THE NARRATIVE OF JOHN WARD GIBSON.

CHAPTER 111.

(Continued from page 253, vol. ii. and unavoidably postponed in consequence of the Author's indisposition.)

WHEN I recall to memory the circumstances of that terrible night, I wonder that I did not, either by word or action, betray myself. I do not know-for I am no adept at the solution of moral questions whether men are equally provided by nature with what is termed conscience; but I am certain that there are some who can not only conceal, but suppress it. It was not until many years afterwards, that I was made fully conscious of the enormity of my crime; and then conscience came too late, as it always does.

The child and myself were rescued from the burning ruins without having sustained any very serious injury; but Mrs. Steiner was so frightfully disfigured as to leave small hope of her recovery, and none of her ever regaining her former appearance. She was conveyed, in a state of insensibility, to the house of a neighbour, who had offered Bromley and his family a temporary asylum; and, when the fire was at length got under, I returned to my own lodging with the gratifying conviction that the chief portion of the most valuable property was destroyed.

It is indeed true, that far from feeling any compunction for the sin I had committed, I gloried in its consummation. They who had so often sneered at my dependent condition, who had made their superiority of circumstances a ground for the assumption of superiority in all other points,—to have brought them at last to my own level, it was something. Whilst I confess this, I must, in justice to myself, mention that I was not at the time aware of the dangerous condition of Mrs. Steiner, but concluded that in a few days she would be restored. I was, at least, willing to believe so.

But when the sense of satisfied vengeance began to abate, a feeling of considerable anxiety with regard to myself, and the conduct I ought to pursue, occupied its place. Was it likely-was it possible that they would suspect me? there was no evidence—or rather, was there any?-that could convict me. It now occurred to me that I had not taken all such precautions against detection as, the act once committed, my fears pointed out as necessary. And yet, hitherto, I had shown myself a proficient in the duplicity which they had taught me to practise. But now, a comfortable reflection presented itself; I was even mad enough to imagine that I saw the immediate agency of Providence in the accident which had prevented Mrs. Steiner and the child from leaving London on that evening. The exertions I had made to save them must furnish, at once, conclusive testimony of my innocence: I had nothing to fear from calumny or malicious conjecture. In that certainty I hugged myself, and towards daybreak fell into a sound and refreshing sleep, from which I did not awake until noon.

And yet, notwithstanding the state of composure to which I had succeeded in bringing myself, I felt that it would be necessary to attach myself to Bromley as closely as possible; lest, during my absence, his own thoughts, or the whispered surmises of others,

should breed suspicions against me. I arose, therefore, and proceeded to his temporary lodging.

I found him, as I expected, surrounded by his neighbours and friends, the majority of whom very liberally offered the old man such assistance as is to be extracted from advice. Far from seizing the opportunity, when we were alone, of indulging a vulgar triumph at his expense, I endeavoured to soothe and to console him, to cheer him and to raise his spirits; reminding him (I could not forbear that one luxury) that there was no situation in life that honest industry could not render respectable; that, although this calamity had befallen him, he might yet, late as it was, recover himself, and eventually raise up for himself kind and attached friends-as I had done.

I uttered these last words in a sufficiently marked and emphatic manner; and yet Bromley felt them not, or did not appear to heed them. Indeed, he seemed, as yet, hardly conscious of the extent of his misfortune; merely expressing great anxiety for Steiner's return, as though that event were the only matter to be thought about. His manner to me was as cold, distant, and supercilious as before. I knew, however, that this apathy could not last long,-that the truth must soon find its level; and I was perfectly content to wait till it did do so.

If I had not, long ago, acquired an ingenuity in forging palliations and excuses upon my own heart, I should have been overwhelmed with remorse and horror when the dreadful situation of Mrs. Steiner was made known to me. As it was, I felt deeply shocked; but not more so, I endeavoured to make myself believe, than I should have been, had she suffered in other circumstances: I was innocent of this-I strove to think so; because I had not contemplated it. I argued the case too much with my own mind to have been right.

However this might be, I was much relieved to hear, about a month afterwards, that she was out of danger; but it was added, she was so shockingly altered that I should not recognise her. I was not much concerned at this: I had no wish to perpetuate the memory of a face that had so often looked upon me with undeserved contempt and scorn; and I had ceased to feel the slightest interest in the fate of a person who, owing probably her own life and that of the child to my exertions, had not even repaid me by the common gratitude of acknowledgment. But to return.

During three days that succeeded the fire, I was almost constantly employed in Bromley's business; by which time, a tolerable estimate was completed of the extent of his misfortune. The intervals of my leisure were occupied with the old man; and many occasions were afforded me of watching the gradual operation of the truth, as it silently and surely made its way to his heart. At first, the melancholy state of his daughter was his chief, if not sole affliction; next, the absence of Steiner was deplored; until, at length, the one calamity, the irreparable loss, extending over the future, lay clearly before him. I, too, could see as clearly that my vengeance had been amply fulfilled; and I was satisfied.

Oh! it was a humiliating spectacle to witness the abject creature lamenting the downfal of the base image he had set up, and craving pity on a plea whose validity he had so often denied. He was once more to become one of those who "prey upon the middle classes,”it was his favourite expression,-for he had no longer a capital;"

66

something which, in his opinion, included all the cardinal virtues, and religion into the bargain. I suspect there is a very large sect in this country, holding the same faith.

I had been too much occupied with Bromley's affairs, on the fourth day, to call upon him before the afternoon. As I entered the room, he arose and met me halfway.

"Gibson," said he hurriedly, and in some agitation, "you had better come again in an hour or two: but, stay; I don't know what to say-" he paused; "what is best to be done?"

"What is the matter?" I inquired.

"Mr. Steiner is returned ;" and he pointed to a door which communicated with an adjoining chamber.

Well, sir, I am glad of it, for your sake. You have been anxious for his return."

Bromley looked perplexed, but presently motioned me to take a "You may as well see him at once, perhaps," he remarked. I bowed. "I shall be very glad to see him.”

seat.

At this moment Steiner, who, I think, had been listening, opened the door, and, flinging it after him, strode into the middle of the room. There was a kind of white calmness in his face, which I knew well how to interpret.

"Well, this is a very pretty piece of business; indeed, is it!" said he; "what do you think, Mr. Gibson ?"

"It is a very sad one," I answered.

"Have you no conception how it originated?" he inquired.

"None whatever."

"Do you mean to say," he resumed with quickness, "that you do not know how the fire was caused,-by what-by whom?" "I do."

Steiner took Bromley aside, and began to talk to him in a low tone. It was a relief to me, his doing so at that moment. A sudden faintness, a desertion of the vital powers, had in an instant reduced me to the helplessness of a child; I dreaded the interview which I foresaw was about to take place. He suspected me, that was certain; perhaps had obtained some clue-some witness against me. I felt that I could not confront him like an innocent man, I had not even strength to endeavour to do so.

"Had you not better be seated?" said Steiner, turning towards me, for I had remained standing motionless.

Steiner sat for a while absorbed in thought, with his eyes fixed upon the ground; but, at length, I could perceive his glance slowly stealing upward from my feet, until it settled itself upon my face. I could not bear the immovable gaze with which he regarded me: in vain did I attempt to withdraw my eyes from his, some horrible fascination constrained me; I could feel that there was not a thought of my soul hidden from him,-that my crime was legibly written on my countenance, and I was almost tempted to shriek out the confession which was struggling in my throat.

"As there is a God in heaven!" cried Steiner, striking his knee with one hand, and pointing towards me with triumphant malignity, "that man set fire to the premises. Look at him!" he added, seizing Bromley by the arm; "would not that face alone convict him in a court of justice?"

Bromley, I think, arose, and laid hold upon Steiner.

"For Heaven's sake!" said he ; " do not be so violent. You don't know that, we don't know it yet. Speak, Gibson; what do you say? You shall be heard; what answer have you to make to this?" None. I made an effort to speak,—to say I know not what,—but I could not utter a syllable. How I got out of the room I cannot remember. I must have slunk out, like a beaten hound.

When I recovered myself, I found that I had sunk upon a window-seat on the first landing of the stairs. There was a slight noise above. Steiner had attempted to follow me, but was prevented by Bromley. My presence of mind returned to me of a sudden, and I sprang from the seat. Of what unmanly, paltry weakness had I been guilty! what cause could they have of suspicion? what right had they to suspect me? Yes; they knew their persecution of me: they felt that they had earned this reprisal at my hands, that I was justified in returning evil for evil. And they had extorted a tacit confession, at least, of the justice of their accusation. No-no, I was not to be over-reached quite so easily; that must not be. The blood boiled through my veins, and pressed upon my brain with a dreadful weight. I rushed up stairs, and flung open the door.

I cannot describe the feelings that possessed me at the moment. I had almost brought myself to the belief that I was an injured man, and yet I was aware of the necessity of counterfeiting a violence of resentment which should satisfy my accusers that I was so. At all events, there was that in my face, as I slowly approached Steiner, which appalled him; for he retreated some paces. I flung my open hand from me, and seized him by the collar. I trembled violently, but my words came clearly and distinctly from me.

"Steiner!" said I, "you have said that I set fire to the house; you have accused me of it; you shall prove it-I will make you attempt to prove it!"

Here Bromley rushed between, and besought me to "exercise more temper." I cast him violently from me.

"And you," I said, turning towards him," you, who in conjunction, leagued with this villain, have been diligent, have set your poor wits to work, to make my life, after it has been devoted to you, a curse to myself; you wish, at length, to compass my death: but I shall baffle you; I defy you both, as much-I can say no more as I despise you."

Steiner, as I said this, released himself from my grasp, and endeavoured to assume a threatening aspect, which, however, failed of its intended effect.

"I have accused you, Gibson," said he ;" and I will prove it." I smiled scornfully at him. He was perplexed, and would have appealed to Bromley.

"Did you not see him when I said so?" he exclaimed.

Bromley made no reply, but raised his hands, as though unwilling to take further part in the business.

"Is it not strange," resumed Steiner, addressing me, "that the fire should have commenced in the shop-that it should have made such progress before it was discovered that nothing whatever of value should have been preserved ?”

I turned from him, and approached Bromley. "Tell him," I said calmly,

" for you know it, the lie he has this moment uttered; your daughter, and his child, were preserved by

me, and at the hazard of my life: the thanks you owe me, you may pay-when you pay your other debts.'

Bromley was distressed; I could see that, but I was in no humour to bate a jot of the advantage I had gained. "You and your accomplice," I continued, "know where I am to be found: I shall be forthcoming, I promise you. Good morning to you!"

It was now no time for supineness, or fruitless meditation. I took advantage of the opportunity they had afforded me, and informed the neighbourhood of the accusation they had launched against me, and of the steps they intended to take. That was wisely done. Who could believe me guilty of this act, who was the first to promulgate the charge? I suborned a favourable verdict before my enemies commenced operations.

Steiner was as good as his word. He obtained a warrant against me, and I was brought before a magistrate. But what could this avail? He had no evidence: not the slightest symptom of guilt was observable upon my face. My worst enemy, even Steiner himself, could extract-could infer nothing unfavourable from my manners or demeanour. I was conscious innocence; and when I collectedly, and with a manifest desire that the circumstances should be minutely related, constrained Bromley to testify to the efforts I had made the successful efforts to preserve his daughter and her child, a murmur of indignant horror at the baseness of Steiner and himself pervaded the justice-room. I was discharged, not only without a stain upon my character, but with many compliments upon my heroic conduct; and, as I left the office, the admiring plaudits of the multitude, and the yells without with which they assailed my persecutors, sanctioned the justice of the magistrate's decision.

I need hardly say that I went on my way rejoicing. I had not proceeded far, however, before Steiner overtook me. He tapped me on the shoulder; I was not sorry that he had followed me: I was glad of the opportunity of enjoying my triumph to the full. "You have escaped," said he, "for the present; but you shall not escape me. We shall yet," and he shook his fist in my face, we shall yet be too much for you."

How exquisitely I enjoyed the empty menace! "Steiner," I replied, "do you intend me a personal outrage? if you do, I'll have you taken into custody forthwith. Here!" and I beckoned to some men who were already collected on the other side of the street.

He was daunted. "I shall not lose sight of you," he muttered. "I mean what I have said-I shall see you again!"

"You shall, indeed," I said calmly; " and that very shortly. You owe me, I recollect, six months' salary-nearly a hundred pounds: I hope, when I call upon you, it will be convenient to you to pay it."

Steiner had not expected this. He was dumb. It was an inconvenient circumstance.

"Ho! ho!" I said, with a smile of contempt; "I have, it seems, escaped your malice, and this had escaped your memory. You may keep it. I hope, Steiner, you may live to want it. This one hope of mine I think likely to be fulfilled."

CHAPTER IV.

WHEN moralists purpose to deter you from vice, they tell you how insidious it is; how it strengthens by encouragement; how im