Entered at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., at Second Class Mail Rates. Published Every Week. BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS, No, 98 Witiiam Street, New York. X.SRRT Co. nae Copyrighted 1881, by BEADLE AND ADAMS. November 2%, 1881. No. 122 Complete in this Number, Price, Ten Cents, BOUND BY A SPELL. - Ar Bhi 466 FE EE BAM AG THE PROLOGUE. IN THE MOONLIGHT. BrForRE commencing the narration of that strange, extraordinary series of events which began in my fourteenth year, I must glance back at the earlier years of my child- hood, and at those who influenced it. My earliest recollections are of Tabernacle House; pre- vious to those, all is dim and shadowy. ‘Tabernacle House was an establishment kept by the Reverend Obadiah Porter, for the reception of some half-dozen boys. The reverend pedagogue was a dissenting minister, whose satyr-like, sensual face greatly belied his professions of pro- found piety. I could not understand, child as I was, how it ever came into his head to set up as a tutor, or how parents or friends could be induced to confide the education of children to the care of a man who was himself deficient in the commonest rudiments of learning. His original oc- cupation was that of a shoemaker, and his hands still re- tained the coarse, grimed look that marks the followers of St. Crispin. His bullet-shaped head was covered with a thick mass of coarse, black hair, which had a shaggy, ragged appearance, from being cut in irregular lengths, or rather chopped away in pieces. His forehead was very low, and a continuous habit he had of brushing back the bristly hair that would persist in sticking over it, rendered it personaly noticeable. He had thick, shaggy eyebrows, and small, snake-like eyes; his nose was long, and squat towards the end, and slightly twisted towards the left side; his mouth was large, his lips thick, and his general appearance most objection- able. In stature he was short, ihick-ect, bull-necked; his arms were remarkably long, his feet splay, and his legs ill- shaped. Obadiah Porter was a widower, with one danghter. So powerfully have terrible events impressed her after-image upon my mind, that I can scarcely recall its first impres- sions. think she must have been about fifteen or sixteen, I being then some five 'or six, when I first saw her. She did not bear the slightest resemblance to her father; she was tall, thin; her hair was bright red, her complexion pale, her eyes somewhat large, her features rather delicate, and sharply cut. To this young lady was handed over the tuition ot Her father’s pupils. The knowledge ‘imparted to us was of a very rudiment- ary nature: reading, writing, arithmetic, and a little ge- ography. We were not unkindly treated; our food, although coarse, Was plentiful; and if our instructions in profane learning ‘were limited, our ‘religious’ (?) exercises amply made up for it. We had prayers frequently during the day, besides scriptural readings, and hymn-singing Maatys and on Sundays we were obliged to attend his chapel three times, and occasionally during the week. His sermons were never less than of an hour’s duration; but more frequently donger. s There were five pupils besides myself. There was a strange bond of sympathy between us all—not one of us knew anything of our parents. One knew an aunt, another an, uncle, a third a grandmother, or a grandfather, or a guardian, but no father or mother. One, of our, number once very grayely propounded that we never could have had either; a theory that was received with anything ‘but scepticism amongst us. It was a peculiarity of Mr. Porter’s establishment that he did not take boys who had parents. His advertisement in the newspapers ran thus:—‘‘'The Reverend Obadiah Porter, minister of Little Bethlehem Chapel, near Bury St. Edmund’s, undertakes the care, education, and relig- ious training of orphan boys from the earliest age. Unex- ceptional references as to piety and discretion will be given. N. B.—No holidays.” It is not my intention to linger upon this period, or enter into any minute descriptions of our uninteresting, monotonous life. I shall strictly confine myself to those persons and events which influenced my after-career, touch- ing all other subjects only in the briefest manner. The years crept on, and were almost wholly passed within the precincts of Tabernacle House. It was a fine, old- fashioned dwelling, with the flat, brick-pointed facade, straight rows of windows, and porticoed doorway which mark the architecture of the Georges. It had large gardens back and front—the latter being screened from the road by a high wall—besides an extensive orchard and a paddock. Altogether, it was quite a gentleman’s house. But rents are wonderfully low in. these parts, and all these advantages were obtained for a sum not larger than Londoners have to ‘give for some squared-up, inconvenient suburban dwelling; besides which, Mr. Porter was very well-to-do. His boarders alone brought him in a respectable income; his’chapel was well attended; and he numbered many of the most’ pros- perous Mawworms of the town among his congregation, to one of whom—a Mrs. Humphries—this house belonged. I tender these explanations lest the reader should think it- strange that an obscure Dissenting minister should be so prosperously situated. By-and-byethere were changes. One boy left, and then another; but others took their places. Grim-looking per- sons came to take them away; but, except in one case, we knew nothing of their future destiny or destination, and they dropped out of our lives as completely as though the grave had opened to receive them. _ It seemed as though we were interlopers upon the world, and ought never to have been born—and, indeed, we ought not, The one exceptional case I haye mentioned was that of a boy named Josiah Cook, whom Mr. Porter had transferred from his care to that of a printer in the town, as an ap- prentice. I little thought that Cook’s transference to Bury would so materially influence my own future life—that out of z BOUND BY A SPELL. that event would spring an incident destined to shape its whole future course. “There was one large room at the top of the house, in which we six boys slept, two in each of the three beds. Cook was m bed fellow, and we were fast friends and com- panions. He was a bold, venturesome boy, far more so than any of us; and on the last night of his sojourn amongst us, he proposed the daring plan of some night paying us a secret visit, and relating all the ‘‘ adventures” e should experience in his new home. ‘1 can easily climb over the garden wall from the next field,” he said; ‘‘so look out, boys: if you hear a stone thrown up at your window, it will be me.” How he undertook to get out of his master’s house at night, and walk two miles over to us, and get back again without being missed, or how, even, he proposed to get to us, or we to him, provided he was able to accomplish the first part of his task, were problems he never thought of solving at that time. The very idea of sucha daring ad- venture made us all tremble; but he yowed that he would accomplish it, and he kept his word. i ‘Six months passed away, and we heard nothing more of Cook. We often talked about him after we got to bed, wondered what he was doing, and whether he would really yay us a visit some night. We saw him several times at ittle Bethlehem, but “Miss Porter strictly prohibited any communication with our ex-schoolfellow; and beyond sur- reptitious signs, which conveyed no meaning to either party, no intelligence passed between us. After the first month or five weeks, neither we nor Little Bethlehem saw him more. - He was rapidly fading out of our thoughts, when, one autumnal night—it was the eighteenth of October—we . heard a sharp crack at our bedroom window. It was, as nearly as I gould judge, about nine o’clock; we were just falling asleep, and the sound go startled us, that [ and two more involuntarily sprang out of bed. Before we had time to think of what we were about, a second crack came, and then a sort of doubtful whisper ran round the room. “Could it be Cook?” The boldest of our number gently lifted the sash, and peered out. It was a bright moonlight night, and he saw, standing in the garden beneath, the - well-known figure of our old companion. The back of the house was covered with a fine old pear tree, the strong branches of which, nailed to the wall, were capable of supporting almost any moderate weight. It had not been pruned for several years, and had thrown out, its wood somewhat wildly. A few whispered words, and Cook was mounting the tree with hand and foot, almost as easily as though he had been ascending a ladder. Light as it was, there was little fear of his being detected ~ in this burglarious feat, as there were no neighbors, and Mr, Porter and his daughter borniied the front portion of the ‘house. When, without even the misadventure of a broken twig, he clambered into the room, we all gathered round him in a sort of awe-struck manner ; so unprecedented was the reappearance of an old companion amongst us, that he seemed almost like a visitant from the other world. And so, indeed, he was, for our world and that of the rest of humanity had nothing in common. The first thing that struck us was the wonderful change that had come over him. — By precept and association, our dress, manner, expression. of “face, and very tone of voice, ; been moulded to the strictest puritanism. I have often thought since what oddities we six must have been. No wonder that ‘‘the profane” town boys, as the Rev. Oba- ‘diah Porter called them, used to laugh and jeer at us as we were marshalled to chapel. Not a vestige of this was left in Cook. He had evidently become one of “ the profane.” _ His dress was simply that of a working youth, but it was arranged in a sort of loose devil-may-carish style—an at- tempted imitation of the lowest fast man. That is the im- pression it would give me now of course, at the time I write of, I could have made no such definition ; then it appeared to me simply something very odd. The first strangeness of the meeting passed away. We overwhelmed him with eager questions as to. his new life... .He answered all our queries with the utmost freedom, and with a strong mixture, | now believe, of exaggerated falsehood. As I strictly confine myself to the most necessary details for the proper under- standing of after-events, I will not weary the reader’s patience by a recital of -his rhodomontade, even as little as remember of it. ‘Now, look here, boys,” he said, ** what do you think has brought me here to-night 7” * s. years ago, a middle-aged woman, looking like a gentleman’s | ousekeeper, or something of that sort, called here to ask my terms for taking charge of a child five years old, She had seen my advertisement, and thought it would suit the purpose she had in view. She was most particularin her = Injunctions that you should be reared strictly and relig- iously. Two days afterwards she brought you here. She gave the name of Carston, and said that you were to be called Silas Carston. The money was to be drawn half- — en of Messrs. Fogle and Quick, solicitors, of Gray’s Inn. or the sake of the precious soul entrusted to my keeping, — I tried as discreetly as possible to glean w little more infor- mation; but she was very close, and awfully stern, andT could not get even an address out of her. The money has always been paid regularly to the day. Once I called upon = Messrs. Fogle and Quick; but I found them stiff-necked — men, of hard and unregenerate hearts. Two years ago I — wrote to say that, as you had passed beyond the schoo age, I wished for further instructions, “About awe a I got a short note, saying that you were still to remain with me; but as they desired that you should not contract idle — habits, I was to give you some sort of useful employment, nee | | | | | qi | G BOUND BY A SPELL. the table sharply with his fist. ; have liked to have squeezed somethin . joined together by a true lover’s knot. _ handkerchief crossed upon her bosom.” came upon me that I had been at some time fondled by nn aren _ T looked inwards; but I could see ont the harsh face and the result of his revelations and interrogations. _ He snatched the locket out of my hand—what would I have given to have kept it—and then locked it up in the desk _ thing else to speak to you about. and assuming his most sanctimonious look, ‘it has. much troubled me, for some time, to see a youth of your ap- " ploy you; and, after a talk with my daughter, I’ve come to hands,” he went on, with a snuffle; ‘‘ but in any way I thought best. cation from them, and now you know as much asIdo.” | It may appear strange that I had never sought some such | explanation as this; but although, as 1 have said before, Mr. Porter was not particularly harsh to his pupils, there was something unapproachable about him—something that ba dared not question, however much we might desire to 0 80. He paused again; but still I could not speak. ff Why don’t you say something, Silas?” he cried, striking ‘*What—what do you want me to say, sir?” I stam- mered. «¢The truth—what you know.” “©T don’t know anything—indeed, I do not.” There was a savage look about him, as though he would more out of my throat. Then he took out of a desk beside him a small gold locket, and passed it to me, saying, ‘‘ This was sewn up in your frock when you were brought here. Idon’t think she who brought you knew anything about it.” It contained the portrait of a very beautiful young wo- man—a foreigner, Ishould have imagined; dark hair, olive- tinged complexion, also a lock of brown hair; and upon the back was engraved the initials ‘‘F. B.” and ‘