FullReads

{Paduasoy = a strong corded or gros-grain silk fabric, traditionally associated with Padua, Italy}

“Still, Mr. Howard,” observed that lady; “I really cannot see why you should resent the insinuation so warmly. Now, do you know, I am not at all sorry to have it in my power to declare that I have some knowledge of the fate of that paper during its eclipse.”

All eyes were instantly fixed on the speaker. The lady smiled and continued:

“Lady Holberton thinks the Lumley Autograph was stolen–I understand she even thought it was stolen by myself–“

She here turned deliberately toward our hostess, who looked uneasy.

“If such were your suspicions, Lady Holberton,” continued Miss Rowley, speaking with great deliberation–“I am happy to say they were quite correct–you only did me justice–I am proud to declare the deed was mine–“

We were all speechless at hearing this sudden and bold avowal.

“It was I, Theodosia Rowley, who carried off–the word is of little consequence–who stole, I repeat, that precious paper. So long as the treasure was mine, the consciousness of possessing it was sufficient in itself–but having afterward lost it from my pocket by unpardonable carelessness, I shall at least now glory in the daring deed which made it once my own.”

Conceive the amazement which these remarks–delivered with calm enthusiasm–produced among the listening circle. We all know that high crimes and misdemeanors enough are committed by men, and women too; but somehow or other the delinquents are not often given to talking of them; they would just as lief in general that the act should not be known. The effect of Miss Rowley’s words was different on different individuals. As for myself, I involuntarily felt for the handkerchief in my pocket. The page of the album drew nearer. Lady Holberton looked aghast, as though she had seen a cannibal. Some bit their lips; others opened their eyes. Mr. T—-, however, who held the album at the moment, and was bending over it when Miss Rowley began her extraordinary disclosure, raised his eyes, fixed his glasses on the fair speaker, and sent through them such a glance as no words can fully describe. It was a glance of intense admiration.

“What exalted views! What sublime sentiments!” he exclaimed in an ecstasy.

But Mr. T—-‘s blaze of admiration was not the only flame at work, while he was gazing at the heroine of the moment. In the sudden burst of enthusiasm roused by the fair purloiner, he forgot all else; the precious volume in his hand drooped, touched the flame of a wax-light on the table, and in another instant the great Holberton Album, that Album of European reputation–was burning before our eyes–its invaluable leaves were curling, and blackening, and smoking under the devouring flame!

A shriek from Lady Holberton–an unearthly cry from the page of the Album–both echoed by the spectators, came too late. The volume was half consumed. Of the Lumley Autograph not a line remained!

Such was the ill-fated end of the letter of the poor starving poet. It was written amid gloom and distress; its career closed in a stormy hour. The loss of the Album of course broke off the engagement between Lady Holberton and Mr. T—-. This however could scarcely have been regretted under the circumstances, for their union, after the catastrophe must have been one long series of miserable reproaches. The sudden change in Mr. T—-‘s feelings toward Miss Rowley was not a momentary one; the admiration first kindled by that lady’s bold declaration, grew to be the strongest sentiment of his heart, and only a few weeks later he was made the happiest of men by receiving as his own the fair hand which accomplished the deed. Miss Rowley and Mr. T—- were united in the bands of matrimony and collectorship. Lady Holberton was still inconsolable when I left London; she was thinking of traveling among the Hottentots, or in any other clime where albums are unknown and her loss could be forgotten. The journey to Kaffirland was however postponed until the next change of ministry, and I have learned recently that the lady has so far recovered her spirits as to be thinking of an ‘Omnibus.’ The very last packet, indeed, brought a flattering application to myself; Lady Holberton graciously declaring that the name of Jonathan Howard is not only valued by herself, as that of a friend, but interesting to collectors generally, as having been once connected with that much lamented document, now lost to the world, the letter of the poor starving poet, known as the Lumley Autograph.

{“Omnibus” = in this context, an “omnibus bill” (i.e., one dealing with a variety of subject) in Parliament}