THE reader will remember that the events already related have brought us up to the close of 1838.
Thus three years had elapsed since the memorable trial which resulted in the condemnation of Eliza Sydney to an imprisonment of twenty-four long months in Newgate; and a year had passed since her release from that dread abode.
We therefore return to her again in December, 1838—about the same time that those incidents occurred which we detailed in the last few chapters.
Probably to the surprise of the reader, we again find Eliza Sydney the mistress of the beautiful villa at Upper Clapton.
Yes: on the evening when we once more introduce ourselves to her, she was sitting alone in the drawing-room of that home, reading by the side of a cheerful fire.
She was now twenty-eight years of age; and, although somewhat more inclining to embonpoint than when we first described her, she was still a lovely and fascinating woman. That slightly increased roundness of form had given her charms a voluptuousness the most ravishing and seductive, but the effects of which upon the beholder were attempered by the dignity that reigned upon her high and noble brow, and the chaste expression of her melting hazel eyes.
She was one of those fine creatures—one of those splendid specimens of the female sex, which are alone seen in the cold climates of the north; for it appears to be a rule in nature that the flowers of our species expand into the most luscious loveliness in the least genial latitudes.
There was a soft melancholy in the expression of her countenance, which might have been mistaken for languor, and which gave an additional charm to her appearance; for it was easy to perceive her mind was now at ease, that delicate shade of sadness being the indelible effect of the adventures of the past.
Her mind was at ease, because she was pure in heart and virtuous in intention—because she knew that she had erred innocently when she lent herself to the fraud for which she had suffered—because she possessed a competency that secured her against care for the present and fear for the future—and because she dwelt in that strict solitude and retirement which she loved, and which was congenial to a soul that had seen enough of the world to learn to dread its cruel artifices and deceptive ways.
We said that it was evening when we again introduce Eliza to the readers. A cold wind whistled without; and a huge Christmas log burnt at the back of the grate, giving an air of supreme comfort to that tastefully-furnished room.
The French porcelain time-piece upon the mantel proclaimed the hour of eight.
Scarcely had the silvery chime ceased, when Louisa entered the room in great haste and excitement.
"Oh, ma'am! who do you think is here?" she cried, closing the door carefully behind her.
"It is impossible for me to guess, Louisa," said Eliza, smiling.
"Mr. Stephens!" exclaimed the servant: "and he earnestly implores to see you!"
"Mr. Stephens!" echoed Eliza. "Impossible!"
"It is him, flesh and blood: but so pale—so ghostly pale—and so altered!"
"Mr. Stephens!" repeated Eliza. "You must be mistaken—you must be dreaming; for you are well aware that, in accordance with his sentence, he most be very—very far from England."
"He is here—he is in London—he is at your door!" said Louisa emphatically; "and as far as I could see by the light of the candle that I had with me when I answered his knock, he is in rags and tatters."
"And he wishes to see me?" said Eliza, musing.
"Yes, ma'am."
There was a pause of a few moments.
"I will see him," exclaimed Eliza, in a decided tone, after some consideration. "He may be in want—in distress; and I cannot forget that he proclaimed my innocence in the dock of the Old Bailey."
Louisa left the room: and in another minute the convict Stephens stood in the presence of Eliza Sydney.
Altered! he was indeed altered. His eyes were sunken and lustreless—his cheeks wan and hollow—his hair prematurely tinged with grey—and his form thin and emaciated. He was moreover clad in rags—absolute rags.
"My God!" ejaculated Eliza: "in what a condition do you return to your native land!"
"And heaven alone knows what sacrifices I have made, and what hardships I have undergone to come back!" said Stephens in a hollow voice.
"You are pardoned, then?"
"Oh, no! crimes like mine are not so readily forgiven. I escaped!"
"Escaped!" exclaimed Eliza: "and are you not afraid of being recaptured?"
"I must run that risk," replied Stephens, sorrowfully. "But give me food—I am hungry—I am starving!"
The unhappy man sank upon a chair as he uttered these words; and Eliza summoned Louisa to bring refreshments.
The servant placed a tray laden with provisions upon the table, and retired.
Stephens then fell ravenously upon the food thus set before him; while tears stood in Eliza's eyes when she thought that the miserable wretch had once commanded in that house where he now craved a morsel of bread!
At length the convict terminated his meal.
"I had eaten nothing," he said, "since yesterday afternoon, when I spent my last penny to procure a roll. Last night I slept in a shed near the docks, a large stone for my pillow. All this day I have been wandering about the most obscure and wretched neighbourhoods of London—not knowing whither to go, and afraid to be seen by any one who may recognise me. Recognise me!" he added, in a strange satirical manner: "that would perhaps be difficult;" then, linking his voice almost to a whisper, he said in a tone of profound and touching melancholy, "Do you not find me much—very much altered?"
"You have doubtless suffered deeply," said Eliza, wiping away the tears from her eyes; for at that moment she remembered not the injury brought by that man upon herself—she saw and knew of nought save the misery of the hapless being before her.
"You weep, Eliza," exclaimed Stephens, "you weep for me who am unworthy even of your notice!"
"Forget the past: I prefer dwelling upon the kindnesses rather than the injuries I have experienced at your hands."
"Excellent woman!" cried the convict, deeply affected. "Oh! you know not what I have endured—what dangers I have incurred—what hardships I have undergone—what privations I have experienced! Compelled to work my passage back to England as a common sailor—a prey to the brutality of a tyrannical and drunken captain—exposed to all the inclemencies of the weather—no tongue can tell what I have gone through! But I will not weary you with my complaints. Rather let me hear how you yourself have fared."
"My tale is short," answered Eliza. "The two years in Newgate passed away. God knows how they passed away—but they did pass! Of that I will say no more—save that the most powerful interest was exerted to obtain a mitigation of my sentence—but in vain! The Secretary of State assured the Earl of Warrington that he could not interfere with the very lenient judgment awarded by the court relative to myself. One more circumstance I must mention. Every three months, when the prison regulations allowed the admission of the friends of those confined, a lady visited me; and though that lady be the mistress of the Earl of Warrington, I would rejoice to call her sister."
"Oh! how rejoiced I am to know that you were not without friends!" exclaimed Stephens.
"The Earl of Warrington sent me by this lady assurances of his forgiveness, and even of his intention to befriend me, for the sake of my dear departed mother. But, oh! who could have anticipated the noble—the generous conduct pursued towards me by that nobleman? The day of my liberation dawned. Mrs. Arlington came in the earl's private travelling carriage,