As soon as the door was closed, Sir James took me by the hand, and led me up, saying, “Allow me to introduce your old friend as Lady O’Connor.”

  “My dear Tom,” said she, taking me by the hand, “I am and ever shall be Mrs St. Felix with you. Come, now, and sit down. You will again have to take charge of me, for I am to return to Greenwich, and — leave it in a respectable manner. I daresay they have already reported that I have run away from my creditors. Sir James thinks I must go back as if nothing had happened, give out that I had some property left me by a relation, and then settle everything, and sell the goodwill of my shop. It certainly will be better than to give grounds for the surmises and reports which may take place at my sudden disappearance, — not that I am very likely to fall in with my old acquaintances at Greenwich.”

  “Don’t you think so, Tom? — for Tom I must call you, in earnest of our future friendship,” said Sir James.

  “I do think it will be the best plan, sir.”

  “Well, then, you must convey her ladyship to Greenwich again this evening, and to-morrow the report must be spread, and the next day you will be able to re-escort her here. I hope you feel the compliment that I pay you in trusting you with my new-found treasure. Now let us sit down to dinner. Pray don’t look at your dress, Tom; at all events, it’s quite as respectable as her ladyship’s.”

  After dinner a chaise was ordered, and Lady O’Connor and I returned to Greenwich, arriving there after dark. We walked down to her house: I then left her, and hastened to my mother’s.

  “Well, mother,” said I, after the first salutations were over, “have you heard the news about Mrs St. Felix?”

  “No, what has she done now?”

  “Oh, she has done nothing, but a relation in Ireland has left her a lot of money, and she is going over there immediately. Whether she will come back again nobody knows.”

  “Well, we can do without her,” replied my mother, with pique. “I’m very glad that she’s going, for I have always protested at Virginia’s being so intimate with her — a tobacco-shop is not a place for a young lady.”

  “Mother,” replied Virginia, “when we lived in Fisher’s Alley Mrs St. Felix was above us in situation.”

  “I have desired you very often, Virginia, not to refer to Fisher’s Alley, you know I do not like it — the very best families have had their reverses.”

  “I cannot help thinking that such has been the case with Mrs St. Felix,” replied Virginia.

  “If you please, Miss Saunders, we’ll drop the subject,” replied my mother, haughtily.

  The news soon spread; indeed, I walked to several places where I knew it would be circulated, and before morning all Greenwich knew that Mrs St. Felix had been left a fortune: some said ten thousand pounds, others had magnified it to ten thousand a year. When I called upon her the next day, I found that she had made arrangements for carrying on her business during her absence, not having stated that she quitted for ever, but that she would write and let them know as soon as she arrived in Ireland what her decision would be, as she was not aware what might be the property left her. The doctor, who had undertaken to conduct her affairs during her absence, looked very woebegone indeed, and I pitied him; he had become so used to her company, that he felt miserable at the idea of her departure, although all hopes of ever marrying her had long been dismissed from his mind. Mrs St. Felix told me that she would be ready that evening, and I returned home and found Virginia in tears; her mother had again assailed her on account of her feelings towards Mrs St. Felix; and Virginia told me that she was crying at the idea of Mrs St. Felix going away, much more than at what her mother had said; and she requested me to walk with her to Mrs St. Felix that she might wish her farewell.

  When we arrived Mrs St. Felix embraced Virginia warmly, and took her into the little back parlour. Virginia burst into tears. “You are the only friend in the town that I dearly love,” said she, “and now you are going.”

  “My dear girl, I am more sorry to part with you and Tom than I can well express — our pain is mutual, but we shall meet again.”

  “I see no chance of that,” said Virginia, mournfully.

  “But I do; and what is more, I have thought about it since I have had the news. Tom, your sister, of course, only knows the common report?”

  “Of course she knows no more than anybody else.”

  “Well, you do, at all events; and I give you leave, as I know she is to be trusted, to confide my secret to her. And, Virginia, dear, when I tell you that I shall want you to come and stay with me, and shall arrange accordingly, after you have heard what your brother has to tell to you, you will understand that we may meet again. Good bye, and God bless you, dearest; go away now, for I have much to do.”

  When I told to Virginia what the reader is well acquainted with, her joy was excessive. “Yes,” said she, “I see now: my mother is so anxious that I should be taken into some grand family as a companion; and when Lady O’Connor agrees to receive me, she will never have an idea that it is Mrs St. Felix: if she had, nothing would induce her to let me go, that I am sure of; for she has taken an aversion to her for reasons known only to herself.”

  I returned to Mrs St. Felix’s house as soon as I had escorted Virginia home, leaving her very happy. The doctor was there, mute and melancholy; and I was thinking that we should have some difficulty in getting rid of him, when Tom made his appearance.

  “If you please, sir,” said he, “Mrs Fallover wants you immediately; she’s taken very bad.”

  “I can’t help it.”

  “Indeed, but you must help it, doctor,” said Mrs St. Felix; “the poor woman is, as you know, in her first confinement, and you must not neglect her, so let’s say good bye at once, and a happy return. I asked Tom to come down, that I might call upon his sister and one or two other people before I go; so you see, doctor, as you can’t go with me, you may just as well go and attend to the poor woman; so good bye, Doctor Tadpole, I will write to you as soon as I know what I’m to do.”

  The doctor took her hand, and after a pause said, “Mrs St. Felix, Eheu, me infelix!” and hastened out of the shop.

  “Poor fellow!” said she, “he’ll miss me, and that’s the truth. Good bye, Jane; mind you look after everything till I come back, and take care of the dog and cat. Come, Tom, we’ll go now.”

  I threw her trunk on my shoulders, and followed her till we came to the post-house: the chaise was ordered out, and we set off.

  “Tom,” said Lady O’Connor, as I again call her, now that she is clear of Greenwich, “there is one portion of my history which you do not know — a very trifling part indeed. When I saw in the newspapers that my husband had, as I supposed, been executed, I am ashamed to say that I first thought of suicide; but my better feelings prevailed, and I then resolved to change my name, and to let people suppose that I was dead. It was for that reason that I left my bonnet by the river-side, and all my apparel in the house, only taking away a few trinkets and valuables, to dispose of for my future subsistence. I obtained a passage in a transport bound to Woolwich, on the plea of my husband having arrived from abroad; and, by mere accident, I found the goodwill of the tobacconist’s shop to be sold; it suited me — and there is the whole of my history which you do not know.

  “And now, as to Virginia, I intend to have her with me very soon. Your mother is anxious that she should get into a high family, trusting that her beauty will captivate some of the members — a bad kind of speculation. I will advertise for a companion, and so arrange that your mother shall not see me; and when your sister does come to me, it shall not be as a companion, but as a child of my own. I owe you much, Tom — indeed, almost everything; and it is the only way in which I can repay you. I have already spoken to Sir James on the subject: he is equally ready to pay the debt of gratitude, and therefore in future Virginia is our adopted child.”

  “You are more than repaying me, Lady O’Connor,” replied I, “and you are obliging me in the quarter where I feel the obligation the greatest.”

  “That I believe, Tom; so now say no more about it.”

  I may as well here inform the reader that I remained a week at Chatham, and that during that time Lady O’Connor put an advertisement in the county paper, such as we knew would be a bait to my mother. This paper I forwarded to Virginia, marking the advertisement. My mother immediately replied to it, and Sir James O’Connor went up to Greenwich and had an interview with my mother and Virginia, at apartments he had taken at the hotel; appeared pleased with my sister, and said that as soon as Lady O’Connor was sufficiently recovered she would send for her to Chatham. This took place in two days afterwards; my mother escorted Virginia there. Sir James stated that her ladyship was too unwell to see anybody, but that she would speak a few words to Virginia, and leave Sir James to settle the rest with my mother. Virginia came down to her mother, declared that Lady O’Connor was a very ladylike elegant person, and that she should wish to take the situation. The terms were handsome, and my mother, although she regretted not seeing her ladyship, was satisfied, and Virginia was to come in two days afterwards, which she did. Thus was my sister comfortably settled, and after remaining two days I took my leave of Sir James and Lady O’Connor, intending to return to Deal, when I received a letter from Peter Anderson, informing me that old Nanny had been suddenly taken very ill, and that Doctor Tadpole did not think it possible that she would survive more than twenty-four hours; that she was very anxious to see me, and that he hoped I would come up immediately.

  I showed the letter to Lady O’Connor, who said, “You will go, of course, Tom.”

  “Immediately,” replied I, “and the more so as this letter is dated three days back; how it has been delayed I do not know. Farewell, Lady O’Connor; and farewell, dearest Virginia. Old Nanny, as you both know, has many claims upon my gratitude.”

  Chapter Forty Nine.

  My father, much to his surprise, has a bit of land to put his foot upon, and say, “This is my own.”

  “You’re too late, Tom,” said Ben the Whaler, as I jumped down from off the basket of the coach; “the old woman died last night.”

  “I’m sorry for it, Ben,” replied I, “as she wished so much to see me; but I did not receive Anderson’s letter till this morning, and I could not get here sooner.”

  This intelligence induced me to direct my course to the hospital, where I had no doubt that I should find old Anderson, and obtain every information. I met him as he was walking towards the bench on the terrace facing the river, where he usually was seated when the weather was fine. “Well, Tom,” said he, “I expected you, and did hope that you would have been here sooner. Come, sit down here, and I will give you the information which I know you have most at your heart. The old woman made a very happy end. I was with her till she died. She left many kind wishes for you, and I think her only regret was that she did not see you before she was called away.”

  “Poor old Nanny! she had suffered much.”

  “Yes, and there are great excuses to be made for her; and as we feel so here, surely there will be indulgence from above, where the secrets of all hearts are known. She was not insane, Tom; but from the time that she supposed that her son had been gibbeted, there was something like insanity about her: the blow had oppressed her brain — it had stupefied her, and blunted her moral sense of right and wrong. She told me, after you had communicated to her that her son was in the hospital, and had died penitent, that she felt as if a heavy weight had been taken off her mind; that she had been rid of an oppression which had ever borne down her faculties — a sort of giddiness and confusion in the brain, which had made her indifferent, if not reckless, to everything; and I do believe it, from the change which took place in her during the short time which has since elapsed.”

  “What change was that? for you know that I have been too busy during the short intervals I have been here to call upon her.”

  “A change in her appearance and manners: she appeared to recover in part her former position in life; she was always clean in her person, as far as she could be in such a shop as hers; and if she had nothing else, she always had a clean cap and apron.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Yes; and on Sundays she dressed very neat and tidy. She did not go to church, but she purchased a large Bible and a pair of spectacles, and was often to be seen reading it at the door; and when I talked to her she was glad to enter upon serious things. I spoke to her about her fondness for money, and pointed out that it was a sin. She replied that she did feel very fond of money for a long while, for she always thought that some one was nigh her snatching at it, and had done so ever since her son had robbed her; but that since she knew what had become of him she did not feel fond of it — that is, not so fond of it as before; and I believe that such was the case. Her love of money arose from her peculiar state of mind. She had many comforts about her house when she died, which were not in it when I called to see her at the time when she was first ill; but her purchasing the large Bible on account of the print was to me a satisfactory proof that she had no longer such avaricious feelings.”

  “I am very glad to hear all this, Anderson, I assure you, for she was one of my earliest friends, and I loved her.”

  “Not more than she loved you, Tom. Her last words almost were calling down blessings on your head; and, thanks be to God! she died as a Christian should die, and, I trust, is now happy.”

  “Amen!” said I; for I was much moved at Anderson’s discourse.

  After a pause Anderson said, “You know, Tom, that she has left you all that she had. She told me before that such was her intention, although I said nothing to you about it, but I thought it as well that Mr Wilson should make out a paper for her to put her name to, which she did. Ben and I witnessed it, but as for what she has left you, I cannot imagine it can be much, for we examined and found no money except about seven pounds in two small boxes: and then in her will she has left your sister Virginia ten pounds; now, when that comes to be paid, I’m sure I don’t know whether the things in the shop will fetch so much money as will pay your sister’s legacy and the expenses of her funeral.”

  “It’s of no consequence,” replied I, smiling; “but we shall see. At all events, all her debts shall be paid, and her funeral shall be decent and respectable. Good bye now, Anderson, I must go up and see my mother and sister.”

  Old Nanny’s remains were consigned to the tomb on the following Monday. Her funeral was, as I had desired it to be, very respectable, and she was followed to the grave by Anderson, my father, Ben, and me. As soon as it was over, I requested Anderson to walk with me to Mr Wilson’s.

  “I’m afraid, Tom,” said Mr Wilson, “you’ll find, like a great many other residuary legatees, that you’ve not gained much by the compliment.”

  “Nevertheless, will you oblige me by walking down with Anderson and me to her house?”

  “And take off the seals, I presume, in your presence? But the fact is, Tom, that not thinking the property quite safe there, even under seal, I have kept it all in my own pocket.”

  “Nevertheless, oblige me by coming down.”

  “Oh, with all my heart, since you do not like to take possession unless in due form.”

  As soon as we arrived at the hovel, I went into the bed-room, and threw open the window. I then, to their great astonishment, went to the fire-grate, threw out some rubbish which was put into it, pulled up the iron back, and removed the bricks. In a short time I produced two small boxes, one of them very heavy. There was nothing else in the hole.

  “Here,” said I, “Mr Wilson, is a portion of the property which you have overlooked.”

  “No wonder,” replied he. “Pray let us see what it is.”

  I opened the boxes, and, to their surprise, made up in a variety of packages, I counted out gold coin to the amount of four hundred and twenty pounds.

  “Not a bad legacy,” said Mr Wilson. “Then you knew of this?”

  “Of course; I have known it some time — ever since the attempt to rob her.”

  “But what are those papers?”

  On one was written “Arsenic-Poison;” on the other, “Receipt for Toothache.”

  “Nothing of any value,” said I, “by the outside.”

  I opened them, and found, to my surprise, bank-notes to the exact amount of two hundred pounds.

  “Well, I declare,” said I, smiling, “I had nearly thrown all this money away.”

  “And now you see what induced the old woman to write those labels on the outside of it: in case she should be robbed, that the robbers might have thrown the papers away — as you nearly did, and as very probably they might have done.”

  “Well, Mr Wilson, I have no further search to make. Will you oblige me by taking care of this money for me?”

  “Yes; that is, if you’ll carry the gold, which is rather heavy, up to my house, and then I will give you a receipt for the whole.”

  Anderson then left us, and I followed Mr Wilson home. As soon as the money was all re-counted, and a note made of it, Mr Wilson asked me what I wished that he should do with it. I replied, what was the truth, that I really did not know what to do with it, but still I should like to lay it out in something tangible.

  “You want to buy a farm, I suppose, and be a landed proprietor, like Bramble; but I’m afraid there is not enough. But I tell you what, Tom: we lawyers know many things which do not come to everybody’s ears, and I know that the proprietor of the house in which your mother lives wishes to sell it; and I think, as he is much pinched for money, that this sum will about buy it. Now your mother pays fifty-five guineas a year for it, and if it sells for six hundred pounds, that will give you more than nine per cent for your money. What do you think?”

  “Well, sir, I think it’s the very best thing I can do; if more should be necessary, I have saved a little besides, which Bramble takes care of. Well, then, I’ll see about it.”

  A few days afterwards Mr Wilson told me that the house was to be had for five hundred and sixty pounds, and that he had closed the bargain.