Mrs. Steiner's funeral; and was, and with reason, much sur

prised and shocked to hear of her sudden death under such circum. stances as I chose to detail to him. He was, if possible, still more surprised to have heard nothing of Steiner; but as he hinted no suspicions that affected myself, as indeed he expressed none at the time, and as moreover he perfectly well knew the character and habits of his friend, I did not seek to conceal that he had attempted to extort money from me by threats. I added however that being alone and unarmed, I had been constrained to give him the money he required; and I expressed my opinion-an opinion in which Hartwell concurred-that he had set sail for Hamburgh early in the morning, and that we should probably never see him again.

There was a serenity, united with perfect ease, in the manners of Hartwell, that indicated an intimate acquaintance with good society. It is true I knew little of the man, except from the hasty and confused report of Mrs. Steiner; an account which, coupled with the fact of his friendship for her husband, was not likely to predispose me much in his favour. But I knew well at the same time, that he was the only man living, whose suspicions once excited and concentrated upon me could bring my conduct and character in question. I was in no situa. tion-in no mind likewise-to assist myself at present: he was, or appeared to be, perfectly satisfied with the explanations I had offered: and as he had called upon me often, and unasked on my part, and gradually dropt the name of Steiner altogether, I suffered at first, but soon began to countenance his visits.

In the mean while it became necessary, for more reasons than one, that I should change my residence. Two years had now elapsed since the death of Mrs. Steiner. The surmises in the neighbour. hood had subsided; the whispers-if there were any-did not reach my ears; but, whenever I walked abroad there was a timid scrutiny of my person on the part of some, and an audacious intentness of gaze from others, that rendered my residence at this place for any longer period inconvenient and irksome. I cannot say that I felt very acutely these indications,-for a man who lives out of the world can easily dispense with its good opinion; my private belief being, that were not such good opinion indispensable to an individual's advancement and pleasure in life, he would be little disposed to regard it for its own sake.

My chief reason was one with which the world had nothing to do. It was not when I walked abroad, but at home-in the quietness and solitude of the house-in the silence of my own memory, and at the mercy of the harrowing scene it conjured up,-it was then that I felt, if life and reason were longer to co-exist, I must abandon, fly from the accursed place for ever. Such expiation as horror could afford had been paid long ago and it was time that the past should be unremem bered, if not forgotten.

There was yet another motive. It was a dreary abode for the boy, young Frederick Steiner, when he came home for the holidays. He was now with me; and during his stay I had been laying out plans for his future life in accordance with his own wishes,-for I passionately loved the boy. My affection for this lad, which he returned with all the warmth and freshness of a young and generous nature, was one of the inexplicable mysteries of my life. I had no cause to love him, save for his own sake; and there were reasons

why I should both hate and fear him; and yet, strange to say, my remembrance of Steiner as his father transferred no bitterness to him; or was it that his mother's memory assuaged, destroyed it? I know not. tervenes.

And yet but it will be told in good time. But little in

Frederick had expressed a stray desire to enter the army,-a des. tination for him to which I was at first much opposed, until at length I was won over by his importunities. I had let the house, and was about to remove to a house in Berner's Street on the next day, at which time my nephew-for so I called him-was to depart for the Military College at Addiscombe.

Hartwell was dining with me on that day. I introduced the boy to him. He received him with great kindness; partly perhaps, out of friendship for his late father, partly out of complaisance to myself.

"No very perceptible likeness, I think ?" he observed.

"To his father, none."

"I had not the pleasure of knowing Mrs. Steiner."

"Oh, no. I remember you had not." I should not have mentioned this trivial talk, bnt that it was adverted to afterwards.

After dinner Hartwell proposed that we should take our wine in the garden. We retired thither.

"After all," said he, casting his eyes around," although you are I dare say, quite right in leaving this house of yours, what a pleasant place might be made of it. It is just the thing for a respectable family."

"A family has taken it," I remarked.

"For instance," pursued Hartwell," you have let the garden run to waste sadly. You're not much of a florist, Gibson. Look there at that disgraceful hole in the corner," and he pointed to the spot where I had buried Steiner; "that'll be dug up, and replanted in less than a month, I'll be sworn. What say you, Master Fre. derick?" and he turned to the boy; "shouldn't you like to have a hand in it ?"

"The air is chilly; the wine has not agreed with me !" I stammered. "Let us go in."

How incredible it seems to me now, that I should never have thought of that. I almost felt grateful to Hartwell that he had unwittingly reminded me of it. It seemed as though some special Providence interfered in my behalf, and would not suffer me to meet detection. Suffice it to say, I effectually removed a frightful employment !—all that could betray me.

I must now pass over several years; merely touching upon one or two points, the omission of which would render this portion of my narrative unintelligible.

Frederick Steiner returned from India at the conclusion of the Burmese war, on a leave of absence for three years. He was grown a very fine young man, of impetuous temper, but of warm affections, and with a noble heart. During the period of his absence I had mixed much in society of a certain class,-of that class into which a man is almost necessarily thrown who can find no pleasure in domestic life. An intimacy-it cannot be termed friendship-had sub

sisted all along between Hartwell and myself, founded upon (and cemented by the similarity of our tastes and habits. Among other vices he had imbued me with a passion for gaming,-a passion which like that of love is often stimulated rather than destroyed by ill success. I was now in comparatively reduced circumstances; but I had done nothing hitherto to impair my credit, or to compromise my character. Sometimes indeed, desperate with my bad fortune, I would unadvisedly throw out strange things, which were forgotten the next day by myself; but which it would seem had deeply impressed themselves upon Hartwell. They were nothing more than denunciations of human nature in the mass, and doubts as to the wisdom of permitting one's-self to be trammelled by moral obligations, phrases which I doubt not every losing gamester relieves himself by uttering.

On Frederick's arrival in England, Hartwell attached himself to him with a closeness almost amounting to pertinacity. He had formerly been in the army; had seen a great deal of the world in all its various and shifting forms; his manners were prepossessing; and his conversation just such as easiest recommends itself to the attention of a young man of spirit and feeling, being free, without grossness; sometimes, although not often, grave, and never dull. I never could exactly account for the great pains Hartwell was at to secure this young man's friendship. He could not hope to gain much money from him; indeed he never attempted it could it be that he was the son of his former friend? No. Hartwell had himself often confessed to me that his intimacy with Steiner had been held together merely by a community of interest.

Be this as it may, I hardly wonder that Frederick should have preferred Hartwell's company to mine. There was little in me to attract to myself the time of a vivacious young man, whose sole pur suit was pleasure, and I had too much affection for him to wish to do So. I had besides so full a belief of his affection for me, that the notion of Hartwell's supplanting me was altogether out of the question. They grew however more intimate daily; and thus matters went on for some months.

One morning Hartwell called upon me, and solicited to a business, as he called it, of very great importance.

my attention

"Have you a mind to make your fortune, Gibson ?" said he, with a confident, and a confidential smile, that argued some proposition of a novel nature.

I answered in the affirmative.

"You are a man of the world," he resumed; "and therefore, few words will suffice. I know, also, you are not over particular." "What do you mean, Mr. Hartwell ?" I replied.

"As to the means whereby-" he rejoined.

"So long as those means are

66

"Safe," cried Hartwell: "I understand. They are so."

He now opened to me a scheme of villany-a system of plunder so well laid down, so exquisitely arranged; and entered into the minutiæ, the pros. and cons., all that could be urged for and against, so earnestly, and at the same time with so much coolness and deliberation, that I was unable, when he concluded, to consider him in jest.

I took the precaution, however, of putting that question to him.

"In jest? no!" cried Hartwell, in extreme astonishment,

"Look

ye, Gibson. You have lost large sums of late: you are crippled, I know. I put you in the way of retrieving yourself; and instead of thanking me, as you ought-"

He paused, in perfect bewilderment at my prolonged gravity.

"You do not seem to understand me," he continued after a while. "Our accomplices-agents, I mean-will manage the whole under my superintendence. You will have nothing to do but to furnish the cash, and that but for a short time."

"I do not know what you have hitherto mistaken me for, Mr. Hartwell," I said at length, "or what in my recent conduct has led you to infer that I could be brought into a conspiracy like this."

"How?" cried Hartwell.

"For instance," I resumed, "you yourself are under many pecuniary obligations to me, for which I have never troubled you, and which I now only mention to prove to you that money cannot tempt me to commit dishonourable actions."

Hartwell sat silent for some time, and bit his lips with vexation.
"You have betrayed me, Mr. Gibson," he said at length.

"How so? Rather, you have betrayed yourself, Mr. Hartwell." "It's true, by G--! I have so ;" and he arose. "But, who could have thought that you-I never would have spoken of it, but you compel me to do so that you, who have committed crimes that should have hanged you, could have sported a conscience, even in jest, or in your cups."

I was about to speak. "Pshaw!" he continued in disgust. it-that you-"

"Steiner told me

-and I know

"Set fire to his house," said I, interrupting him. could get one to believe that, not including himself. expect that."

"It is well he He could hardly

"to be mur.

"What could he hardly expect?" retorted Hartwell; dered for it? Perhaps not. And his wife--that tale was well told, Mr. Gibson. Do not turn pale; blush now, and look white at theelsewhere, I mean. Good morning, sir!"

I let him go in silence. These were empty threats, which he would repent in due time. He waited upon me again in the afternoon, and expressing some regret for his former warmth, sounded me once more respecting his project. I resisted entertaining it, even more strongly than before.

Hartwell was wrought to a pitch of fury by my obstinacy which appeared to him perfectly incomprehensible. He repeated the same charges, with the addition of others; one for instance involving a doubt of the paternity of young Steiner; and left me with threats, as before--threats which I despised. He had now committed himself. I was assured he knew nothing, which his language of the morning, conveying so much truth, spoken at random, had for a moment led me to

fear.

I was not mistaken when I foresaw that Hartwell would not dare to bring charges against me publicly which he had no means whatever of substantiating. I had not however conceived the possibility of his tampering of his disposition to do so I was well aware, but of his being permitted to tamper-with young Steiner. A few days nevertheless convinced me that he had done so; and a watchful scrutiny