Chapter LVI: A History of the Past (1)

Mr. de Medina was the son of a Spanish merchant, who died, leaving a considerable fortune behind him, and of which this son was the sole inheritor. But, by the villainy of his relations and the corrupt decision of a Spanish judge, Mr. de Medina found himself despoiled of the riches which were rightfully his own; and at the age of two-and-twenty he quitted his native land in disgust, to return to England, where indeed he had been educated, and the language of which country he spoke as fluently as his own.

It is hardly necessary to state that Mr. de Medina was of the Jewish persuasion; and on his arrival in London, he naturally applied to the eminent merchants of his own creed for employment. It is the fashion in this country to decry the Jews—to represent them as invariably sordid, mercenary, avaricious, and griping—indeed, to carry the charges laid against them to such a length, as to associate with their names a spirit of usury amounting to the most flagrant and dishonourable extortion. And these charges have been repeated so often, and echoed seriously by so many persons deemed a respectable authority, that the prejudice against the Jews has become interwoven with the Englishman's creed. But the exceptions have been mistaken for the rule; and—strange as the assertion may sound to many ears—we boldly proclaim that there is not a more honest, intelligent, humane, and hospitable class of persons on the face of the earth than the Jews.

The fact is, when an Englishman is broken down in fortune, and can no longer raise funds by mortgage on his estate, nor by the credit of his name, he flies to the money-lender. Now Jews are essentially a financial nation; and money-broking, in all its details, is their special avocation. The class of Israelite money-lenders is, therefore, numerous; and it is ten to one that the broken-down individual, who requires a loan, addresses himself to a Jew—even if he take the money-lender living nearest to him, or to whom he is first recommended. Well—he transacts his business with this Jew; and as he can give no security beyond his bond or his bill, and his spendthrift habits are notorious, he cannot of course obtain the loan he seeks save on terms proportionate to the risk incurred by the lender. Yet he goes away, and curses the Jew as an usurer; and thus another voice is raised to denounce the entire nation as avaricious and griping. But does this person, however, reflect that had he applied to a Christian money-broker, the terms would have been equally high, seeing that he had no real security to offer, and that his name was already tarnished? Talk of the usury of the Jews—look at the usury practised by Christians! Look at the rapacity of Christian attorneys!—look at the greediness of Christian bill-discounters!—look, in a word, at the money-making spirit of the Christian, and then call the Jew the usurer _par excellence_! It is a detestable calumny—a vile prejudice, as dishonourable to the English character an it is unjust towards a generous-hearted race!

We deem it right to state that these observations are recorded as disinterestedly and as impartially—as honestly and as conscientiously, as any other comments upon prejudices or abuses which have ever appeared in "THE MYSTERIES OF LONDON." Not a drop of Jewish blood flows in our veins; but we have the honour to enjoy the friendship of several estimable families of the Jewish persuasion. We have, therefore, had opportunities of judging of the Israelite character; and the reader must be well aware that the writer who wields his pen _against_ a popular prejudice is more likely to be instigated by upright motives than he who labours to maintain it. In following the current of general opinion, one is sure to gain friends: in adventurously undertaking to stem it, he is equally certain to create enemies. But, thank God! this work is addressed to an intelligent and enlightened people—to the industrious classes of the United Kingdom—to those who are the true pillars of England's prosperity, glory, and greatness!

When Mr. de Medina arrived, friendless and almost penniless, on the British soil, he addressed himself to the heads of several eminent commercial firms in the City of London,—firms, the constituents of which were of his own persuasion. The Jews always assist each other to the extent of their means:—do the Christians? Answer, ye cavillers against the persecuted race of Israel! Mr. de Medina, accordingly, found occupation; and so admirably did he conduct himself—so well did he promote the interests of his employers, that by the time he reached the age of thirty, he found himself a partner in the concern whose prosperity his talents and his industry had so much enhanced. He then repaired to Liverpool, to establish a branch-house of trade, and of which he became the sole manager. His partners dying soon afterwards, he effected an arrangement with their heirs, by which he abandoned all share in the London business, and retained the Liverpool house as his own.

His success was now extraordinary; and his dealings were proverbially honourable and fair. He went upon the principle of doing a large business with small gains, and paying good wages to those who were in his employment. Thus, though naturally of a stern and severe disposition, his name was respected and his character admired. At the age of thirty-five—twenty years before the opening of our tale—he married a lady of his own nation—beautiful, accomplished, and rich. Within twelve months their union was blessed with a daughter, on whom the name of Tamar was bestowed; and at the expiration of another year, a second girl was born, and who was called Esther. But in giving birth to the latter, Mrs. de Medina lost her life; and for a considerable time the bereaved husband was inconsolable.

The kindness of his friends and a conviction of the necessity of subduing his grief as much as possible, for the sake of the motherless babes who were left to him, aroused Mr. de Medina from the torpor of profound woe; and he became so passionately attached to his children, that he would fondle them as if he himself were a child. As they grew up, a remarkable resemblance was observed between them; and as Esther was somewhat precocious in a physical point of view, she was as tall when ten years old as her sister. Strangers then took them for twins, although there was really twelve months' difference between their ages. But they actually appeared to be counterparts of each other. Their hair was of precisely the same intensely black and glossy shade: their eyes were of the same dark hue and liquid lustre;—their countenances presented each the same blending of the white and rich carnation beneath the transparent tinge of delicate olive or bistre which marked their origin; their very teeth were of the same shape, and shone, too, between pairs of lips which Nature had made in the same mould, and dyed with the same vermillion. Twin-roses did the lovely sisters seem,—roses on the same stalk; and by the time Tamar was sixteen and Esther fifteen, the ripe beauty of the former and the somewhat precocious loveliness of the latter, appeared to have attained the same glorious degree of female perfection.

But their minds were not equally similar. Tamar was vain of her personal attractions, while Esther was reserved and bashful: the former was never so happy as when she was the centre of attraction in a ball-room, while the latter preferred the serene tranquillity of home. In their style of dress they were equally different from each other. Tamar delighted in the richest attire, and loved to deck herself with costly jewels; and, well aware that she possessed a splendid bust, she wore her gowns so low as to leave no room for conjecture relative to the charming fullness of her bosom. Esther, on the contrary, selected good, but not showy materials for her dress, and never appeared with a profusion of jewellery. Though of proportions as rich and symmetrical as her sister, yet she rather sought to conceal their swelling contours than display them. Tamar was of warm and impassioned temperament, and her breast was easily excited by fierce desires; but Esther was the embodiment of chaste and pure notions—her soul the abode of maiden innocence!

Mr. de Medina often remonstrated with Tamar upon her love of splendid attire, and her anxiety to shine in the circles of gaiety. But her ways were so winning, that when she threw her arms around his neck, and besought him not to be angry with her, or to allow her to accompany some female friends to a ball or concert to which she had been invited, he invariably yielded to her soft persuasion.

Tamar was a few weeks past the age of sixteen, and Esther had accomplished her fifteenth year, when an incident occurred which was fated to wield a material influence over the career of the elder sister. One night Mr. de Medina, while returning home on horseback from a neighbouring village where he had dined with a friend, was stopped and plundered of his purse and pocket-book. He was by no means a man who was likely to yield without resistance to the audacious demands of a highwayman; but he was unarmed at the time—and by some accident he was unattended by his groom. The robber, who wore a black crape over his countenance, was armed to the teeth, and seemed resolute as well as desperate: Mr. de Medina, therefore, risked not an useless contest with him, but surrendered his property as above mentioned. On his return home, and while conversing on the incident with his daughters, he suddenly recollected that the pocket-book contained a paper of great value and importance to himself, but of no use to any other person. He accordingly inserted advertisements in the local newspapers, offering a reward for the restoration of that document, and promising impunity to the robber, if he would give it up. But for several days these notifications remained unanswered.

A week elapsed, and one morning an individual, dressed in a semi-sporting style, called at the house and inquired for Mr. de Medina. But Mr. de Medina had just left home for the purpose of conducting Esther to the dwelling of some friends who resided in the neighbourhood of Liverpool, and with whom she was to pass a few days. Tamar was, however, at home; and as the servant informed her that "the gentleman said his business was important," she desired that he might be shown up into the drawing-room. He was evidently struck by the dazzling beauty of the Jewess who had thus accorded him an audience; and there was something so dashing—so rakish—so off-hand, without vulgarity, in his manner,—a something between the frankness of an open-hearted man and the easy politeness of one who knows the world well,—that Tamar did not treat him with that degree of cold courtesy which seems to say, "Have the kindness to explain your business, and then you may depart." But she requested him to be seated; and when he made a few observations which led to a connected discourse on the gaiety and "doings" of the Liverpool folks, she suffered herself to be drawn into the conversation without pausing to ask the motive of his visit. Thus nearly half-an-hour passed away: and while Tamar thought to herself that she had never met a more agreeable gentleman in her life—and certainly never one who possessed such a brilliant set of teeth, or who looked so well in tops and cords,—the stranger came to a conclusion equally favourable concerning herself. Indeed, he was quite charmed with the personal attractions and the conversation of the beautiful Jewess; and when he took his leave, she forgot that he had not communicated his business, nor even his name.

When her father returned home in the afternoon, she mentioned to him the visit of the stranger; but added that he only remained a few moments, and would not explain his business to her. Mr. de Medina immediately expressed his belief that the call had some reference to his advertisement concerning the lost paper. But Tamar enthusiastically repelled the suspicion; declaring that, though he had not stayed a minute, yet his manners, appearance, and address, were of too superior a nature to be associated with a dishonourable avocation. Mr. de Medina asked if he had intimated when he should call again; to which question Tamar, fearful that it would appear strange to give a negative reply, answered—"In a few days." Thus terminated a conversation in which Tamar had been guilty of much duplicity, and which was marked by the first deliberate falsehood which she ever unblushingly told her father.

On the following day the stranger returned; and Mr. de Medina, not having expected him so soon, was not at home to receive him. But Tamar was in the drawing-room, to which he was conducted as on the previous day. It was summer-time, and she was engaged in tying up the drooping heads of some flowers in the large balcony. The stranger begged her not to desist from her occupation; but, on the contrary, offered, in his gay manner of frank politeness, to assist her. She could not refuse his aid—she did not wish to refuse it; and they were soon engaged in a very interesting conversation. He held the stalks of the flowers, too, while she tied the thread; and her beautiful hand passed over that of the stranger's—_not_ without touching it; while her breath, sweeter than the perfume of the flowers themselves, fanned his cheek. Once, when he stooped a little lower, under pretence of examining a particular rose-bud more closely, his hair mingled with hers, and he could see that the rich glow of excitement flooded her countenance—her neck—and even extended to the bosom, of which he was enabled, by her stooping posture, to catch more than partial glimpses.

When next their eyes met, there seemed to be already a tacit kind of intelligence established between them,—an intelligence which appeared to say she knew he had allowed his hair to mingle with hers on purpose, and that she had not withdrawn her head because the contact pleased her. The interesting conversation was continued; and an hour had passed before either the stranger showed the slightest sign of an intention to take his leave, or Tamar remembered how long they had been alone together. When he did at length take up his hat and his riding-whip, he also picked up a flower which Tamar had accidentally broken off from its stem in the balcony; and placing it in his buttonhole without making the slightest allusion to the little incident, he bowed and quitted the room.

He had been gone at least ten minutes ere Tamar again recollected that he had not mentioned his business nor told his name. She had been thinking of the incident of the flower;—yes—and also of the commingling of her raven locks with his fine, manly light hair. When her father returned home on this occasion, she did not mention the fact of the stranger's visit at all. Throughout the remainder of that day she wondered whether he would return on the following one; and she made up her mind, if he did, not to suffer him to depart before she had elicited his business and his name. In the evening she went out to make a few purchases at a shop in a neighbouring street; and she was retracing her way, when two young men, walking arm-in-arm, and smoking cigars,—having withal something most offensively obtrusive in their entire appearance,—stopped short in front of Tamar, literally barred her way, and began to address her in that flippant, coarse style which, without being absolutely obscene, is nevertheless particularly insulting. "Gentlemen—if such you be," said Tamar, in a dignified manner, "I request you to let me pass."—"Well, won't you let us escort you home, wherever it is?" demanded one; "for you're a devilish sweet girl, upon my honour."—Scarcely were these words uttered when the long lash of a riding-whip began to belabour the backs of the two young swells in a fashion that made them almost scream with agony; and Tamar, who instantly stepped aside, recognised in the champion that had thus come to her assistance, the very individual who was uppermost in her thoughts at the moment when she was stopped in the insulting manner described.

The two swells were for an instant so taken by surprise that they dropped each other's arm and their cigars simultaneously, and began to caper about in the most extraordinary manner, the stranger continuing to lash them with so good a will, and yet in such an easy, unexcited manner, that Tamar could scarcely forbear from laughing heartily. But when they perceived that there was only one assailant, they rushed in upon the stranger, and endeavoured to close with him. He did not retreat a single step, but hitting one of them a heavy blow on the wrist with the butt-end of his whip, he sent _him_ off roaring, while with his left hand he caught the _other_ by the collar of the coat and swinging him round—apparently without any extraordinary effort—laid him on his back in the dust. He then offered his arm to Tamar, and led her away as quietly as if nothing had happened, at the same time commencing a discourse upon some totally different topic, as if he would not even give her an opportunity of thanking him for the manner in which he had chastised the insulting youngsters.

But Tamar _did_ thank him—and very warmly too; for this feat was just one of the very nature calculated to improve the hold which the stranger already had upon the heart of the beautiful Jewess. She now looked upon him with admiration; for all women love bravery in a man;—and his bravery was so real—so natural—so totally devoid of impetuous excitement when called into action, and so free from any subsequent desire to elicit flattery,—that she beheld in him a character at once generous and noble. She could have thrown her arms round his neck, and said, "Stranger! whoever you may be, I admire—I love you!" And when he _did_ take her hand, as she leant upon his arm, and when he pressed it gently—then let it fall without uttering a word, but fixed his deep blue, laughing, and expressive eyes upon her countenance with a steadiness that meant much though his tongue was silent, a soft—a delicious languor came over her, congenial with the moonlight hour.

He conducted her to within a few doors of her father's house, and then took leave of her, saying, "I shall see you again to-morrow." She entered her dwelling, and retired immediately to her chamber; for her heart was filled with a happiness which she knew that her countenance would betray. When she met her father at supper, she was more composed; and she said not a word to him concerning the occurrence of the evening.

On the following day the stranger called again; and again did he find Tamar alone in the drawing-room. On this occasion she extended to him her hand, which he took and pressed to his lips. The maiden did not withdraw it; and her cheeks—her neck—her bosom were flushed with the thrilling glow of excitement, while her eyes expressed a voluptuous languor. The stranger drew her towards him—their lips met: they embraced tenderly. Then he declared his love for her—and she murmured words in reply which convinced him that he was loved in return. Thus, on the fourth occasion of their meeting, did they pour fourth the secrets of their hearts; and Tamar plighted her affection to one whose name she as yet knew not!

Their happy interview was suddenly disturbed by a loud knock at the street-door; and Tamar exclaimed, "My father!" The stranger implored her to compose herself; and she had succeeded in assuming a collected and tranquil demeanour, when Mr. de Medina entered the room. Her lover was standing at a respectful distance from Tamar, with whom he appeared to be exchanging the mere courteous observations which usually pass between perfect strangers. Mr. de Medina requested him to be seated, and inquired his business. "I have called relative to the advertisements which you inserted in the newspapers," was the reply.—"I thought as much!" ejaculated Mr. de Medina: then, turning towards his daughter, he said, "Tamar, my love, you can leave us."—The maiden dared not disobey the hint thus conveyed; but as she passed behind her father to quit the room, she darted upon her lover a look so full of meaning—so expressive of ardent affection, that it seemed to say, "Be you who and what you may, I shall never cease to adore you!" And he returned that look with a glance more rapid but equally significant of tenderness.

When she had left the room, Mr. de Medina continued by observing, "May I have the pleasure of learning your name?"—"Certainly," was the off-hand answer. "I am called Thomas Rainford."—"And your business with me, sir," added Mr. de Medina, in a cold tone and with suspicious manner, "is relative to the paper of which I was robbed?"—"Precisely so," exclaimed Tom Rain. "A more suitable person than myself could not possibly have called respecting the affair."—"How so, sir?" demanded Mr. de Medina, his manner growing still more suspicious.—"Simply, because it was I who robbed you," was the cool answer; and Tom Rain's merry laugh rang through the room.—"You!" ejaculated Mr. de Medina, starting from his seat. "Then how dare you show your face here?"—"Oh! very easily," replied Rainford, without moving from his chair. "In the first place your advertisements promise impunity to the robber, on condition that he restores the document; in the second place, if you contemplated any treachery, it would only be the worse for you and would not injure me; and thirdly, it struck me that I had better come in person to give you up the paper, because it might have miscarried through the post, or a messenger might have lost it. However, here it is, Mr. de Medina; and had you not advertised for it, I should have restored it to you. I am no rascally extortioner: I never hold men's private papers as a means of drawing money from them. What I do, I do boldly and in true John Bull fashion. A jolly highwayman, Mr. de Medina, is as different from a sneaking pickpocket or a low swindler, as an attorney in grand practice is different from the paltry pettifogger who hangs about the doors of criminal courts or police-offices. It is not often I boast in this way, Mr. de Medina; but I thought you might as well understand that a principle of honour alone, and neither fear nor hope of reward, has induced me to restore you that document. As for fear, I never knew it; and as for reward, I should not think of taking it, were you to offer any."—Mr. de Medina gazed upon Rainford in astonishment, as much as to say, "You are really a very extraordinary person!" But his lips uttered not what the countenance expressed.

The highwayman rose, bowed with easy politeness to Mr. de Medina, and quitted the room. As he was crossing the landing towards the stairs, the door of an apartment adjoining that where he had just left Mr. de Medina, was cautiously opened, and Tamar thrust a note into his hand. He caught a glimpse of her countenance as he received it; and he saw that she had been weeping. When he reached the street, he tore open the note, and read as follows:—"_I have overheard all! But I do not love thee the less, my brave—my gallant Rainford! This evening, I shall have occasion to call at two or three shops in the same street where you rescued me from insult yesterday._"—Need we inform our readers that Tom Rain kept the appointment thus given him? Or need we say how the lovers subsequently met as often as Tamar could leave the house without exciting suspicion? Yes—they met frequently; and each interview only tended to strengthen the profound attachment which they had formed for each other.

And no wonder that Tom Rain loved his beautiful Tamar; for beautiful—ravishingly beautiful she indeed was! To behold her countenance, was passion;—to gaze on her admirable shape, was rapture;—to meet the glances of her fine black eyes was fascination! And, oh! how devotedly she loved Rainford in return! To her he was a hero; for, although she knew him to be a highwayman, yet well was she aware that he never stooped to a petty meanness, and that his soul was endowed with many noble—many generous qualities. One daring feat which he performed a few weeks after she first became acquainted with him, converted her admiration into a positive enthusiasm; so that the Empress Josephine could not have more ardently worshipped Napoleon than did Tamar her Tom Rain!

Thus it happened:—One night the Liverpool and Manchester coach was stopped on its way to the former town, by a single highwayman, who wore a crape over his face, was well mounted, and equally well armed. Although the coach was crowded with passengers, most of whom were men, yet so terrible was the robber even in his very coolness—so formidable with his easy air of unconcern, that all were paralysed with fear. No resistance was offered him; and he reaped an excellent harvest from the purses of the passengers. One gentleman, who happened to be the Mayor of Liverpool, was so bewildered by terror, that though only asked for his money, he handed to the highwayman both purse and watch. The latter was returned, the robber declaring that he scorned any thing save the current coin of the realm or good Bank-notes. From the female passengers he took nothing; and, perceiving by the moonlight a poor shivering girl of about fifteen seated outside at the back of the coach, he asked her a few questions. The brief and timid replies which she gave were ample enough to render intelligible a tale of suffering and woe; and the highwayman, drawing forth five guineas, said, "Here, my dear, you need not be afraid to accept this trifle. It comes from a pocket into which none of these gentlemen's gold has gone."—And before the poor girl could utter a word in reply, the highwayman put spurs to his horse, and disappeared in a few moments.

But this action on his part did not disarm the male passengers, who had been robbed, of their rage and their rancour. The Mayor was particularly indignant: the entire town of Liverpool had been insulted—grossly insulted in his worshipful person! Such wrath required a vent; and it found an issue by means of advertising the daring robbery. The Mayor announced, in all the local papers and by means of placards, "_that any one who should be instrumental in bringing the highwayman before him, would receive the sum of two hundred pounds as a reward_." But a week elapsed before these proclamations received any answer. At the expiration of that time the following incident occurred. One evening, the Mayor entertained a select party of friends at a splendid banquet. The cloth had been removed some time—the ladies had retired to the drawing-room—and the gentlemen, about a dozen in number, were passing the wine rapidly round, when a servant entered to inform his master that a person wished to speak to him in the hall. The servant's manner was somewhat embarrassed; and, upon being questioned, he said that the stranger seemed to wear a mask, as his face was too hideous to be possibly a human one. The Mayor trembled; and his guests caught the infection of his terror. His worship hazarded an opinion that the visitor was perhaps in some way connected with the highwayman who had robbed the Manchester and Liverpool coach; and he directed the servant to show the stranger into the study and then run and fetch a constable. But scarcely were these commands issued, when the door opened; and in walked the object of interest and fear. The Mayor and his guests uttered simultaneous ejaculations of terror; for never did mortal man possess so frightful a face; and as it was partially shaded by a huge quantity of hair and a large slouched hat, it was impossible to decide whether it were really a mask or a natural physiognomy. The nose was enormous, and studded with carbuncles and warts: the cheeks were fiery red; and the chin was of dimensions proportionate with the nasal promontory. This terrible being was enveloped in a long cloak; but through the holes cut for the purpose appeared his arms, the hands holding each a tremendous horse-pistol as big as a blunderbuss.

Placing his back against the door, the intruder said, in a voice which he rendered as hollow and fierce as possible, "Most worshipful Mayor! you have advertised that any one who is instrumental in bringing a certain highwayman before you, shall receive the sum of two hundred pounds as a reward. _I am_ the highwayman alluded to: I have brought myself before you; and I appeal to the wisdom and justice of the intelligent gentlemen seated round your board, whether I have not fairly earned the recompense promised?"—"But," stammered the Mayor, "I meant that any one who would bring the robber a prisoner before me, should be entitled to the reward."—"I don't care what you meant," returned the highwayman: "I only know what your advertisements and placards say. You should get the corporation to vote funds to enable you to attach a grammarian to your establishment. He would be more useful than the sword-bearer, I think," added the audacious robber, with a merry laugh in his natural tone. "But I have no leisure to bandy words with you. Tell out the two hundred pounds; or I shall be under the disagreeable necessity of allowing one of these little instruments to empty its contents in the direction of your head."—And, with these words, he raised a pistol. The Mayor uttered an exclamation of terror, and cast an imploring glance rapidly around. But all his guests were sitting like statues—in blank dismay. The Mayor saw that he must not look to them for assistance; and yet he was very loath to part with two hundred pounds in such an unsatisfactory manner.—"But how do I know that you really are the person who robbed the coach?" he asked, the words evidently costing him a most painful effort to enunciate them.—"Because I can tell you every incident that occurred on the occasion," was the answer.—"That information you may have received from hearsay or gleaned from the papers," returned the Mayor, gathering courage as he found the robber willing to argue the point with him.—"I will give you another proof," said the robber. "There was a bad guinea in the purse I took from you. Are you satisfied now?"—"Not quite," rejoined the Mayor, hoping that by gaining time, some chance might place the daring visitor in his power.—"Then I have one more proof to offer you," said the robber. "In a corner of the purse there was a scrap of paper containing the receipt of an overseer of some parish in Manchester for the quarter's money due for the maintenance of your worship's bastard; and so I suppose you had been to that town to pay it."—The Mayor was aghast as this announcement burst upon him; for, though he had lost the receipt in question, it had never struck him that he had placed it in his purse when he paid the money at Manchester. The guests surveyed their worshipful host in astonishment; and the servant giggled behind his chair.—"_Now_ are you satisfied?" demanded the highwayman. "Remember, you brought it on yourself."—The Mayor, partially recovering his presence of mind, affected to laugh off the matter as a capital joke on the part of the robber; but he made no farther objection to pay the two hundred pounds. This he was enabled to do, by borrowing all the money that his guests had about them, and adding it to the contents of his own pocket; for the highwayman would neither take a cheque nor allow him to quit the room to procure the requisite sum from his strong-box. The robber would not even leave his post at the door, but compelled the Mayor to rise from the table and bring the cash and notes to him—a proceeding which his worship liked as little as might be, seeing that it brought him into awful vicinity with the nose, the chin, and the pistols. At length the business was settled; and the highwayman withdrew, locking the door behind him,—but not before he had assured the company that if they attempted to open the windows and raise an alarm in the street after him, he would instantly return and put them all to death.

This incident was in every body's mouth next day, throughout the good town of Liverpool and its environs; and the Mayor was most heartily laughed at. But Tamar alone knew the name of the daring individual who had perpetrated so audacious a feat.

The beautiful Jewess carefully concealed her amour from her sister and her father. Indeed, Esther never saw Tom Rain during the whole time that he remained in Liverpool. But one day Tamar disappeared, leaving a note behind her, addressed to her sister, whom she begged to break to their father her flight and its cause. She stated that her happiness—her life were wrapped up in Thomas Rainford: and that as she was well aware her sire would never consent to her union with him, even if the usages of the Jewish nation sanctioned an alliance with a Christian, she had taken a step which she should regret only on account of the distress it might create in the minds of her father and sister. Esther could scarcely believe her eyes when she read the appalling contents of this note. She fancied that she was in a dream: then, when the full conviction of the truth burst upon her, and she comprehended that her sister had really fled with Rainford, she gave way to all the wildness of her grief—for she was deeply, deeply attached to Tamar!

But how did Mr. de Medina bear this cruel blow? He wept not—he gave vent to no passionate exclamation—he manifested no excitement. But, after remaining wrapt up in profound meditation for upwards of an hour, while Esther sate near, watching him with the deepest—most acutely painful suspense,—a long, long hour of utter silence, broken only by the frequent sobs that told the maiden's anguish,—Mr. de Medina spoke in a calm, deliberate, but stern and relentless tone:—"Henceforth, Esther, I have but one daughter—_thyself_! Let the name of Tamar never more be uttered in my presence. Destroy every thing in the house which may tend to remind me that there once dwelt such a being here—the music whereon her name is written, the drawings which she executed, the very window-hangings which she embroidered. Destroy them all, Esther—keep them not—I command you, as you value my blessing! And henceforth—whatever may occur, never speak of your sister. In the presence of those who are aware that you _had_ a sister, cut short any allusion that the thoughtless might make respecting her, by observing emphatically—'_I have no sister now!_'—for should such allusion be made before me, my reproof and my response would be, '_I have but one daughter—and her name is Esther_!' It is my intention to wind up my affairs as speedily as possible and retire from business. Had not _this_ occurred, I should have toiled a few years longer to amass an immense fortune to be divided between _two_: now the fortune which I possess will be immense enough for _one_. And that _one_, Esther, is thyself! But two or three years may elapse before I shall be enabled so to condense the vast details of my undertakings into such a narrow compass that I may terminate them all prosperously. During these two or three years we must remain in Liverpool: but our sojourn here shall not last a day—no, nor an hour longer than my affairs render imperatively necessary. We will then repair to London; for it is in the giant metropolis alone that we may hope to conceal from the world this disgrace—this infamy—this blight which has fallen upon a family whose name, I had fondly hoped, would have gone down untainted from generation to generation—even as it had descended to me from a long line of honourable and honoured ancestors! These, Esther, are my resolves: seek not to move me.—I am now inflexible! Nay—implore me not to change my determination, stern though it may appear: it is immutable as those Median and Persian laws whereof mention is made in the Book of Books. _Henceforth I have but one daughter!_"

And having thus announced the inexorable resolves on which his mind had settled itself during that long, long hour of deep and silent meditation, the Jew bent down and kissed the brow of his kneeling daughter with an affection which in its tenderness contrasted strangely with the stern severity of the conduct that he had determined to pursue in respect to the lost—the guilty—the disowned Tamar! He then hurried from the room; and Esther—poor Esther! was left alone to shed torrents of unavailing tears, and give vent to fruitless sobs and sighs.

But, oh! what pen can describe the acuteness of her affliction—the anguish of her gentle heart, when, not daring altogether to disobey the will of her sire, she removed from their frames the charming landscapes which Tamar had painted in water-colours, and placed out of sight the music copies whereon the name of Tamar was penned in her own sweet, fluent handwriting! And blame not Esther, gentle reader—no, blame her not, if, disobedient as to the literal meaning of her father's commands, she retained those paintings and that music,—retained them as memorials of the lost sister whom she so fondly loved! But she secured them in her own chamber; and, alas—poor girl! as she placed the pictures one by one in a drawer, their best tints and their brightest colours were marred by the scalding tears that fell upon them! For, oh! acute as the pain inflicted by the merciless knife which the surgeon wields to amputate a limb, was this task to the sensitive heart of Esther,—a task involving a deed wearing in her eyes the semblance of profanity,—for little short of _that_ appeared the removal from their wonted places of those memorials of the disowned and cast-off Tamar. 'Twas like crushing all the reminiscences of a sweet sisterhood,—'twas like cutting away from her heart the brightest thoughts that had hitherto clung around it—tearing rudely off the flowers that encircled Hope's youthful brow, and entombing the choice memories of a happy girlhood!

Then, when the music-books and the pictures were thus removed from the places where she had so long been accustomed to see them, how mournful to her was the sight of the tuneful, but now silent piano on which the former had been piled up—how naked appeared the walls to which the latter had hung! And next she was compelled to take down the very hangings which Tamar had embroidered for the drawing-room windows; and there was fresh cause for tears—fresh motive for the renewal, or rather for the continuation of her grief! But the task was nevertheless completed; and the drapery was also retained by Esther as a memorial of her sister. Not for worlds could she have brought herself to that frame of mind which would have been necessary to enable her to achieve the _destruction_ of all those objects,—no—not even were her father to menace her with his direst curse! When Mr. de Medina again appeared in the suite of rooms which had been subject to the changes just detailed, he cast a rapid glance around him, and perceiving that his orders had been obeyed so far as _removal_ went, asked not a question relative to the manner in which the various objects had been disposed of: but, settling his looks upon Esther's countenance, after that hasty survey, he said emphatically, "_Thank God! I possess an obedient—a dutiful—an affectionate child!_"

In the meantime Tom Rain and the beautiful Tamar were far away from Liverpool, on their road to London; and when they reached the great metropolis, they hired a neat lodging in a secluded neighbourhood—for they entertained apprehensions that Mr. de Medina might endeavour to trace his fugitive daughter. Tamar did not, in this respect, know her father's disposition well. Judging by his past kindness, she argued accordingly—little imagining that he had strength of mind sufficient to adopt the fearful alternative of casting her off for ever! Rainford had so well stocked himself with coin during his sojourn in Liverpool and its neighbourhood, that there was no immediate necessity of exercising his _professional skill_, or rather _valour_, to supply resources; and several weeks glided away happily—the happiest of his life! He loved Tamar most tenderly and devotedly; and she not only loved him in return—but absolutely adored him. Oh! how she worshipped her gallant highwayman, who was so brave—so generous—and withal so kind to her. Never was there a better temper than that of Tom Rain: it was impossible for him to be put out of humour. He would have scorned the idea of raising a quarrel for the mere sake of making it up again. He saw no amusement in such maudlin proceedings: dissensions, bickerings, and domestic feuds were his abhorrence. He looked upon woman as the weaker vessel, whom man was bound to protect. He thought it beneath him to dispute with a female; because with him it could be a mere warfare of words, to which none but a coward would put an end by means of a blow. Besides, he hated that strife which is waged with the tongue: if a man offended him, he did not wait to argue the point, but quietly knocked him down. That was his first and last reason when irritated: but he could not adopt the same course with a woman, and he therefore most rationally concluded that it was perfectly useless to quarrel with her.

Tamar, like all young and beautiful women—especially being placed as it were in an equivocal position—was jealous. Tom Rain loved to visit all the strange places in which London abounds, that he might make himself acquainted with the "lights and shades" of metropolitan life; and sometimes Tamar complained that he was too long absent. "Now, my dear girl," he would say, "I give you as much of my time as possible; and when I tell you that I shall be home at a certain hour, I never disappoint you. But do not show ill-humour because I take a couple of hours to myself. So now kiss me, and do not teach that pretty face to frown." His good temper invariably proved irresistible; and in the course of time his mistress never thought of manifesting any opposite feeling. Indeed, he was so kind—so good—so attentive towards her, that, had it not been for the frequent intrusion of a painful reminiscence concerning her father and sister, Tamar would have been completely happy.

After remaining for some months in London, Rainford and his beautiful mistress set off for the northern counties, where the highwayman reaped a rich harvest. His midnight expeditions were frequent, because his mode of living was by no means economical: he delighted in good cheer—denied himself nothing that he fancied—and yet was neither a drunkard nor a glutton. He was moreover generous and liberal to an extreme, and, emulative of the character of Robin Hood, gave to the poor no inconsiderable portion of what he took from the rich. Tamar was, moreover, fond of handsome apparel and resplendent jewellery; and Rainford took a delight in gratifying all her whims and fancies. Thus money was lavishly expended by them; but the highway was an inexhaustible treasury to which Rainford never had recourse in vain. The perils he incurred, in these predatory expeditions, were of course numerous and great; but his dauntless valour—his wonderful presence of mind—and the determined resolution with which he as it were met danger face to face, invariably saved him from capture. At first Tamar was dreadfully frightened when Rainford took leave of her to "get a draught on his treasury cashed," as he laughingly termed his nocturnal expeditions; but as he invariably returned home about the hour he had promised, those apprehensions wore off, and she at length became comparatively easy in her mind during his absence.

Thus did time pass away, until nearly three years had elapsed since Tamar first met Rainford at Liverpool. During the whole of this period she had heard nothing of her father and sister; and no allusion was ever made to them by her lover or herself when together. But she did not the less devote frequent thoughts to the author of her being and the much-loved Esther, both of whom she longed—oh! ardently longed to embrace once more.

The reader has already learnt the motives which induced Tom Rain to visit the metropolis towards the close of the year 1826. The important information which, during his travels about England in company with Tamar, he gleaned from the gipsy Miranda, led him to betake himself once more to London. It happened that Mr. de Medina and Esther arrived in the capital almost at the same time; for the merchant had not been able to wind up his affairs until that period. Retiring from business with a large fortune, he had resolved to quit Liverpool—a place which constantly brought back the most painful reminiscences to his mind, in spite of his stern resolve to disown his elder daughter for ever. But Esther—had she forgotten Tamar? Oh! no—the memory of the fond sister was immortal; and she would have given whole years of her life to clasp Tamar in her arms again!

This tender aspiration was speedily destined to be gratified. One afternoon, towards the close of October, 1826, Esther de Medina was returning home to Great Ormond Street, after having been to make a few purchases in Holborn, when she encountered her sister Tamar, who was also alone at the time. Fortunately the street where they thus met was in a quiet neighbourhood and at that moment almost deserted: otherwise, the ejaculations of surprise and delight which the sisters uttered, and the eagerness with which they flew into each other's arms, might have drawn upon them an attention by no means agreeable. As it was, they escaped any particular notice; and hastening to the least frequented side of Queen Square, they entered into long and serious conversation together. Tamar implored Esther to tell her how their father had received the tidings of her flight; and the younger sister was so overcome by her emotions, that she allowed the entire truth to be extracted from her by the questioning and cross-questioning of the impatient Tamar. Thus was it that the latter learnt how she had been disowned—cast off for ever! Terrible were the efforts which it cost her to subdue a violent outburst of grief; and her heart seemed as if it would break, when in a low tone she addressed her sister thus:—"Esther dearest, my father has no cause to apprehend that I shall proclaim myself his daughter. No—let him boldly declare that he has but _one_ child—_thyself_! I know not how long I may remain in London; but this I faithfully promise you, that I will appear abroad as little as possible, and then only with my countenance concealed by a dark veil, so long as the interests of him whom I love may compel him to dwell in this city. That we shall be long here, I do not believe. Tell our father, Esther, that we have thus met; and communicate to him those assurances that I have now given thee."—Esther clung to her sister for support: that language was distressing to the young maiden to hear.—"And are you happy, Tamar?" she asked, weeping bitterly.—"As happy as woman can be, whose father has disowned her and who is separated from her sister," replied Tamar, now weeping also. "Yes, dearest Esther, I am happy with _him_ whom I love so well, and who is so kind, so fond towards me!"—"This assurance diminishes my grief," murmured Esther. "Oh! how glad I am that we have thus met: this interview has suddenly relieved me of a tremendous weight of cruel uncertainty regarding thee! But, alas! Tamar, why did you desert your happy home? why did you abandon a father and a sister who loved you so tenderly?"—"Esther, hast thou not yet known _that love_ which is so different from the affection existing even between parents and their children, or between those who are so closely linked in the bonds of kinship as yourself and I?"—"No!"—"Well, then, Esther, I can scarcely make you comprehend how much more deserving of pity than blame I am! He whom I love so well came to the house—I did not seek him; and my heart soon—oh! full soon became his. Could I help it? It were vain and idle to say that we can control those feelings which constitute the passion of Love! No earthly power could have restrained the current of that attachment which hurried me along to the accomplishment of what became my destiny. And when one loves as I loved and still love, Esther,—and as I am loved in return,—father, sister, home, kindred, friends—all are forgotten! Oh! this is true—so true, that you would not blame me, did you know what it is to love as I love!"—"Blame you, dearest sister!" exclaimed Esther. "Never! never!" And she clasped Tamar fervently in her arms; but it was now dark, and that part of the square to which they had retired for the purpose of unrestrained discourse, echoed to no voices save their own.

When the sisters were a little more composed, Esther informed Tamar of all that had occurred since they had last seen each other,—how their father had renounced the cares and fatigues of business, and had resolved to settle altogether in London; and how he was then negotiating with the Earl of Ellingham for the tenancy of a small but compact estate near Finchley. The sisters then agreed to correspond together; for Esther secretly hoped that her father would not deny her the pleasure of receiving letters from her sister. Tamar was accordingly to address her correspondence to Great Ormond Street; and Esther was to direct her letters to "_T. J., South Moulton Street_," where Rainford and his mistress were then passing under the name of Jameson. The sisters were now about to part, when, Esther, drawing a diamond ring from her finger placed it in Tamar's hand: then taking a small pair of scissors from her reticule, she cut off the end of one of her own ringlets, which, having folded in a piece of paper, she also presented to her sister, saying in her softest, sweetest tones,—"Tamar, the love which subsists between us, no circumstances can destroy—no length of absence impair. We are about to separate: and, though with the hope of meeting again, still that meeting might be deferred by accidents at present unforeseen. I would that you should possess some memorial of your sister——"—"Oh! is it necessary?" exclaimed Tamar, in an impassioned tone of profound sincerity.—"If not necessary, it would be at least soothing to my feelings," said Esther; "for I possess memorials of you, in your drawings and your music. Grant me, then, the favour which I am about to ask you."—"Name it, sister," replied Tamar, now deeply affected in her turn.—"It is, dearest," continued the amiable Esther, "that you dispose of the ring which I have now presented to you, and that with the proceeds you will have made a locket in which my hair may be set, and on the inner side of which my name may be engraved. This I implore you to do, my sister; and I know that you will not refuse me."—"The next time we meet, Esther," said Tamar, in a tone tremulous with emotion, "I will show you the locket."—The sisters then separated with aching hearts.

On her return home, Esther frankly and candidly confessed to her father all that had occurred. For some minutes Mr. de Medina remained silent; and Esther observed that a tear trembled upon his lash. But the hope thereby excited within her, died away, when her father turned abruptly round, and said, "Esther, you have not acted well. That you should speak to her who was once my daughter, is natural. But that you should arrange with her the means of correspondence, was wrong. I desire that the first letter which she may address to this house, shall also be the last."—The Jew then quitted the room, leaving his daughter in tears.