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| author | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-04-12 07:21:03 -0700 |
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| committer | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-04-12 07:21:03 -0700 |
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diff --git a/75840-0.txt b/75840-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..98b1386 --- /dev/null +++ b/75840-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,16202 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75840 *** + + + + + + MISS BRADDON’S NOVELS + + + AUTHOR’S AUTOGRAPH EDITION + + + Cloth Gilt 2s. 6d. Picture Boards 2s. + + + 1. LADY AUDLEY’S SECRET. 29. HOSTAGES TO FORTUNE. + 2. HENRY DUNBAR. 30. DEAD MEN’S SHOES. + 3. ELEANOR’S VICTORY. 31. JOSHUA HAGGARD. + 4. AURORA FLOYD. 32. WEAVERS AND WEFT. + 5. JOHN MARCHMONT’S LEGACY. 33. AN OPEN VERDICT. + 6. THE DOCTOR’S WIFE. 34. VIXEN. + 7. ONLY A CLOD. 35. THE CLOVEN FOOT. + 8. SIR JASPER’S TENANT. 36. THE STORY OF BARBARA. + 9. TRAIL OF THE SERPENT. 37. JUST AS I AM. + 10. LADY’S MILE. 38. ASPHODEL. + 11. LADY LISLE. 39. MOUNT ROYAL. + 12. CAPTAIN OF THE VULTURE. 40. THE GOLDEN CALF. + 13. BIRDS OF PREY. 41. PHANTOM FORTUNE. + 14. CHARLOTTE’S INHERITANCE. 42. FLOWER AND WEED. + 15. RUPERT GODWIN. 43. ISHMAEL. + 16. RUN TO EARTH. 44. WYLLARD’S WEIRD. + 17. DEAD SEA FRUIT. 45. UNDER THE RED FLAG. + 18. RALPH THE BAILIFF. 46. ONE THING NEEDFUL. + 19. FENTON’S QUEST. 47. MOHAWKS. + 20. LOVELS OF ARDEN. 48. LIKE AND UNLIKE. + 21. ROBERT AINSLEIGH. 49. THE FATAL THREE. + 22. TO THE BITTER END. 50. THE DAY WILL COME. + 23. MILLY DARRELL. 51. ONE LIFE, ONE LOVE. + 24. STRANGERS AND PILGRIMS. 52. GERARD. + 25. LUCIUS DAVOREN. 53. THE VENETIANS. + 26. TAKEN AT THE FLOOD. 54. ALL ALONG THE RIVER. + 27. LOST FOR LOVE. 55. THOU ART THE MAN. + 28. A STRANGE WORLD. 56. SONS OF FIRE. + + + + + THE + + TRAIL OF THE SERPENT + + + A Novel + + + BY THE AUTHOR OF + + ‘LADY AUDLEY’S SECRET,’ ‘AURORA FLOYD,’ + ‘VIXEN,’ ‘ISHMAEL,’ ETC., ETC. + + “Poor race of men, said the pitying Spirit, + Dearly ye pay for your primal fall; + Some flowers of Eden ye yet inherit, + But the trail of the Serpent is over them all” + _Moore._ + + Stereotyped Edition + + + LONDON: + SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, HAMILTON, KENT & CO. + LIMITED. + STATIONERS’ HALL COURT + [_All rights reserved._] + + + MISS BRADDON’S NOVELS. + + NOW READY AT ALL BOOKSELLERS’ AND BOOKSTALLS, + PRICE 2_s._ 6_d._ EACH, CLOTH GILT. + + THE AUTHOR’S AUTOGRAPH EDITION + OF MISS BRADDON’S NOVELS. + + “No one can be dull who has a novel by Miss Braddon in hand. + The most tiresome journey is beguiled, and the most wearisome + illness is brightened, by any one of her books.” + + “Miss Braddon is the Queen of the circulating libraries.” + + _The World._ + + + + + LONDON: + SIMPKIN & CO., LIMITED, + STATIONERS’ HALL COURT. + _And at all Railway Bookstalls, Booksellers’, and Libraries._ + + + + + CONTENTS + + + =Book the First.= + + A RESPECTABLE YOUNG MAN. + + CHAP. PAGE + + I. THE GOOD SCHOOLMASTER 5 + + II. GOOD FOR NOTHING 10 + + III. THE USHER WASHES HIS HANDS 17 + + IV. RICHARD MARWOOD LIGHTS HIS PIPE 21 + + V. THE HEALING WATERS 28 + + VI. TWO CORONER’S INQUESTS 34 + + VII. THE DUMB DETECTIVE A PHILANTHROPIST 38 + + VIII. SEVEN LETTERS ON THE DIRTY ALPHABET 43 + + IX. “MAD, GENTLEMEN OF THE JURY” 48 + + + =Book the Second.= + + A CLEARANCE OF ALL SCORES. + + I. BLIND PETER 58 + + II. LIKE AND UNLIKE 63 + + III. A GOLDEN SECRET 66 + + IV. JIM LOOKS OVER THE BRINK OF THE TERRIBLE GULF 71 + + V. MIDNIGHT BY THE SLOPPERTON CLOCKS 78 + + VI. THE QUIET FIGURE ON THE HEATH 82 + + VII. THE USHER RESIGNS HIS SITUATION 91 + + + =Book the Third.= + + A HOLY INSTITUTION. + + I. THE VALUE OF AN OPERA-GLASS 95 + + II. WORKING IN THE DARK 99 + + III. THE WRONG FOOTSTEP 104 + + IV. OCULAR DEMONSTRATION 111 + + V. THE KING OF SPADES 116 + + VI. A GLASS OF WINE 124 + + VII. THE LAST ACT OF LUCRETIA BORGIA 129 + + VIII. BAD DREAMS AND A WORSE WAKING 133 + + IX. A MARRIAGE IN HIGH LIFE 141 + + X. ANIMAL MAGNETISM 145 + + + =Book the Fourth.= + + NAPOLEON THE GREAT. + + I. THE BOY FROM SLOPPERTON 150 + + II. MR. AUGUSTUS DARLEY AND MR. JOSEPH PETERS GO OUT + FISHING 162 + + III. THE EMPEROR BIDS ADIEU TO ELBA 167 + + IV. JOY AND HAPPINESS FOR EVERYBODY 177 + + V. THE CHEROKEES TAKE AN OATH 181 + + VI. MR. PETERS RELATES HOW HE THOUGHT HE HAD A CLUE, + AND HOW HE LOST IT 187 + + + =Book the Fifth.= + + THE DUMB DETECTIVE. + + I. THE COUNT DE MAROLLES AT HOME 200 + + II. MR. PETERS SEES A GHOST 205 + + III. THE CHEROKEES MARK THEIR MAN 212 + + IV. THE CAPTAIN, THE CHEMIST, AND THE LASCAR 217 + + V. THE NEW MILKMAN IN PARK LANE 221 + + VI. SIGNOR MOSQUETTI RELATES AN ADVENTURE 225 + + VII. THE GOLDEN SECRET IS TOLD, AND THE GOLDEN BOWL IS + BROKEN 230 + + VIII. ONE STEP FURTHER ON THE RIGHT TRACK 235 + + IX. CAPTAIN LANDSOWN OVERHEARS A CONVERSATION WHICH + APPEARS TO INTEREST HIM 241 + + + =Book the Sixth.= + + ON THE TRACK. + + I. FATHER AND SON 247 + + II. RAYMOND DE MAROLLES SHOWS HIMSELF BETTER THAN ALL + BOW STREET 258 + + III. THE LEFT-HANDED SMASHER MAKES HIS MARK 263 + + IV. WHAT THEY FIND IN THE ROOM IN WHICH THE MURDER + WAS COMMITTED 271 + + V. MR. PETERS DECIDES ON A STRANGE STEP, AND ARRESTS THE + DEAD 282 + + VI. THE END OF THE DARK ROAD 300 + + VII. FAREWELL TO ENGLAND 313 + + + + + THE TRAIL OF THE SERPENT + + + + + =Book the First.= + + A RESPECTABLE YOUNG MAN. + + + + + CHAPTER I. + + THE GOOD SCHOOLMASTER. + + +I DON’T suppose it rained harder in the good town of +Slopperton-on-the-Sloshy than it rained anywhere else. But it did +rain. There was scarcely an umbrella in Slopperton that could hold its +own against the rain that came pouring down that November afternoon, +between the hours of four and five. Every gutter in High Street, +Slopperton; every gutter in Broad Street (which was of course the +narrowest street); in New Street (which by the same rule was the oldest +street); in East Street, West Street, Blue Dragon Street, and Windmill +Street; every gutter in every one of these thoroughfares was a little +Niagara, with a maelstrom at the corner, down which such small craft +as bits of orange-peel, old boots and shoes, scraps of paper, and +fragments of rag were absorbed--as better ships have been in the great +northern whirlpool. That dingy stream, the Sloshy, was swollen into a +kind of dirty Mississippi, and the graceful coal-barges which adorned +its bosom were stripped of the clothes-lines and fluttering linen which +usually were to be seen on their decks. A bad, determined, black-minded +November day. A day on which the fog shaped itself into a demon, and +lurked behind men’s shoulders, whispering into their ears, “Cut your +throat!--you know you’ve got a razor, and can’t shave with it, because +you’ve been drinking and your hand shakes; one little gash under the +left ear, and the business is done. It’s the best thing you can do. +It is, really.” A day on which the rain, the monotonous ceaseless +persevering rain, has a voice as it comes down, and says, “Don’t you +think you could go melancholy mad? Look at me; be good enough to watch +me for a couple of hours or so, and think, while you watch me, of the +girl who jilted you ten years ago; and of what a much better man you +would be to-day if she had only loved you truly. Oh, I think, if you’ll +only be so good as watch me, you might really contrive to go mad.” Then +again the wind. What does the wind say, as it comes cutting through the +dark passage, and stabbing you, like a coward as it is, in the back, +just between the shoulders--what does it say? Why, it whistles in your +ear a reminder of the little bottle of laudanum you’ve got upstairs, +which you had for your toothache last week, and never used. A foggy +wet windy November day. A bad day--a dangerous day. Keep us from bad +thoughts to-day, and keep us out of the Police Reports next week. Give +us a glass of something hot and strong, and a bit of something nice +for supper, and bear with us a little this day; for if the strings +of yonder piano--an instrument fashioned on mechanical principles by +mortal hands--if they are depressed and slackened by the influence +of damp and fog, how do we know that there may not be some string in +this more critical instrument, the human mind, not made on mechanical +principles or by mortal hands, a little out of order on this bad +November day? + +But of course bad influences can only come to bad men; and of course +he must be a very bad man whose spirits go up and down with every +fluctuation of the weather-glass. Virtuous people no doubt are virtuous +always; and by no chance, or change, or trial, or temptation, can they +ever become other than virtuous. Therefore why should a wet day or a +dark day depress them? No; they look out of the windows at houseless +men and women and fatherless and motherless children wet through to +the skin, and thank Heaven that they are not as other men: like good +Christians, punctual rate-payers, and unflinching church-goers as they +are. + +Thus it was with Mr. Jabez North, assistant and usher at the academy of +Dr. Tappenden. He was not in anywise affected by fog, rain, or wind. +There was a fire at one end of the schoolroom, and Allecompain Major +had been fined sixpence, and condemned to a page of Latin grammar, for +surreptitiously warming his worst chilblain at the bars thereof. But +Jabez North did not want to go near the fire, though in his official +capacity he might have done so; ay, even might have warmed his hands +in moderation. He was not cold, or if he was cold, he didn’t mind +being cold. He was sitting at his desk, mending pens and hearing six +red-nosed boys conjugate the verb _Amare_, “to love”--while the +aforesaid boys were giving practical illustrations of the active +verb “to shiver,”--and the passive ditto, “to be puzzled.” He was +not only a good young man, this Jabez North (and he must have been a +very good young man, for his goodness was in almost every mouth in +Slopperton--indeed, he was looked upon by many excellent old ladies as +an incarnation of the adjective “pious”)--but he was rather a handsome +young man also. He had delicate features, a pale fair complexion, and, +as young women said, very beautiful blue eyes; only it was unfortunate +that these eyes, being, according to report, such a very beautiful +colour, had a shifting way with them, and never looked at you long +enough for you to find out their exact hue, or their exact expression +either. He had also what was called a very fine head of fair curly +hair, and what some people considered a very fine head--though it was +a pity it shelved off on either side in the locality where prejudiced +people place the organ of conscientiousness. A professor of phrenology, +lecturing at Slopperton, had declared Jabez North to be singularly +wanting in that small virtue; and had even gone so far as to hint that +he had never met with a parallel case of deficiency in the entire moral +region, except in the skull of a very distinguished criminal, who +invited a friend to dinner and murdered him on the kitchen stairs while +the first course was being dished. But of course the Sloppertonians +pronounced this professor to be an impostor, and his art a piece of +charlatanism, as they were only too happy to pronounce any professor or +any art that came in their way. + +Slopperton believed in Jabez North. Partly because Slopperton had in a +manner created, clothed, and fed him, set him on his feet, patted him +on his head, and reared him under the shadow of Sloppertonian wings, to +be the good and worthy individual he was. + +The story was in this wise. Nineteen years before this bad November +day, a little baby had been dragged, to all appearance drowned, out +of the muddy waters of the Sloshy. Fortunately or unfortunately, as +the case may be, he turned out to be less drowned than dirty, and +after being subjected to very sharp treatment--such as being held head +downwards, and scrubbed raw with a jack-towel, by the Sloppertonian +Humane Society, founded by a very excellent gentleman, somewhat +renowned for maltreating his wife and turning his eldest son out of +doors--this helpless infant set up a feeble squall, and evinced, other +signs of a return to life. He was found in a Slopperton river by a +Slopperton bargeman, resuscitated by a Slopperton society, and taken +by the Slopperton beadle to the Slopperton workhouse; he therefore +belonged to Slopperton. Slopperton found him a species of barnacle +rather difficult to shake off. The wisest thing, therefore, for +Slopperton to do, was to put the best face on a bad matter, and, out +of its abundance, rear this _un_-welcome little stranger. And +truly virtue has its reward; for, from the workhouse brat to the +Sunday-school teacher; from the Sunday-school teacher to the scrub at +Dr. Tappenden’s academy; from scrub to usher of the fourth form; and +from fourth form usher to first assistant, pet toady, and factotum, +were so many steps in the ladder of fortune which Jabez mounted, as in +seven-leagued boots. + +As to his name, Jabez North, it is not to be supposed that when some +wretched drab (mad with what madness, or wretched to what intensity +of wretchedness, who shall guess?) throws her hapless and sickly +offspring into the river--it is not, I say, to be supposed that she +puts his card-case in his pocket, with his name and address inscribed +in neat copper-plate upon enamelled cards therein. No, the foundling +of Slopperton was called by the board of the workhouse Jabez; first, +because Jabez was a scriptural name; secondly, perhaps, because it +was an ugly one, and agreed better with the cut of his clothes and +the fashion of his appointments than Reginald, Conrad, or Augustus +might have done. The gentlemen of the board further bestowed upon him +the surname of North because he was found on the north bank of the +Sloshy, and because North was an unobtrusive and commonplace cognomen, +appropriate to a pauper; like whose impudence it would indeed be to +write himself down Montmorency or Fitz-Hardinge. + +Now there are many natures (God-created though they be) of so black and +vile a tendency as to be soured and embittered by workhouse treatment; +by constant keeping down; by days and days which grow into years and +years, in which to hear a kind word is to hear a strange language--a +language so strange as to bring a choking sensation into the throat, +and not unbidden tears into the eyes. Natures there are, so innately +wicked, as not to be improved by tyranny; by the dominion, the mockery, +and the insult of little boys, who are wise enough to despise poverty, +but not charitable enough to respect misfortune. And fourth-form ushers +in a second-rate academy have to endure this sort of thing now and +then. Some natures too may be so weak and sentimental as to sicken at +a life without one human tie; a boyhood without father or mother; a +youth without sister or brother. Not such the excellent nature of Jabez +North. Tyranny found him meek, it is true, but it left him much meeker. +Insult found him mild, but it left him lamb-like. Scornful speeches +glanced away from him; cruel words seemed drops of water on marble, so +powerless were they to strike or wound. He would take an insult from +a boy whom with his powerful right hand he could have strangled: he +would smile at the insolence of a brat whom he could have thrown from +the window with one uplifting of his strong arm almost as easily as +he threw away a bad pen. But he was a good young man; a benevolent +young man; giving in secret, and generally getting his reward openly. +His left hand scarcely knew what his right hand did; but Slopperton +always knew it before long. So every citizen of the borough raised and +applauded this model young man, and many were the prophecies of the day +when the pauper boy should be one of the greatest men in that greatest +of all towns, the town of Slopperton. + +The bad November day merged into a bad November night. Dark +night at five o’clock, when candles, few and far between, flickering +in Dr. Tappenden’s schoolroom, and long rows of half-pint +mugs--splendid institutions for little boys to warm their hands +at, being full of a boiling and semi-opaque liquid, _par excellence_ +milk-and-water--ornamented the schoolroom table. Darker night still, +when the half-pint mugs have been collected by a red maid-servant, with +nose, elbows, and knuckles picked out in purple; when all traces of the +evening meal are removed; when the six red-nosed first-form boys have +sat down to Virgil--for whom they entertain a deadly hatred, feeling +convinced that he wrote with a special view to their being flogged from +inability to construe him. Of course, if he hadn’t been a spiteful +beast he would have written in English, and then he wouldn’t have had +to be construed. Darker night still at eight o’clock, when the boys +have gone to bed, and perhaps would have gone to sleep, if Allecompain +Major had not a supper-party in his room, with Banbury cakes, pigs +trotters, periwinkles, acid rock, and ginger-beer powders, laid out +upon the bolster. Not so dark by the head assistant’s desk, at which +Jabez sits, his face ineffably calm, examining a pile of exercises. +Look at his face by that one candle; look at the eyes, which are steady +now, for he does not dream that any one is watching him--steady and +luminous with a subdued fire, which might blaze out some day into a +deadly flame. Look at the face, the determined mouth, the thin lips, +which form almost an arch--and say, is that the face of a man to +be content with a life of dreary and obscure monotony? A somewhat +intellectual face; but not the face of a man with an intellect seeking +no better employment than the correcting of French and Latin exercises. +If we could look into his heart, we might find the answers to these +questions. He raises the lid of his desk; a deep desk that holds many +things--paper, pens, letters; and what?--a thick coil of rope. A +strange object in the assistant’s desk, this coil of rope! He looks at +it as if to assure himself that it is safe; shuts his desk quickly, +locks it, puts the key in his waistcoat-pocket; and when at half-past +nine he goes up into his little bedroom at the top of the house, he +will carry the desk under his arm. + + + + + CHAPTER II. + + GOOD FOR NOTHING. + + +THE November night is darkest, foggiest, wettest, and windiest out on +the open road that leads into Slopperton. A dreary road at the best of +times, this Slopperton road, and dreariest of all in one spot about +a mile and a half out of the town. Upon this spot stands a solitary +house, known as the Black Mill. It was once the cottage of a miller, +and the mill still stands, though in disuse. + +The cottage had been altered and improved within the last few years, +and made into a tolerable-sized house; a dreary, rambling, tumble-down +place, it is true, but still with some pretension about it. It was +occupied at this time by a widow lady, a Mrs. Marwood, once the owner +of a large fortune, which had nearly all been squandered by the +dissipation of her only son. This son had long left Slopperton. His +mother had not heard of him for years. Some said he had gone abroad. +She tried to hope this, but sometimes she mourned him as dead. She +lived in modest style, with one old female servant, who had been with +her since her marriage, and had been faithful through every change +of fortune--as these common and unlearned creatures, strange to say, +sometimes are. It happened that at this very time Mrs. Marwood had +just received the visit of a brother, who had returned from the East +Indies with a large fortune. This brother, Mr. Montague Harding, had on +his landing in England hastened to seek out his only sister, and the +arrival of the wealthy nabob at the solitary house on the Slopperton +road had been a nine-days’ wonder for the good citizens of Slopperton. +He brought with him only one servant, a half-caste; his visit was to be +a short one, as he was about buying an estate in the south of England, +on which he intended to reside with his widowed sister. + +Slopperton had a great deal to say about Mr. Harding. Slopperton gave +him credit for the possession of uncounted and uncountable lakhs of +rupees; but Slopperton wouldn’t give him credit for the possession of +the hundredth part of an ounce of liver. Slopperton left cards at the +Black Mill, and had serious thoughts of getting up a deputation to +invite the rich East Indian to represent its inhabitants at the great +congress of Westminster. But both Mr. Harding and Mrs. Marwood kept +aloof from Slopperton, and were set down accordingly as mysterious, not +to say dark-minded individuals, forthwith. + + +The brother and sister are seated in the little, warm, lamp-lit +drawing-room at the Black Mill this dark November night. She is a woman +who has once been handsome, but whose beauty has been fretted away by +anxieties and suspenses, which wear out the strongest hope, as water +wears away the hardest rock. The Anglo-Indian very much resembles her; +but though his face is that of an invalid, it is not care-worn. It is +the face of a good man, who has a hope so strong that neither fear nor +trouble can disquiet him. + +He is speaking--“And you have not heard from your son?” + +“For nearly seven years. Seven years of cruel suspense; seven years, +during which every knock at yonder door seems to have beaten a blow +upon my heart--every footstep on yonder garden-walk seems to have +trodden down a hope.” + +“And you do not think him dead?” + +“I hope and pray not. Not dead, impenitent; not dead, without my +blessing; not gone away from me for ever, without one pressure of the +hand, one prayer for my forgiveness, one whisper of regret for all he +has made me suffer.” + +“He was very wild, then, very dissipated?” + +“He was a reprobate and a gambler. He squandered his money like water. +He had bad companions, I know; but was not himself wicked at heart. The +very night he ran away, the night I saw him for the last time, I’m sure +he was sorry for his bad courses. He said something to that effect; +said his road was a dark one, but that it had only one end, and he must +go on to the end.” + +“And you made no remonstrance?” + +“I was tired of remonstrance, tired of prayer, and had wearied out my +soul with hope deferred.” + +“My dear Agnes! And this poor boy, this wretched misguided boy, Heaven +have pity upon him and restore him! Heaven have pity upon every +wanderer, this dismal and pitiless night!” + +Heaven, indeed, have pity upon that wanderer, out on the bleak highroad +to Slopperton; out on the shelterless Slopperton road, a mile away from +the Black Mill! The wanderer is a young man, whose garments, of the +shabby-genteel order, are worst of all fitted to keep out the cruel +weather; a handsome young man, or a man who has once been handsome, but +on whom riotous days and nights, drunkenness, recklessness, and folly, +have had their dire effects. He is struggling to keep a pad cigar +alight, and when it goes out, which is about twice in five minutes, +he utters expressions which in Slopperton are thought very wicked, and +consigns that good city, with its virtuous citizens, to a very bad +neighbourhood. + +He talks to himself between his struggles with the cigar. “Foot-sore +and weary, hungry and thirsty, cold and ill; it is not a very hopeful +way for the only son of a rich man to come back to his native place +after seven years’ absence. I wonder what star presides over my +vagabond existence; if I knew, I’d shake my fist at it,” he muttered, +as he looked up at two or three feeble luminaries glimmering through +the rain and fog. “Another mile to the Black Mill--and then what will +she say to me? What can she say to me but to curse me? What have I +earned by such a life as mine except a mother’s curse?” His cigar chose +this very moment of all others to go out. If the bad three-half-penny +Havannah had been a sentient thing with reasoning powers, it might have +known better. He threw it aside into a ditch with an oath. He slouched +his hat over his eyes, thrust one hand into the breast of his coat--(he +had a stick cut from some hedgerow in the other)--and walked with a +determined though a weary air onward through slush and mire towards the +Black Mill, from which already the lighted windows shone through the +darkness like so many beacons. + +On through slush and mire, with a weary and slouching step. + +No matter. It is the step for which his mother has waited for seven +long years; it is the step whose ghostly echo on the garden-walk has +smitten so often on her heart and trodden out the light of hope. But +surely the step comes on now--full surely, and for good or ill. Whether +for good or ill comes this long-watched-for step, this bad November +night, who shall say? + +In a quarter of an hour the wanderer stands in the little garden of the +Black Mill. He has not courage to knock at the door; it might be opened +by a stranger; he might hear something he dare not whisper to his own +heart--he might hear something which would strike him down dead upon +the threshold. + +He sees the light in the drawing-room windows. He approaches, and hears +his mother’s voice. + +It is a long time since he has uttered a prayer: but he falls on his +knees by the long French window and breathes a thanksgiving. + +That voice is not still! + +What shall he do? What can he hope from his mother, so cruelly +abandoned? + +At this moment Mr. Harding opens the window to look out at the dismal +night. As he does so, the young man falls fainting, exhausted, into the +room. + +Draw a curtain over the agitation and the bewilderment of that scene. +The almost broken-hearted mother’s joy is too sacred for words. And the +passionate tears of the prodigal son--who shall measure the remorseful +agony of a man whose life has been one long career of recklessness, and +who sees his sin written in his mother’s face? + + +The mother and son sit together, talking gravely, hand in hand, for +two long hours. He tells her, not of all his follies, but of all +his regrets--his punishment, his anguish, his penitence, and his +resolutions for the future. + +Surely it is for good, and good alone, that he has come over a long and +dreary road, through toil and suffering, to kneel here at his mother’s +feet and build up fair schemes for the future. + +The old servant, who has known Richard from a baby, shares in his +mother’s joy. After the slight supper which the weary wanderer is +induced to eat, her brother and her son persuade Mrs. Marwood to retire +to rest; and left _tête-à-tête_, the uncle and nephew sit down to +discuss a bottle of old madeira by the sea-coal fire. + +“My dear Richard”--the young man’s name is Richard--(“Daredevil Dick” +he has been called by his wild companions)--“My dear Richard,” says +Mr. Harding very gravely, “I am about to say something to you, which I +trust you will take in good part.” + +“I am not so used to kind words from good men that I am likely to take +anything you can say amiss.” + +“You will not, then, doubt the joy I feel in your return this night, if +I ask you what are your plans for the future?” + +The young man shook his head. Poor Richard! he had never in his life +had any definite plan for the future, or he might not have been what he +was that night. + +“My poor boy, I believe you have a noble heart, but you have led a +wasted life. This must be repaired.” + +Richard shook his head again. He was very hopeless of himself. + +“I am good for nothing,” he said; “I am a bad lot. I wonder they don’t +hang such men as me.” + +“I wonder they don’t hang such men.” He uttered this reckless speech in +his own reckless way, as if it would be rather a good joke to be hung +up out of the way and done for. + +“My dear boy, thank Heaven you have returned to us. Now I have a plan +to make a man of you yet.” + +Richard looked up this time with a hopeful light in his dark eyes. He +was hopeless at five minutes past ten; he was radiant when the minute +hand had moved on to the next figure on the dial. He was one of +those men whose bad and good angels have a sharp fight and a constant +struggle, but whom we all hope to see saved at last. + +“I have a plan which has occurred to me since your unexpected arrival +this evening,” continued his uncle. “Now, if you stay here, your +mother, who has a trick (as all loving mothers have) of fancying you +are still a little boy in a pinafore and frock--your mother will be +for having you loiter about from morning till night with nothing to +do and nothing to care for; you will fall in again with all your old +Slopperton companions, and all those companions’ bad habits. This isn’t +the way to make a man of you, Richard.” + +Richard, very radiant by this time, thinks not. + +“My plan is, that you start off to-morrow morning before your mother +is up, with a letter of introduction which I will give you to an old +friend of mine, a merchant in the town of Garden Cord, forty miles from +here. At my request, he will give you a berth in his office, and will +treat you as if you were his own son. You can come over here to see +your mother as often as you like; and if you choose to work hard as a +merchant’s clerk, so as to make your own fortune, I know an old fellow +just returned from the East Indies, with not enough liver to keep him +alive many years, who will leave you another fortune to add to it. What +do you say, Richard? Is it a bargain?” + +“My dear generous uncle!” Richard cries, shaking the old man by the +hand. + +Was it a bargain? Of course it was. A merchant’s office--the very thing +for Richard. He _would_ work hard, work night and day to repair +the past, and to show the world there was stuff in him to make a man, +and a good man yet. + +Poor Richard, half an hour ago wishing to be hung and put out of the +way, now full of radiance and hope, while the good angel has the best +of it! + +“You must not begin your new life without money, Richard: I shall, +therefore, give you all I have in the house. I think I cannot better +show my confidence in you, and my certainty that you will not return +to your old habits, than by giving you this money.” Richard looks--he +cannot speak his gratitude. + +The old man conducts his nephew up stairs to his bedroom, an +old-fashioned apartment, in one window of which is a handsome +cabinet, half desk, half bureau. He unlocks this, and takes from it a +pocket-book containing one hundred and thirty-odd pounds in small notes +and gold, and two bills for one hundred pounds each on an Anglo-Indian +bank in the city. + +“Take this, Richard. Use the broken cash as you require it for present +purposes--in purchasing such an outfit as becomes my nephew; and on +your arrival in Gardenford, place the bills in the bank for future +exigencies. And as I wish your mother to know nothing of our little +plan until you are gone, the best thing you can do is to start before +any one is up--to-morrow morning.” + +“I will start at day-break. I can leave a note for my mother.” + +“No, no,” said the uncle, “I will tell her all. You can write directly +you reach your destination. Now, you will think it cruel of me to ask +you to leave your home on the very night of your return to it; but it +is quite as well, my dear boy, to strike while the iron’s hot. If you +remain here your good resolutions may be vanquished by old influences; +for the best resolution, Richard, is but a seed, and if it doesn’t bear +the fruit of a good action, it is less than worthless, for it is a lie, +and promises what it doesn’t perform. I’ve a higher opinion of you than +to think that you brought no better fruit of your penitence home to +your loving mother than empty resolutions. I believe you have a steady +determination to reform.” + +“You only do me justice in that belief, sir. I ask nothing better than +the opportunity of showing that I am in earnest.” + +Mr. Harding is quite satisfied, and once more suggests that Richard +should depart very early the next day. + +“I will leave this house at five in the morning,” said the nephew; “a +train starts for Gardenford about six. I shall creep out quietly, and +not disturb any one. I know the way out of the dear old house--I can +get out of the drawing-room window, and need not unlock the hall-door; +for I know that good stupid old woman Martha sleeps with the key under +her pillow.” + +“Ah, by the bye, where does Martha mean to put you to-night?” + +“In the little back-parlour, I think she said; the room under this.” + + +The uncle and nephew went down to this little parlour, where they found +old Martha making up a bed on the sofa. + +“You will sleep very comfortably here for to-night, Master Richard,” +said the old woman; “but if my mistress doesn’t have this ceiling +mended before long there’ll be an accident some day.” + +They all looked up at the ceiling. The plaster had fallen in several +places, and there were one or two cracks of considerable size. + +“If it was daylight,” grumbled the old woman, “you could see through +into Mister Harding’s bedroom, for his worship won’t have a carpet.” + +His worship said he had not been used to carpets in India, and liked +the sight of Mrs. Martha’s snow-white boards. + +“And it’s hard to keep them white, sir, I can tell you; for when I +scour the floor of that room the water runs through and spoils the +furniture down here.” + +But Daredevil Dick didn’t seem to care much for the dilapidated +ceiling. The madeira, his brightened prospects, and the excitement he +had gone through, all combined to make him thoroughly wearied out. +He shook his uncle’s hand with a brief but energetic expression of +gratitude, and then flung himself half dressed upon the bed. + +“There is an alarum clock in my room,” said the old man, “which I will +set for five o’clock. I always sleep with my door open; so you will be +sure to hear it go down. It won’t disturb your mother, for she sleeps +at the other end of the house. And now good night, and God bless you, +my boy!” + + +He is gone, and the returned prodigal is asleep. His handsome face +has lost half its look of dissipation and care, in the renewed light +of hope; his black hair is tossed off his broad forehead, and it is a +fine candid countenance, with a sweet smile playing round the mouth. +Oh, there is stuff in him to make a man yet, though he says they should +hang such fellows as he! + +His uncle has retired to his room, where his half-caste servant assists +at his toilette for the night. This servant, who is a Lascar, and +cannot speak one word of English (his master converses with him in +Hindostanee), and is thought to be as faithful as a dog, sleeps in a +little bed in the dressing-room adjoining his master’s apartment. + +So, on this bad November night, with the wind howling round the walls +as if it were an angry unadmitted guest that clamoured to come in; with +the rain beating on the roof, as if it had a special purpose and was +bent on flooding the old house; there is peace and happiness, and a +returned and penitent wanderer at the desolate old Black Mill. + +The wind this night seems to howl with a peculiar significance, but +nobody has the key to its strange language; and if, in every shrill +dissonant shriek, it tries to tell a ghastly secret or to give a timely +warning, it tries in vain, for no one heeds or understands. + + + + + CHAPTER III. + + THE USHER WASHES HIS HANDS. + + +MR. JABEZ NORTH had not his little room quite to himself at Dr. +Tappenden’s. There are some penalties attendant even on being a good +young man, and our friend Jabez sometimes found his very virtues +rather inconvenient. It happened that Allecompain Junior was ill of +a fever--sometimes delirious; and as the usher was such an excellent +young person, beloved by the pupils and trusted implicitly by the +master, the sick little boy was put under his especial care, and a bed +was made up for him in Jabez’ room. + +This very November night, when the usher comes up stairs, his great +desk under one arm (he is very strong, this usher), and a little feeble +tallow candle in his left hand, he finds the boy very ill indeed. He +does not know Jabez, for he is talking of a boat-race--a race that took +place in the bright summer gone by. He is sitting up on the pillow, +waving his little thin hand, and crying out at the top of his feeble +voice, “Bravo, red! Red wins! Three cheers for red! Go it--go it, red! +Blue’s beat--I say blue’s beat! George Harris has won the day. I’ve +backed George Harris. I’ve bet six-pennorth of toffey on George Harris! +Go it, red!” + +“We’re worse to-night, then,” said the usher; “so much the better. +We’re off our head, and we’re not likely to take much notice; so +much the better;” and this benevolent young man began to undress. To +undress, but not to go to bed; for from a small trunk he takes out a +dark smock-frock, a pair of leather gaiters, a black scratch wig, and a +countryman’s slouched hat. He dresses himself in these things, and sits +down at a little table with his desk before him. + +The boy rambles on. He is out nutting in the woods with his little +sister in the glorious autumn months gone by. + +“Shake the tree, Harriet, shake the tree; they’ll fall if you only +shake hard enough. Look at the hazel-nuts! so thick you can’t count’em. +Shake away, Harriet; and take care of your head, for they’ll come down +like a shower of rain!” + +The usher takes the coil of rope from his desk, and begins to unwind +it; he has another coil in his little trunk, another hidden away under +the mattress of his bed. He joins the three together, and they form a +rope of considerable length. He looks round the room; holds the light +over the boy’s face, but sees no consciousness of passing events in +those bright feverish eyes. + +He opens the window of his room; it is on the second story, and looks +out into the playground--a large space shut in from the lane in which +the school stands by a wall of considerable height. About half the +height of this room are some posts erected for gymnastics; they are +about ten feet from the wall of the house, and the usher looks at them +dubiously. He lowers the rope out of the window and attaches one end of +it to an iron hook in the wall--a very convenient hook, and very secure +apparently, for it looks as if it had been only driven in that very day. + +He surveys the distance beneath him, takes another dubious look at the +posts in the playground, and is about to step out of the window, when +a feeble voice from the little bed cries out--not in any delirious +ramblings this time--“What are you doing with that rope? Who are you? +What are you doing with that rope?” + +Jabez looks round, and although so good a young man, mutters something +very much resembling an oath. + +“Silly boy, don’t you know me? I’m Jabez, your old friend----” + +“Ah, kind old Jabez; you won’t send me back in Virgil, because I’ve +been ill; eh, Mr. North?” + +“No, no! See, you want to know what I am doing with this rope; why, +making a swing, to be sure.” + +“A swing? Oh, that’s capital. Such a jolly thick rope too! When shall I +be well enough to swing, I wonder? It’s so dull up here. I’ll try and +go to sleep; but I dream such bad dreams.” + +“There, there, go to sleep,” says the usher, in a soothing voice. This +time, before he goes to the window, he puts out his tallow candle; the +rushlight on the hearth he extinguishes also; feels for something in +his bosom, clutches this something tightly; takes a firm grasp of the +rope, and gets out of the window. + +A curious way to make a swing! He lets himself down foot by foot, with +wonderful caution and wonderful courage. When he gets on a level with +the posts of the gymnasium he gives himself a sudden jerk, and swinging +over against them, catches hold of the highest post, and his descent is +then an easy one for the post is notched for the purpose of climbing, +and Jabez, always good at gymnastics, descends it almost as easily +as another man would an ordinary staircase. He leaves the rope still +hanging from his bedroom window, scales the playground wall, and when +the Slopperton clocks strike twelve is out upon the highroad. He skirts +the town of Slopperton by a circuitous route, and in another half-hour +is on the other side of it, bearing towards the Black Mill. A curious +manner of making a swing this midnight ramble. Altogether a curious +ramble for this good young usher; but even good men have sometimes +strange fancies, and this may be one of them. + +One o’clock from the Slopperton steeples: two o’clock: three o’clock. +The sick little boy does not go to sleep, but wanders, oh, how wearily, +through past scenes in his young life. Midsummer rambles, Christmas +holidays, and merry games; the pretty speeches of the little sister who +died three years ago; unfinished tasks and puzzling exercises, all pass +through his wandering mind; and when the clocks chime the quarter after +three, he is still talking, still rambling on in feeble accents, still +tossing wearily on his pillow. + +As the clocks chime the quarter, the rope is at work again, and five +minutes afterwards the usher clambers into the room. + +Not very good to look upon, either in costume or countenance; bad +to look upon, with his clothes mud-bespattered and torn; wet to the +skin; his hair in matted locks streaming over his forehead; worse +to look upon, with his light blue eyes, bright with a dangerous and +wicked fire--the eyes of a wild beast baulked of his prey; dreadful to +look upon, with his hands clenched in fury, and his tongue busy with +half-suppressed but terrible imprecations. + +“All for nothing!” he mutters. “All the toil, the scheming, and +the danger for nothing--all the work of the brain and the hands +wasted--nothing gained, nothing gained!” + +He hides away the rope in his trunk, and begins to unbutton his +mud-stained gaiters. The little boy cries out in a feeble voice for his +medicine. + +The usher pours a tablespoonful of the mixture into a wine-glass with a +steady hand, and carries it to the bedside. + +The boy is about to take it from him, when he utters a sudden cry. + +“What’s the matter?” asks Jabez, angrily. + +“Your hand!--your hand! What’s that upon your hand?” + +A dark stain scarcely dry--a dark stain, at the sight of which the boy +trembles from head to foot. + +“Nothing, nothing!” answers the tutor. “Take your medicine, and go to +sleep.” + +No, the boy cries hysterically, he won’t take his medicine; he will +never take anything again from that dreadful hand. “I know what that +horrid stain is. What have you been doing? Why did you climb out of the +window with a rope? It wasn’t to make a swing; it must have been for +something dreadful! Why did you stay away three hours in the middle of +the night? I counted the hours by the church clocks. Why have you got +those strange clothes on? What does it all mean? I’ll ask the Doctor to +take me out of this room! I’ll go to him this moment, for I’m afraid of +you.” + +The boy tries to get out of bed as he speaks; but the usher holds him +down with one powerful hand, which he places upon the boy’s mouth, at +the same time keeping him from stirring and preventing him from crying +out. + +With his free right hand he searches among the bottles on the table by +the bedside. + +He throws the medicine out of the glass, and pours from another bottle +a few spoonfuls of a dark liquid labelled, “Opium--Poison!” + +“Now, sir, take your medicine, or I’ll report you to the principal +to-morrow morning.” + +The boy tries to remonstrate, but in vain; the powerful hand throws +back his head, and Jabez pours the liquid down his throat. + +For a little time the boy, quite delirious now, goes on talking of the +summer rambles and the Christmas games, and then falls into a deep +slumber. + +Then Jabez North sets to work to wash his hands. A curious young man, +with curious fashions for doing things--above all, a curious fashion of +washing his hands. + +He washes them very carefully in a small quantity of water, and when +they are quite clean, and the water has become a dark and ghastly +colour, he drinks it, and doesn’t make even one wry face at the +horrible draught. + +“Well, well,” he mutters, “if nothing is gained by to-night’s work, I +have at least tried my strength, and I now know what I’m made of.” + +Very strange stuff he must have been made of--very strange and perhaps +not very good stuff, to be able to look at the bed on which the +innocent and helpless boy lay in a deep slumber, and say,-- + +“At any rate, _he_ will tell no tales.” + +No! he will tell no tales, nor ever talk again of summer rambles, or of +Christmas holidays, or of his dead sister’s pretty words. Perhaps he +will join that wept-for little sister in a better world, where there +are no such good young men as Jabez North. + +That worthy gentleman goes down aghast, with a white face, next +morning, to tell Dr. Tappenden that his poor little charge is dead, and +that perhaps he had better break the news to Allecompain Major, who is +sick after that supper, which, in his boyish thoughtlessness, and his +certainty of his little brother’s recovery, he had given last night. + +“Do, yes, by all means, break the sad news to the poor boy; for I know, +North, you’ll do it tenderly.” + + + + + CHAPTER IV. + + RICHARD MARWOOD LIGHTS HIS PIPE. + + +DAREDEVIL DICK hears the alarum at five o’clock, and leaves his +couch very cautiously. He would like, before he leaves the house, to +go to his mother’s door, if it were only to breathe a prayer upon +the threshold. He would like to go to his uncle’s bedside, to give +one farewell look at the kind face; but he has promised to be very +cautious, and to awaken no one; so he steals quietly out through the +drawing-room window--the same window by which he entered so strangely +the preceding evening--into the chill morning, dark as night yet. He +pauses in the little garden-walk for a minute while he lights his pipe, +and looks up at the shrouded windows of the familiar house. “God bless +her!” he mutters; “and God reward that good old man, for giving a scamp +like me the chance of redeeming his honour!” + +There is a thick fog, but no rain. Daredevil Dick knows his way so +well, that neither fog nor darkness are any hindrance to him, and he +trudges on with a cheery step, and his pipe in his mouth, towards the +Slopperton railway station. The station is half an hour’s walk out of +the town, and when he reaches it the clocks are striking six. Learning +that the train will not start for half an hour, he walks up and down +the platform, looking, with his handsome face and shabby dress, rather +conspicuous. Two or three trains for different destinations start while +he is waiting on the platform, and several people stare at him, as he +strides up and down, his hands in his pockets, and his weather-beaten +hat slouched over his eyes--(for he does not want to be known by any +Slopperton people yet awhile, till his position is better)--and when +one man, with whom he had been intimate before he left the town, seemed +to recognize him, and approached as if to speak to him, Richard turned +abruptly on his heel and crossed to the other side of the station. + +If he had known that such a little incident as that could have a dark +and dreadful influence on his life, surely he would have thought +himself foredoomed and set apart for a cruel destiny. + +He strolled into the refreshment-room, took a cup of coffee, changed a +sovereign in paying for his ticket, bought a newspaper, seated himself +in a second-class carriage, and in a few minutes was out of Slopperton. + +There was only one other passenger in the carriage--a commercial +traveller; and Richard and he smoked their pipes in defiance of the +guards at the stations they passed. When did ever Daredevil Dick +quail before any authorities? He had faced all Bow Street, chaffed +Marlborough Street out of countenance, and had kept the station-house +awake all night singing, “We won’t go home till morning.” + +It is rather a dull journey at the best of times from Slopperton to +Gardenford, and on this dark foggy November morning, of course, duller +than usual. It was still dark at half-past six. The station was lighted +with gas, and there was a little lamp in the railway carriage, but +for which the two travellers would not have seen each other’s faces. +Richard looked out of the window for a few minutes, got up a little +conversation with his fellow traveller, which soon flagged (for the +young man was rather out of spirits at leaving his mother directly +after their reconciliation), and then, being sadly at a loss to amuse +himself, took out his uncle’s letter to the Gardenford merchant, and +looked at the superscription. The letter was not sealed, but he did not +take it from the envelope. “If he said any good of me, it’s a great +deal more than I deserve,” said Richard to himself; “but I’m young yet, +and there’s plenty of time to redeem the past.” + +Time to redeem the past! O poor Richard! + +He twisted the letter about in his hands, lighted another pipe, and +smoked till the train arrived at the Gardenford station. Another foggy +November day had set in. + +If Richard Marwood had been a close observer of men and manners, he +might have been rather puzzled by the conduct of a short, thick-set +man, shabbily dressed, who was standing on the platform when he +descended from the carriage. The man was evidently waiting for some +one to arrive by this train: and as surely that some one had arrived, +for the man looked perfectly satisfied when he had scanned, with a +glance marvellously rapid, the face of every passenger who alighted. +But who this some one was, for whom the man was waiting, it was rather +difficult to discover. He did not speak to any one, nor approach any +one, nor did he appear to have any particular purpose in being there +after that one rapid glance at all the travellers. A very minute +observer might certainly have detected in him a slight interest in the +movements of Richard Marwood; and when that individual left the station +the stranger strolled out after him, and walked a few paces behind him +down the back street that led from the station to the town. Presently +he came up closer to him, and a few minutes afterwards suddenly and +unceremoniously hooked his arm into that of Richard. + +“Mr. Richard Marwood, I think,” he said. + +“I’m not ashamed of my name,” replied Daredevil Dick, “and that +_is_ my name. Perhaps you’ll oblige me with yours, since you’re so +uncommonly friendly.” And the young man tried to withdraw his arm from +that of the stranger; but the stranger was of an affectionate turn of +mind, and kept his arm tightly hooked in his. + +“Oh, never mind my name,” he said: “you’ll learn my name fast enough, +I dare say. But,” he continued, as he caught a threatening look in +Richard’s eye, “if you want to call me anything, why, call me Jinks.” + +“Very well then, Mr. Jinks, since I didn’t come to Gardenford to make +your acquaintance, and as now, having made your acquaintance, I can’t +say I much care about cultivating it further, why I wish you a very +good morning!” As he said this, Richard wrenched his arm from that of +the stranger, and strode two or three paces forward. + +Not more than two or three paces though, for the affectionate Mr. Jinks +caught him again by the arm, and a friend of Mr. Jinks, who had also +been lurking outside the station when the train arrived, happening +to cross over from the other side of the street at this very moment, +caught hold of his other arm, and poor Daredevil Dick, firmly pinioned +by these two new-found friends, looked with a puzzled expression from +one to the other. + +“Come, come,” said Mr. Jinks, in a soothing tone, “the best thing you +can do is to take it quietly, and come along with me.” + +“Oh, I see,” said Richard. “Here’s a spoke in the wheel of my reform; +it’s those cursed Jews, I suppose, have got wind of my coming down +here. Show us your writ, Mr. Jinks, and tell us at whose suit it is, +and for what amount? I’ve got a considerable sum about me, and can +settle it on the spot.” + +“Oh, you have, have you?” Mr. Jinks was so surprised by this last +speech of Richard’s that he was obliged to take off his hat, and rub +his hand through his hair before he could recover himself. “Oh!” he +continued, staring at Richard, “Oh! you’ve got a considerable sum of +money about you, have you? Well, my friend, you’re either very green, +or you’re very cheeky; and all I can say is, take care how you commit +yourself. I’m not a sheriff’s officer. If you’d done me the honour to +reckon up my nose you might have knowed it” (Mr. Jinks’s olfactory +organ was a decided snub); “and I ain’t going to arrest you for debt.” + +“Oh, very well then,” said Dick; “perhaps you and your affectionate +friend, who both seem to be afflicted with rather an over-large +allowance of the organ of adhesiveness, will be so very obliging as +to let me go. I’ll leave you a lock of my hair, as you’ve taken such +a wonderful fancy to me.” And with a powerful effort he shook the two +strangers off him; but Mr. Jinks caught him again by the arm, and Mr. +Jinks’s friend, producing a pair of handcuffs, locked them on Richard’s +wrists with railroad rapidity. + +“Now, don’t you try it on,” said Mr. Jinks. “I didn’t want to use +these, you know, if you’d have come quietly. I’ve heard you belong to +a respectable family, so I thought I wouldn’t ornament you with these +here objects of _bigotry_” (it is to be presumed Mr. Jinks means +_bijouterie)_; “but it seems there’s no help for it, so come +along to the station; we shall catch the eight-thirty train, and be in +Slopperton before ten. The inquest won’t come on till to-morrow.” + +Richard looked at his wrists, from his wrists to the faces of the two +men, with an utterly hopeless expression of wonder. + +“Am I mad,” he said, “or drunk, or dreaming? What have you put +these cursed things upon me for? Why do you want to take me back to +Slopperton? What inquest? Who’s dead?” + +Mr. Jinks put his head on one side, and contemplated the prisoner with +the eye of a connoisseur. + +“Don’t he come the _h_innocent dodge stunnin’?” he said, rather to +himself than to his companion, who, by the bye, throughout the affair +had never once spoken. “Don’t he do it beautiful? Wouldn’t he be a +first-rate actor up at the Wictoria Theayter in London? Wouldn’t he be +prime in the ‘Suspected One,’ or ‘Gonsalvo the Guiltless?’ Vy,” said +Mr. Jinks, with intense admiration, “he’d be worth his two-pound-ten a +week and a clear half benefit every month to any manager as is.” + +As Mr. Jinks made these complimentary remarks, he and his friend walked +on. Richard, puzzled, bewildered, and unresisting, walked between them +towards the railway station; but presently Mr. Jinks condescended to +reply to his prisoner’s questions, in this wise:-- + +“You want to know what inquest? Well, a inquest on a gentleman what’s +been barbarously murdered. You want to know who’s dead? Why, your uncle +is the gent as has been murdered. You want to know why we are going +to take you back to Slopperton? Well, because we’ve got a warrant to +arrest you upon suspicion of having committed the murder.” + +“My uncle murdered!” cried Richard, with a face that now for the first +time since his arrest betrayed anxiety and horror; for throughout his +interview with Mr. Jinks he had never once seemed frightened. His +manner had expressed only utter bewilderment of mind. + +“Yes, murdered; his throat cut from ear to ear.” + +“It cannot be,” said Richard. “There must be some horrid mistake here. +My uncle, Montague Harding, murdered! I bade him good-bye at twelve +last night in perfect health.” + +“And this morning he was found murdered in his bed; with the cabinet +in his room broken open, and rifled of a pocket-book known to contain +upwards of three hundred pounds.” + +“Why, he gave me that pocket-book last night. He gave it to me. I have +it here in my breast-pocket.” + +“You’d better keep that story for the coroner,” said Mr. Jinks. +“Perhaps _he’ll_ believe it.” + +“I must be mad, I must be mad,” said Richard. + +They had by this time reached the station, and Mr. Jinks having glanced +into two or three carriages of the train about to start, selected one +of the second-class, and ushered Richard into it. He seated himself by +the young man’s side, while his silent and unobtrusive friend took his +place opposite. The guard locked the door, and the train started. + +Mr. Jinks’s quiet friend was exactly one of those people adapted to +pass in a crowd. He might have passed in a hundred crowds, and no one +of the hundreds of people in any of those hundred crowds would have +glanced aside to look at him. + +You could only describe him by negatives. He was neither very tall nor +very short, he was neither very stout nor very thin, neither dark nor +fair, neither ugly nor handsome; but just such a medium between the two +extremities of each as to be utterly commonplace and unnoticeable. + +If you looked at his face for three hours together, you would in those +three hours find only one thing in that face that was any way out of +the common--that one thing was the expression of the mouth. + +It was a compressed mouth with thin lips, which tightened and drew +themselves rigidly together when the man thought--and the man was +almost always thinking: and this was not all, for when he thought most +deeply the mouth shifted in a palpable degree to the left side of his +face. This was the only thing remarkable about the man, except, indeed, +that he was dumb but not deaf, having lost the use of his speech during +a terrible illness which he had suffered in his youth. + +Throughout Richard’s arrest he had watched the proceedings with +unswerving intensity, and he now sat opposite the prisoner, thinking +deeply, with his compressed lips drawn on one side. + +The dumb man was a mere scrub, one of the very lowest of the police +force, a sort of outsider and _employé_ of Mr. Jinks, the +Gardenford detective; but he was useful, quiet, and steady, and above +all, as his patrons said, he was to be relied on, because he could not +talk. + +He could talk though, in his own way, and he began to talk presently +in his own way to Mr. Jinks; he began to talk with his fingers with a +rapidity which seemed marvellous. The fingers were more active than +clean, and made rather a dirty alphabet. + +“Oh, hang it,” said Mr. Jinks, after watching him for a moment, “you +must do it a little slower, if you want me to understand. I am not an +electric telegraph.” + +The scrub nodded, and began again with his fingers, very slowly. + +This time Richard too watched him; for Richard knew this dumb alphabet. +He had talked whole reams of nonsense with it, in days gone by, to a +pretty girl at a boarding-school, between whom and himself there had +existed a platonic attachment, to say nothing of a high wall and broken +glass bottles. + +Richard watched the dirty alphabet. + +First, two grimy fingers laid flat upon the dirty palm, N. Next, the +tip of the grimy forefinger of the right hand upon the tip of the +grimy third finger of the left hand, O; the next letter is T, and the +man snaps his fingers--the word is finished, NOT. Not what? Richard +found himself wondering with an intense eagerness, which, even in the +bewildered state of his mind, surprised him. + +The dumb man began another word-- + +G--U--I--L-- + +Mr. Jinks cut him short. + +“Not guilty? Not fiddlesticks! What do _you_ know about it, I +should like to know? Where did you get your experience? Where did you +get your sharp practice? What school have you been formed in, I wonder, +that you can come out so positive with your opinion; and what’s the +value you put your opinion at, I wonder? I should be glad to hear what +you’d take for your opinion.” + +Mr. Jinks uttered the whole of this speech with the most intense +sarcasm; for Mr. Jinks was a distinguished detective, and prided +himself highly on his acumen; and was therefore very indignant that his +sub and scrub should dare to express an opinion. + +“My uncle murdered!” said Richard; “my good, kind, generous-hearted +uncle! Murdered in cold blood! Oh, it is too horrible!” + +The scrub’s mouth was very much on one side as Richard muttered this, +half to himself. + +“And I am suspected of the murder?” + +“Well, you see,” said Mr. Jinks, “there’s two or three things tell +pretty strong against you. Why were you in such a hurry this morning to +cut and run to Gardenford?” + +“My uncle had recommended me to a merchant’s office in that town: see, +here is the letter of introduction--read it.” + +“No, it ain’t my place,” said Mr. Jinks. “The letter’s not sealed, I +see, but _I_ mustn’t read it, or if I do, I stand the chance of +gettin’ snubbed and lectured for goin’ beyond my dooty: howsumdever, +you can show it to the coroner. I’m sure I should be very glad to see +you clear yourself, for I’ve heard you belong to one of our good old +county families, and it ain’t quite the thing to hang such as you.” + +Poor Richard! His reckless words of the night before came back to him: +“I wonder they don’t hang such fellows as I am.” + +“And now,” says Jinks, “as I should like to make all things +comfortable, if you’re willing to come along quietly with me and my +friend here, why, I’ll move those bracelets, because they are not quite +so ornamental as they’re sometimes useful; and as I’m going to light my +pipe, why, if you like to blow a cloud, too, you can.” + +With this Mr. Jinks unlocked and removed the handcuffs, and produced +his pipe and tobacco. Richard did the same, and took from his pocket a +match-box in which there was only one match. + +“That’s awkward,” said Jinks, “for I haven’t a light about me.” + +They filled the two pipes, and lighted the one match. + +Now, all this time Richard had held his uncle’s letter of introduction +in his hand, and when there was some little difficulty in lighting the +tobacco from the expiring lucifer, he, without a moment’s thought, +held the letter over the flickering flame, and from the burning paper +lighted his pipe. + +In a moment he remembered what he had done. + +The letter of introduction! the one piece of evidence in his favour! He +threw the blazing paper on the ground and stamped on it, but in vain. +In spite of all his efforts a few black ashes alone remained. + +“The devil must have possessed me,” he exclaimed. “I have burnt my +uncle’s letter.” + +“Well,” says Mr. Jinks, “I’ve seen many dodges in my time, and I’ve +seen a many knowing cards; but if that isn’t the neatest dodge, and if +you ain’t the knowingest card I ever did see, blow me.” + +“I tell you that letter was in my uncle’s hand; written to his friend, +the merchant at Gardenford; and in it he mentions having given me the +very money you say has been stolen from his cabinet.” + +“Oh, the letter was all that, was it? And you’ve lighted your pipe with +it. You’d better tell that little story before the coroner. It will be +so very conwincing to the jury.” + +The scrub, with his mouth very much to the left, spells out again the +two words, “Not guilty!” + +“Oh,” says Mr. Jinks, “you mean to stick to your opinion, do you, now +you’ve formed it? Upon my word, you’re too clever for a country-town +practice; I wonder they don’t send for you up at Scotland Yard; with +your talents, you’d be at the top of the tree in no time, I’ve no +doubt.” + +During the journey, the thick November fog had been gradually clearing +away, and at this very moment the sun broke out with a bright and +sudden light that shone full upon the threadbare coat-sleeve of +Daredevil Dick. + +“Not guilty!” cried Mr. Jinks, with sudden energy. “Not guilty! Why, +look here! I’m blest if his coat-sleeve isn’t covered with blood!” + +Yes, on the shabby worn-out coat the sunlight revealed dark and ghastly +stains; and, stamped and branded by those hideous marks as a villain +and a murderer, Richard Marwood re-entered his native town. + + + + + CHAPTER V. + + THE HEALING WATERS. + + +THE Sloshy is not a beautiful river, unless indeed mud is beautiful, +for it is very muddy. The Sloshy is a disagreeable kind of compromise +between a river and a canal. It is like a canal which (after the +manner of the mythic frog that wanted to be an ox) had seen a river, +and swelled itself to bursting in imitation thereof. It has quite a +knack of swelling and bursting, this Sloshy; it overflows its banks +and swallows up a house or two, or takes an impromptu snack off a few +outbuildings, once or twice a year. It is inimical to children, and has +been known to suck into its muddy bosom the hopes of divers families; +and has afterwards gone down to the distant sea, flaunting on its +breast Billy’s straw hat or Johnny’s pinafore, as a flag of triumph for +having done a little amateur business for the gentleman on the pale +horse. + +It has been a soft pillow of rest, too, this muddy breast of the +Sloshy; and weary heads have been known to sleep more soundly in that +loathsome, dark, and slimy bed than on couches of down. + +Oh, keep us ever from even whispering to our own hearts that our best +chance of peaceful slumber might be in such a bed! + +An ugly, dark, and dangerous river--a river that is always telling you +of trouble, and anguish, and weariness of spirit--a river that to some +poor impressionable mortal creatures, who are apt to be saddened by a +cloud or brightened by a sunbeam, is not healthy to look upon. + +I wonder what that woman thinks of the river? A badly-dressed woman +carrying a baby, who walks with a slow and restless step up and down by +one of its banks, on the afternoon of the day on which the murder of +Mr. Montague Harding took place. + +It is a very solitary spot she has chosen, on the furthest outskirts +of the town of Slopperton; and the town of Slopperton being at best a +very ugly town, is ugliest at the outskirts, which consist of two or +three straggling manufactories, a great gaunt gaol--the stoniest of +stone jugs--and a straggling fringe of shabby houses, some new and only +half-built, others ancient and half fallen to decay, which hang all +round Slopperton like the rags that fringe the edges of a dirty garment. + +The woman’s baby is fretful, and it may be that the damp foggy +atmosphere on the banks of the Sloshy is scarcely calculated to +engender either high spirits or amiable temper in the bosom of infant +or adult. The woman hushes it impatiently to her breast, and looks down +at the little puny features with a strange unmotherly glance. Poor +wretch! Perhaps she scarcely thinks of that little load as a mother +is apt to think of her child. She may remember it only as a shame, a +burden, and a grief. She has been pretty; a bright country beauty, +perhaps, a year ago; but she is a faded, careworn-looking creature now, +with a pale face, and hollow circles round her eyes. She has played the +only game a woman has to play, and lost the only stake a woman has to +lose. + +“I wonder whether he will come, or whether I must wear out my heart +through another long long day.--Hush, hush! As if my trouble was not +bad enough without your crying.” + +This is an appeal to the fretful baby; but that young gentleman is +engaged at fisticuffs with his cap, and has just destroyed a handful of +its tattered border. + +There is on this dingy bank of the Sloshy a little dingy public-house, +very old-fashioned, though surrounded by newly-begun houses. It is +a little, one-sided, pitiful place, ornamented with the cheering +announcements of “Our noted Old Tom at 4_d_. per quartern;” and +“This is the only place for the real Mountain Dew.” It is a wretched +place, which has never seen better days, and never hopes to see better +days. The men who frequent it are a few stragglers from a factory near, +and the colliers whose barges are moored in the neighbourhood. These +shamble in on dark afternoons, and play at all-fours, or cribbage, +in a little dingy parlour with dirty dog’s-eared cards, scoring their +points with beer-marks on the sticky tables. Not a very attractive +house of entertainment this; but it has an attraction for the woman +with the baby, for she looks at it wistfully, as she paces up and +down. Presently she fumbles in her pocket, and produces two or three +half-pence--just enough, it seems, for her purpose, for she sneaks +in at the half-open door, and in a few minutes emerges in the act of +wiping her lips. + +As she does so, she almost stumbles against a man wrapped in a +great coat, and with the lower part of his face muffled in a thick +handkerchief. + +“I thought you would not come,” she said. + +“Did you? Then you see you thought wrong. But you might have been +right, for my coming was quite a chance: I can’t be at your beck and +call night and day.” + +“I don’t expect you to be at my beck and call. I’ve not been used to +get so much attention, or so much regard from you as to expect that, +Jabez.” + +The man started, and looked round as if he expected to find all +Slopperton at his shoulder; but there wasn’t a creature about. + +“You needn’t be quite so handy with my name,” he said; “there’s no +knowing who might hear you. Is there any one in there?” he asked, +pointing to the public-house. + +“No one but the landlord.” + +“Come in, then; we can talk better there. This fog pierces one to the +bones.” + +He seems never to consider that the woman and the child have been +exposed to that piercing fog for an hour and more, as he is above an +hour after his appointment. + +He leads the way through the bar into the little parlour. There are no +colliers playing at all-fours to-day, and the dog’s-eared cards lie +tumbled in a heap on one of the sticky tables among broken clay-pipes +and beer-stains. This table is near the one window which looks out on +the river, and by this window the woman sits, Jabez placing himself on +the other side of the table. + +The fretful baby has fallen asleep, and lies quietly in the woman’s lap. + +“What will you take?” + +“A little gin,” she answers, not without a certain shame in her tone. + +“So you’ve found out _that_ comfort, have you?” He says this with +a glance of satisfaction he cannot repress. + +“What other comfort is there for such as me, Jabez? It seemed at first +to make me forget. Nothing can do that now--except----” + +She did not finish this sentence, but sat looking with a dull vacant +stare at the black waters of the Sloshy, which, as the tide rose, +washed with a hollow noise against the brickwork of the pathway close +to the window. + +“Well, as I suppose you didn’t ask me to meet you here for the sole +purpose of making miserable speeches, perhaps you’ll tell me what you +want with me. My time is precious, and if it were not, I can’t say +I should much care about stopping long in this place; it’s such a +deliciously lively hole and such a charming neighbourhood.” + +“I live in this neighbourhood--at least, I _starve_ in this +neighbourhood, Jabez.” + +“Oh, now we’re coming to it,” said the gentleman, with a very gloomy +face, “we’re coming to it. You want some money. That’s how this sort of +thing always ends.” + +“I hoped a better end than that, Jabez. I hoped long ago, when I +thought you loved me----” + +“Oh, we’re going over that ground again, are we?” said he; and with a +gesture of weariness, he took up the dog’s-eared cards on the sticky +table before him, and began to build a house with them, such as +children build in their play. + +Nothing could express better than this action his thorough +determination not to listen to what the woman might have to say; but in +spite of this she went on-- + +“You see I was a foolish country girl, Jabez, or I might have known +better. I had been accustomed to take my father and my brother’s word +of mouth as Bible truth, and had never known that word to be belied. +I did not think, when the man I loved with all my heart and soul--to +utter forgetfulness of every other living creature on the earth, of +every duty that I knew to man and heaven--I did not think when the man +I loved so much said this or that, to ask him if he meant it honestly, +or if it was not a cruel and a wicked lie. Being so ignorant, I did not +think of that, and I thought to be your wife, as you swore I should be, +and that this helpless little one lying here might live to look up to +you as a father, and be a comfort and an honour to you.” + +To be a comfort and an honour to you! The fretful baby awoke at the +words, and clenched its tiny fists with a spiteful action. + +If the river, as a thing eternal in comparison to man--if the river +had been a prophet, and had had a voice in its waters wherewith to +prophesy, I wonder whether it would have cried-- + +“A shame and a dishonour, an enemy and an avenger in the days to come!” + +Jabez’ card-house had risen to three stories; he took the dog’s-eared +cards one by one in his white hands with a slow deliberate touch that +never faltered. + +The woman looked at him with a piteous but tearless glance; from him to +the river; and back again to him. + +“You don’t ask to look at the child, Jabez.” + +“I don’t like children,” said he. “I get enough of children at the +Doctor’s. Children and Latin grammar--and the end so far off yet,”--he +said the last words to himself, in a gloomy tone. + +“But your own child, Jabez--your own.” + +“As _you_ say,” he muttered. + +She rose from her chair and looked full at him--a long long gaze which +seemed to say, “And this is the man I loved; this is the man for whom I +am lost!” If he could have seen her look! But he was stooping to pick +up a card from the ground--his house of cards was five stories high by +this time. “Come,” he said, in a hard resolute tone, “you’ve written +to me to beg me to meet you here, for you were dying of a broken +heart; that’s to say you have taken to drinking gin (I dare say it’s +an excellent thing to nurse a child upon), and you want to be bought +off. How much do you expect? I thought to have a sum of money at my +command to-day. Never you mind how; it’s no business of yours.” He said +this savagely, as if in answer to a look of inquiry from her; but she +was standing with her back turned to him, looking steadily out of the +window. + +“I thought to have been richer to-day,” he continued, “but I’ve had a +disappointment. However, I’ve brought as much as I could afford; so the +best thing you can do is to take it, and get out of Slopperton as soon +as you can, so that I may never see your wretched white face again.” + +He counted out four sovereigns on the sticky table, and then, adding +the sixth story to his card-house, looked at the frail erection with a +glance of triumph. + +“And so will I build my fortune in days to come,” he muttered. + +A man who had entered the dark little parlour very softly passed behind +him and brushed against his shoulder at this moment; the house of cards +shivered, and fell in a heap on the table. + +Jabez turned round with an angry look. + +“What the devil did you do that for?” he asked. + +The man gave an apologetic shrug, pointed with his fingers to his lips, +and shook his head. + +“Oh,” said Jabez, “deaf and dumb! So much the better.” + +The strange man seated himself at another table, on which the landlord +placed a pint of beer; took up a newspaper, and seemed absorbed in +it; but from behind the cover of this newspaper he watched Jabez with +a furtive glance, and his mouth, which was very much on one side, +twitched now and then with a nervous action. + +All this time the woman had never touched the money--never indeed +turned from the window by which she stood; but she now came up to the +table, and took the sovereigns up one by one. + +“After what you have said to me this day, I would see this child +starve, hour by hour, and die a slow death before my eyes, before I +would touch one morsel of bread bought with your money. I have heard +that the waters of that river are foul and poisonous, and death to +those who live on its bank; but I know the thoughts of your wicked +heart to be so much more foul and so much bitterer a poison, that I +would go to that black river for pity and help rather than to you.” +As she said this, she threw the sovereigns into his face with such +a strong and violent hand, that one of them, striking him above the +eyebrow, cut his forehead to the bone, and brought the blood gushing +over his eyes. + +The woman took no notice of his pain, but turning once more to the +window, threw herself into a chair and sat moodily staring out at the +river, as if indeed she looked to that for pity. + +The dumb man helped the landlord to dress the cut on Jabez’ forehead. +It was a deep cut, and likely to leave a scar for years to come. + +Mr. North didn’t look much the better, either in appearance or temper, +for this blow. He did not utter a word to the woman, but began, in a +hang-dog manner, to search for the money, which had rolled away into +the corners of the room. He could only find three sovereigns; and +though the landlord brought a light, and the three men searched the +room in every direction, the fourth could not be found; so, abandoning +the search, Jabez paid his score and strode out of the place without +once looking at the woman. + +“I’ve got off cheap from that tiger-cat,” he said to himself; “but it +has been a bad afternoon’s work. What can I say about my cut face to +the governor?” He looked at his watch, a homely silver one attached to +a black ribbon. “Five o’clock; I shall be at the Doctor’s by tea-time. +I can get into the gymnasium the back way, take a few minutes’ turn +with the poles and ropes, and say the accident happened in climbing. +They always believe what I say, poor dolts.” + +His figure was soon lost in the darkness and the fog--so dense a fog +that very few people saw the woman with the fretful baby when she +emerged from the public-house, and walked along the river-bank, +leaving even the outskirts of Slopperton behind, and wandered on and on +till she came to a dreary spot, where dismal pollard willows stretched +their dark and ugly shadows, like the bare arms of withered hags, over +the dismal waters of the lonely Sloshy. + +O river, sometimes so pitiless when thou devourest youth, beauty, and +happiness, wilt thou be pitiful and tender to-night, and take a poor +wretch, who has no hope of mortal pity, to peace and quiet on thy +breast? + +O merciless river, so often bitter foe to careless happiness, wilt thou +to-night be friend to reckless misery and hopeless pain? + +God made thee, dark river, and God made the wretch who stands shivering +on thy bank: and may be, in His boundless love and compassion for the +creatures of His hand, He may have pity even for those so lost as to +seek forbidden comfort in thy healing waters. + + + + + CHAPTER VI. + + TWO CORONER’S INQUESTS. + + +THERE had not been since the last general election, when George +Augustus Slashington, the Liberal member, had been returned against +strong Conservative opposition, in a blaze of triumph and a shower of +rotten eggs and cabbage-stumps--there had not been since that great +day such excitement in Slopperton as there was on the discovery of the +murder of Mr. Montague Harding. + +A murder was always a great thing for Slopperton. When John Boggins, +weaver, beat out the brains of Sarah his wife, first with the heel of +his clog and ultimately with a poker, Slopperton had a great deal to +say about it--though, of course, the slaughter of one “hand” by another +was no great thing out of the factories. But this murder at the Black +Mill was something out of the common. Uncommonly cruel, cowardly, and +unmanly, and moreover occurring in a respectable rank of life. + +Round that lonely house on the Slopperton road there was a crowd and +a bustle throughout that short foggy day on which Richard Marwood was +arrested. + +Gentlemen of the Press were there, sniffing out, with miraculous +acumen, particulars of the murder, which as yet were known to none but +the heads of the Slopperton police force. + +How many lines at three-half-pence per line these gentlemen wrote +concerning the dreadful occurrence, without knowing anything whatever +about it, no one unacquainted with the mysteries of their art would +dare to say. + +The two papers which appeared on Friday had accounts varying in +every item, and the one paper which appeared on Saturday had a happy +amalgamation of the two conflicting accounts--demonstrating thereby the +triumph of paste and scissors over penny-a-liners’ copy. + +The head officials of the Slopperton police, attired in plain clothes, +went in and out of the Black Mill from an early hour on that dark +November day. Every time they came out, though none of them ever spoke, +by some strange magic a fresh report got current among the crowd. I +think the magical process was this: Some one man, auguring from such +and such a significance in their manner, whispered to his nearest +neighbour his suggestion of what _might_ have been revealed to +them within; and this whispered suggestion was repeated from one to +another till it grew into a fact, and was still repeated through the +crowd, while with every speaker it gathered interest until it grew into +a series of imaginary facts. + +Of one thing the crowd was fully convinced--that was, that those grave +men in plain clothes, the Slopperton detectives, knew all, and could +tell all, if they only chose to speak. And yet I doubt if there was +beneath the stars more than one person who really knew the secret of +the dreadful deed. + +The following day the coroner’s inquisition was held at a respectable +hostelry near the Black Mill, whither the jury went, accompanied by +the medical witness, to contemplate the body of the victim. With +solemn faces they hovered round the bed of the murdered man: they took +depositions, talked to each other in low hushed tones; and exchanged a +few remarks, in a low voice, with the doctor who had probed the deep +gashes in that cold breast. + +All the evidence that transpired at the inquest only amounted to this-- + +The servant Martha, rising at six o’clock on the previous morning, +went, as she was in the habit of doing, to the door of the old East +Indian to call him--he being always an early riser, and getting up even +in winter to study by lamp-light. + +Receiving, after repeated knocking at the door, no answer the old +woman had gone into the room, and there had beheld, by the faint light +of her candle, the awful spectacle of the Anglo-Indian lying on the +floor by the bedside, his throat cut, cruel stabs upon his breast, and +a pool of blood surrounding him; the cabinet in the room broken open +and ransacked, and the pocket-book and money which it was known to +contain missing. The papers of the murdered gentleman were thrown into +confusion and lay in a heap near the cabinet; and as there was no blood +upon them, the detectives concluded that the cabinet had been rifled +prior to the commission of the murder. + +The Lascar had been found lying insensible on his bed in the little +dressing-room, his head cruelly beaten; and beyond this there was +nothing to be discovered. The Lascar had been taken to the hospital, +where little hope was given by the doctors of his recovery from the +injuries he had received. + +In the first horror and anguish of that dreadful morning Mrs. Marwood +had naturally inquired for her son; had expressed her surprise at his +disappearance; and when questioned had revealed the history of his +unexpected return the night before. Suspicion fell at once upon the +missing man. His reappearance after so many years on the return of his +rich uncle; his secret departure from the house before any one had +risen--everything told against him. Inquiries were immediately set on +foot at the turnpike gates on the several roads out of Slopperton; and +at the railway station from which he had started for Gardenford by the +first train. + +In an hour it was discovered that a man answering to Richard’s +description had been seen at the station; half an hour afterwards a +man appeared, who deposed to having seen and recognized him on the +platform--and deposed, too, to Richard’s evident avoidance of him. +The railway clerks remembered giving a ticket to a handsome young man +with a dark moustache, in a shabby suit, having a pipe in his mouth. +Poor Richard! the dark moustache and pipe tracked him at every stage. +“Dark moustache--pipe--shabby dress--tall--handsome face.” The clerk +who played upon the electric telegraph wires, as other people play upon +the piano, sent these words shivering down the line to the Gardenford +station; from the Gardenford station to the Gardenford police-office +the words were carried in less than five minutes; in five minutes more +Mr. Jinks the detective was on the platform, and his dumb assistant, +Joe Peters, was ready outside the station; and they both were ready to +recognize Richard the moment they saw him. + +O wonders of civilized life! cruel wonders, when you help to track an +innocent man to a dreadful doom. + +Richard’s story of the letter only damaged his case with the jury. The +fact of his having burned a document of such importance seemed too +incredible to make any impression in his favour. + +Throughout the proceedings there stood in the background a shabbily +dressed man, with watchful observant eyes, and a mouth very much on one +side. + +This man was Joseph Peters, the scrub of the detective force of +Gardenford. He rarely took his eyes from Richard, who, with pale +bewildered face, dishevelled hair, and slovenly costume, looked perhaps +as much like guilt as innocence. + +The verdict of the coroner’s jury was, as every one expected it would +be, to the effect that the deceased had been wilfully murdered by +Richard Marwood his nephew; and poor Dick was removed immediately to +the county gaol on the outskirts of Slopperton, there to lie till the +assizes. + +The excitement in Slopperton, as before observed, was immense. +Slopperton had but one voice--a voice loud in execration of the +innocent prisoner, horror of the treachery and cruelty of the dreadful +deed, and pity for the wretched mother of this wicked son, whose +anguish had thrown her on a sick bed--but who, despite of every proof +repeated every hour, expressed her assurance of her unfortunate son’s +innocence. + +The coroner had plenty of work on that dismal November day: for from +the inquest on the unfortunate Mr. Harding he had to hurry down to a +little dingy public-house on the river’s bank, there to inquire into +the cause of the untimely death of a wretched outcast found by some +bargemen in the Sloshy. + +This sort of death was so common an event in the large and +thickly-populated town of Slopperton, that the coroner and the jury +(lighted by two guttering tallow candles with long wicks, at four +o’clock on that dull afternoon) had very little to say about it. + +One glance at that heap of wet, torn, and shabby garments--one +half-shuddering, halt-pitying look at the white face, blue lips, and +damp loose auburn hair, and a merciful verdict--“Found drowned.” + +One juryman, a butcher--(we sometimes think them hard-hearted, these +butchers)--lays a gentle hand upon the auburn hair, and brushes a lock +of it away from the pale forehead. + +Perhaps so tender a touch had not been laid upon that head for two long +years. Perhaps not since the day when the dead woman left her native +village, and a fond and happy mother for the last time smoothed the +golden braids beneath her daughter’s Sunday bonnet. + +In half an hour the butcher is home by his cheerful fireside; and I +think he has a more loving and protecting glance than usual for the +fair-haired daughter who pours out his tea. + +No one recognizes the dead woman. No one knows her story; they +guess at it as a very common history, and bury her in a parish +burying-ground--a damp and dreary spot not far from the river’s brink, +in which many such as she are laid. + +Our friend Jabez North, borrowing the Saturday’s paper of his principal +in the evening after school-hours, is very much interested in the +accounts of these two coroner’s inquests. + + + + + CHAPTER VII. + + THE DUMB DETECTIVE A PHILANTHROPIST. + + +THE dreary winter months pass by. Time, slow of foot to some, and fast +of wing to others, is a very chameleon, such different accounts do +different people give of him. + +He is very rapid in his flight, no doubt, for the young gentlemen from +Dr. Tappenden’s home for the Christmas holidays: rapid enough perhaps +for the young gentlemen’s papas, who have to send their sons back to +the academy armed with Dr. Tappenden’s little account--which is not +such a very little account either, when you reckon up all the extras, +such as dancing, French, gymnastics, drill-serjeant, hair-cutting, +stationery, servants, and pew at church. + +Fast enough, perhaps, is the flight of Time for Allecompain Major, who +goes home in a new suit of mourning, and who makes it sticky about the +cuffs and white about the elbows before the holidays are out. I don’t +suppose he forgets his little dead brother; and I dare say, by the +blazing hearth, where the firelight falls dullest upon his mother’s +black dress, he sometimes thinks very sadly of the little grave out in +the bleak winter night, on which the snow falls so purely white. But +“cakes and ale” are eternal institutions; and if you or I, reader, died +to-morrow, the baker would still bake, and Messrs. Barclay and Perkins +would continue to brew the ale and stout for which they are so famous, +and the friends who were sorriest for us would eat, drink, ay and be +merry too, before long. + +Who shall say how slow of foot is Time to the miserable young man +awaiting his trial in the dreary gaol of Slopperton? + +Who shall say how slow to the mother awaiting in agony the result of +that trial? + +The assizes take place late in February. So, through the fog and damp +of gloomy November; through long, dark, and dreary December nights; +through January frost and snow--(of whose outward presence he has no +better token than the piercing cold within)--Richard paces up and down +his narrow cell, and broods upon the murder of his uncle, and of his +trial which is to come. + +Ministers of religion come to convert him, as they say. He tells them +that he hopes and believes all they can teach him, for that it was +taught him in years gone by at his mother’s knee. + +“The best proof of my faith,” he says, “is that I am not mad. Do you +think, if I did not believe in an All-seeing Providence, I should not +go stark staring mad, when, night after night, through hours which are +as years in duration, I think, and think, of the situation in which +I am placed, till my brain grows wild and my senses reel? I have no +hope in the result of my trial, for I feel how every circumstance +tells against me: but I have hope that Heaven, with a mighty hand, and +an instrument of its own choosing, may yet work out the saving of an +innocent man from an ignominious death.” + +The dumb detective Peters had begged to be transferred from Gardenford +to Slopperton, and was now in the employ of the police force of that +town. Of very little account this scrub among the officials. His +infirmity, they say, makes him scarcely worth his salt, though they +admit that his industry is unfailing. + +So the scrub awaits the trial of Richard Marwood, in whose fortunes +he takes an interest which is in no way abated since he spelt out the +words “Not guilty” in the railway carriage. + +He had taken up his Slopperton abode in a lodging in a small street +of six-roomed houses yclept Little Gulliver Street. At No. 5, Little +Gulliver Street, Mr. Peters’ attention had been attracted by the +announcement of the readiness and willingness of the occupier of the +house to take in and do for a single gentleman. Mr. Peters was a single +gentleman, and he accordingly presented himself at No. 5, expressing +the amiable desire of being forthwith taken in and done for. + +The back bedroom of that establishment, he was assured by its +proprietress, was an indoor garden-of-Eden for a single man; and +certainly, looked at by the light of such advantages as a rent of +four-and-sixpence a week, a sofa-bedstead--(that deliciously innocent +white lie in the way of furniture which never yet deceived anybody); +a Dutch oven, an apparatus for cooking anything, from a pheasant to +a red herring; and a little high-art in the way of a young gentleman +in red-and-yellow making honourable proposals to a young lady in +yellow-and-red, in picture number one; and the same lady and gentleman +perpetuating themselves in picture number two, by means of a red +baby in a yellow cradle;--taking into consideration such advantages +as these, the one-pair back was a paradise calculated to charm a +virtuously-minded single man. Mr. Peters therefore took immediate +possession by planting his honest gingham in a corner of the room, and +by placing two-and-sixpence in the hands of the proprietress by way of +deposit. His luggage was more convenient than extensive--consisting of +a parcel in the crown of his hat, containing the lighter elegancies of +his costume; a small bundle in a red cotton pocket handkerchief, which +held the heavier articles of his wardrobe; and a comb, which he carried +in his pocket-book. + +The proprietress of the indoor Eden was a maiden lady of mature age, +with a sharp red nose and metallic pattens. It was with some difficulty +that Mr. Peters made her understand, by the aid of pantomimic gestures +and violent shakings of the head, that he was dumb, but not deaf; that +she need be under no necessity of doing violence to the muscles of her +throat, as he could hear her with perfect ease in her natural key. He +then--still by the aid of pantomime--made known a desire for pencil and +paper, and on being supplied with these articles wrote the one word +“baby,” and handed that specimen of caligraphy to the proprietress. + +That sharp-nosed damsel’s maidenly indignation sent new roses to join +the permanent blossoms at the end of her olfactory organ, and she +remarked, in a voice of vinegar, that she let her lodgings to single +men, and that single men as were single men, and not impostors, had no +business with babies. + +Mr. Peters again had recourse to the pencil, “Not mine--fondling; to be +brought up by hand; would pay for food and nursing.” + +The maiden proprietress had no objection to a fondling, if paid for its +requirements; liked children in their places; would call Kuppins; and +did call Kuppins. + +A voice at the bottom of the stairs responded to the call of Kuppins; a +boy’s voice most decidedly; a boy’s step upon the stairs announced the +approach of Kuppins; and Kuppins entered the room with a boy’s stride +and a boy’s slouch; but for all this, Kuppins was a girl. + +Not very much like a girl about the head, with that shock of dark +rough short hair; not much like a girl about the feet, in high-lows, +with hobnailed soles; but a girl for all that, as testified by short +petticoats and a long blue pinafore, ornamented profusely with +every variety of decoration in the way of three-cornered slits and +grease-spots. + +Kuppins was informed by her mistress that the gent had come to lodge; +and moreover that the gent was dumb. It is impossible to describe +Kuppins’ delight at the idea of a dumb lodger. + +Kuppins had knowed a dumb boy as lived three doors from mother’s +(Kuppins’ mother understood); this ’ere dumb boy was wicious, and when +he was gone agin, ’owled ’orrid. + +Was told that the gent wasn’t vicious and never howled, and seemed, if +anything, disappointed. Understood the dumb alphabet, and had conversed +in it for hours with the aforesaid dumb boy. The author, as omniscient, +may state that Kuppins and the vicious boy had had some love-passages +in days gone by. Mr. Peters was delighted to find a kindred spirit +capable of understanding his dirty alphabet, and explained his wish +that a baby, “a fondling” he intended to bring up, might be taken in +and done for as well as himself. + +Kuppins doated on babies; had nursed nine brothers and sisters, and +had nursed outside the family circle, at the rate of fifteen-pence a +week, for some years. Kuppins had been out in the world from the age of +twelve, and was used up as to Slopperton at sixteen. + +Mr. Peters stated by means of the dirty alphabet--(more than usually +dirty to-day, after his journey from Gardenford, whence he had +transplanted his household gods, namely, the gingham umbrella, the +bundle, parcel, pocket-book, and comb)--that he would go and fetch +the baby. Kuppins immediately proved herself an adept in the art of +construing this manual language, and nodded triumphantly a great many +times in token that she understood the detective’s meaning. + +The baby was apparently not far off, for Mr. Peters returned in five +minutes with a limp bundle smothered in an old pea-jacket, which on +close inspection turned out to be the “fondling.” + +Mr. Peters had lately purchased the pea-jacket second-hand, and +believed it to be an appropriate outer garment for a baby in +long-clothes. + +The fondling soon evinced signs of a strongly-marked character, not to +say a vindictive disposition, and fought manfully with Kuppins, smiting +that young lady in the face, and abstracting handfuls of her hair with +an address beyond his years. + +“Ain’t he playful?” asked that young person, who was evidently +experienced in fretful babies, and indifferent to the loss of a stray +tress or so from her luxuriant locks. “Ain’t he playful, pretty +hinnercent! Lor! he’ll make the place quite cheerful!” + +In corroboration of which prediction the “fondling” set up a dismal +wail, varied with occasional chokes and screams. + +Surely there never could have been, since the foundation-stones of +the hospitals for abandoned children in Paris and London were laid, +such a “fondling” to choke as this fondling. The manner in which his +complexion would turn--from its original sickly sallow to a vivid +crimson, from crimson to dark blue, and from blue to black--was +something miraculous; and Kuppins was promised much employment in +the way of shakings and pattings on the back, to keep the “fondling” +from an early and unpleasant death. But Kuppins, as we have remarked, +liked a baby--and, indeed, would have given the preference to a cross +baby--a cross baby being, as it were, a battle to fight, and a victory +to achieve. + +In half an hour she had conquered the fondling in a manner wonderful to +behold. She laid him across her knee while she lighted a fire in the +smoky little grate; for the indoor Eden offered a Hobson’s choice to +its inhabitants, of smoke or damp; and Mr. Peters preferred smoke. She +carried the infant on her left arm, while she fetched a red herring, an +ounce of tea, and other comestibles from the chandler’s at the corner; +put him under her arm while she cooked the herring and made the tea, +and waited on Mr. Peters at his modest repast with the fondling choking +on her shoulder. + +Mr. Peters, having discussed his meal, conversed with Kuppins as she +removed the tea-things. The alphabet by this time had acquired a +piscatorial flavour, from his having made use of the five vowels to +remove the bones of his herring. + +“That baby’s a rare fretful one,” says Mr. Peters with rapid fingers. + +Kuppins had nursed a many fretful babies. “Orphants was generally +fretful; supposed the ‘fondling’ was a orphant.” + +“Poor little chap!--yes,” said Peters. “He’s had his trials, though he +is a young ’un. I’m afeard he’ll never grow up a teetotaller. He’s had +a little too much of the water already.” + +Has had too much of the water? Kuppins would very much like to know +the meaning of this observation. But Mr. Peters relapses into profound +thought, and looks at the “fondling” (still choking) with the eye of a +philanthropist and almost the tenderness of a father. + +He who provides for the young ravens had, perhaps, in the marvellous +fitness of all things of His creation, given to this helpless little +one a better protector in the dumb scrub of the police force than he +might have had in the father who had cast him off, whoever that father +might be. + +Mr. Peters presently remarks to the interested Kuppins, that he shall +“ederkate,”--he is some time deciding on the conflicting merits of a +_c_ or a _k_ for this word--he shall “ederkate the fondling, +and bring him up to his own business.” + +“What is his business?” asks Kuppins naturally. + +“Detecktive,” Mr. Peters spells, embellishing the word with an +extraneous _k_. + +“Oh, perlice,” said Kuppins. “Crikey, how jolly! Shouldn’t I like to be +a perliceman, and find out all about this ’ere ’orrid murder!” + +Mr. Peters brightens at the word “murder,” and he regards Kuppins with +a friendly glance. + +“So you takes a hinterest in this ’ere murder, do yer?” he spells out. + +“Oh, don’t I? I bought a Sunday paper. Shouldn’t I like to see that +there young man as killed his uncle scragged--that’s all!” + +Mr. Peters shook his head doubtfully, with a less friendly glance at +Kuppins. But there were secrets and mysteries of his art he did not +trust at all times to the dirty alphabet; and perhaps his opinion on +the subject of the murder of Mr. Montague Harding was one of them. + +Kuppins presently fetched him a pipe; and as he sat by this smoky fire, +he watched alternately the blue cloud that issued from his lips and +the clumsy figure of the damsel pacing up and down with the “fondling” +(asleep after the exhaustion attendant on a desperate choke) upon her +arms. + +“If,” mused Mr. Peters, with his mouth very much to the left of his +nose--“if that there baby was grow’d up, he might help me to find out +the rights and wrongs of this ’ere murder.” + +Who so fit? or who so unfit? Which shall we say? If in the wonderful +course of events, this little child shall ever have a part in dragging +a murderer to a murderer’s doom, shall it be called a monstrous and a +terrible outrage of nature, or a just and a fitting retribution? + + + + + CHAPTER VIII. + + SEVEN LETTERS ON THE DIRTY ALPHABET. + + +THE 17th of February shone out bright and clear, and a frosty sunlight +illumined the windows of the court where Richard Marwood stood to be +tried for his life. + +Never, perhaps, had that court been so crowded; never, perhaps, had +there been so much anxiety felt in Slopperton for the result of any +trial as was felt that day for the issue of the trial of Richard +Marwood. + +The cold bright sunlight streaming in at the windows seemed to fall +brightest and coldest on the wan white face of the prisoner at the bar. + +Three months of mental torture had done their work, and had written +their progress in such characters upon that young and once radiant +countenance, as Time, in his smooth and peaceful course, would have +taken years to trace. But Richard Marwood was calm to-day, with the +awful calmness of that despair which is past all hope. Suspense had +exhausted him. But he had done with suspense, and felt that his fate +was sealed; unless, indeed, Heaven--infinite both in mercy and in +power--raised up as by a miracle some earthly instrument to save him. + +The court was one vast sea of eager faces; for, to the spectators, +this trial was as a great game of chance, which the counsel for the +prosecution, the judge, and the jury, played against the prisoner and +his advocate, and at which the prisoner staked his life. + +There was but one opinion in that vast assemblage; and that was, that +the accused would lose in this dreadful game, and that he well deserved +to lose. + +There had been betting in Slopperton on the result of this awful +hazard. For the theory of chances is to certain minds so delightful, +that the range of subjects for a wager may ascend from a maggot-race +to a trial for murder. Some adventurous spirits had taken desperate +odds against the outsider “Acquittal;” and many enterprising gentlemen +had made what they considered “good books,” by putting heavy sums on +the decided favourite, “Found Guilty.” As, however, there might be a +commutation of the sentence of death to transportation for life, some +speculators had bet upon the chance of the prisoner being found guilty, +but not executed; or, as it had been forcibly expressed, had backed +“Penal Servitude” against “Gallows.” + +So there were private interests, as well as a public interest, among +that swelling ocean of men and women; and Richard had but very few +backers in the great and terrible game that was being played. + +In a corner of the gallery of the court, high up over the heads of the +multitude, there was a little spot railed off from the public, and +accessible only to the officials, or persons introduced by them. Here, +among two or three policemen, stood our friend Mr. Joseph Peters, with +his mouth very much on one side, and his eyes fixed intently upon the +prisoner at the bar. The gallery in which he stood faced the dock, +though at a great distance from it. + +If there was one man in that vast assembly who, next to the prisoner, +was most wretched, that man was the prisoner’s counsel. He was young, +and this was only his third or fourth brief; and this was, moreover, +the first occasion upon which he had ever been intrusted with an +important case. He was an intensely nervous and excitable man, +and failure would be to him worse than death; and he felt failure +inevitable. He had not one inch of ground for the defence; and, in +spite of the prisoner’s repeated protestations of his innocence, he +believed that prisoner to be guilty. He was an earnest man; and this +belief damped his earnestness. He was a conscientious man; and he felt +that to defend Richard Marwood was something like a dishonest action. + +The prisoner pleaded “Not guilty” in a firm voice. We read of this +whenever we read of the trial of a great criminal; we read of the +firm voice, the calm demeanour, the composed face, and the dignified +bearing; and we wonder. Would it not be more wonderful were it +otherwise? If we consider the pitch to which that man’s feelings have +been wrought; the tension of every nerve; the exertion of every force, +mental and physical, to meet those five or six desperate hours, we +wonder no longer. The man’s life has become a terrible drama, and he +is playing his great act. That mass of pale and watchful faces carries +him through the long agony. Or perhaps it is less an agony than an +excitement. It may be that his mind is mercifully darkened, and that +he cannot see beyond the awful present into the more awful future. He +is not busy with the vision of a ghastly structure of wood and iron; +a dangling rope swinging loose in the chill morning air, till it is +tightened and strained by a quivering and palpitating figure, which so +soon grows rigid. He does not, it is to be hoped, see this. Life for +him to-day stands still, and there is not room in his breast--absorbed +with the one anxious desire to preserve a proud and steady outward +seeming--for a thought of that dreadful future which may be so close at +hand. + +So, Richard Marwood, in an unfaltering voice, pleaded “Not guilty.” + +There was among that vast crowd but one person who believed him. + +Ay, Richard Marwood, thou mightest reverence those dirty hands, for +they have spelt out the only language, except that of thy wretched +mother, that ever spoke conviction of thy innocence. + +Now the prisoner, though firm and collected in his manner spoke in +so low and subdued a voice as to be only clearly audible to those +near him. It happened that the judge, one of the celebrities of the +bench, was afflicted with a trifling infirmity, which he would never +condescend to acknowledge. That infirmity was partial deafness. He was +what is called hard of hearing on one side, and his--to use a common +expression--_game_ ear happened to be nearest Richard. + +“Guilty,” said the judge. “So, so--Guilty. Very good.” + +“Pardon me, my lord,” said the counsel for the defence, “the prisoner +pleaded _not_ guilty.” + +“Nonsense, sir. Do you suppose me deaf?” asked his lordship; at which +there was a aught titter among the habitués of the court. + +The barrister gave his head a deprecatory shake. Of course, a gentleman +in his lordship’s position could not be deaf. + +“Very well, then,” said the judge, “unless I am deaf, the prisoner +pleaded guilty. I heard him, sir, with my own ears--my own ears.” + +The barrister thought his lordship should have said “my own ear,” as +the _game_ organ ought not to count. + +“Perhaps,” said the judge, “perhaps the prisoner will be good enough to +repeat his plea; and this time he will be good enough to speak out.” + +“Not guilty,” said Richard again, in a firm but not a loud voice--his +long imprisonment, with days, weeks, and months of slow agony, had +so exhausted his physical powers, that to speak at all, under such +circumstances, was an effort. + +“Not guilty?” said the judge. “Why, the man doesn’t know his own mind. +The man must be a born idiot--he can’t be right in his intellect.” + +Scarcely had the words passed his lordship’s lips, when a long low +whistle resounded through the court. + +Everybody looked up towards a corner of the gallery from which the +sound came, and the officials cried “Order!” + +Among the rest the prisoner raised his eyes, and looking to the +spot from which this unexampled and daring interruption proceeded, +recognized the face of the man who had spelt out the words “Not +guilty” in the railway carriage. Their eyes met: and the man signalled +to Richard to watch his hands, whilst with his fingers he spelt out +several words slowly and deliberately. + +This occurred during the pause caused by the endeavours of the +officials to discover what contumacious person had dared to whistle at +the close of his lordship’s remark. + +The counsel for the prosecution stated the case--a very clear case it +seemed too--against Richard Marwood. + +“Here,” said the barrister, “is the case of a young man, who, after +squandering a fortune, and getting deeply in debt in his native town, +leaves that town, as it is thought by all, never to return. For seven +years he does not return. His widowed and lonely mother awaits in +anguish for any tidings of this heartless reprobate; but, for seven +long years, by not so much as one line or one word, sent through any +channel whatever, does he attempt to relieve her anxiety. His townsmen +believe him to be dead; his mother believes him to be dead; and it is +to be presumed from his conduct that he wishes to be lost sight of by +all to whom he once was dear. But at the end of this seven years, his +uncle, his mother’s only brother, a man of large fortune, returns from +India and takes up his temporary abode at the Black Mill. Of course +all Slopperton knows of the arrival of this gentleman, and knows also +the extent of his wealth. We are always interested in rich people, +gentlemen of the jury. Now, it is not very difficult to imagine, that +through some channel or other the prisoner at the bar was made aware of +his uncle’s return, and his residence at the Black Mill. The fact was +mentioned in every one of the five enterprising journals which are the +pride of Slopperton. The prisoner may have seen one of these journals; +he may have had some former boon companion resident in Slopperton, with +whom he may have been in correspondence. Be that as it may, gentlemen, +on the eighth night after Mr. Montague Harding’s arrival, the prisoner +at the bar appears, after seven years’ absence, with a long face and a +penitent story, to beg his mother’s forgiveness. Gentlemen, we know the +boundless power of maternal love; the inexhaustible depth of affection +in a mother’s breast. His mother forgave him. The fatted calf was +killed; the returned wanderer was welcomed to the home he had rendered +desolate; the past was wiped out; and seven long years of neglect and +desertion were forgotten. The family retired to rest. That night, +gentlemen, a murder was committed of a deeper and darker dye than guilt +ordinarily wears: a murder which in centuries hence will stand amongst +the blackest chapters in the gloomy annals of crime. Under the roof +whose shelter he had sought for the repose of his old age, Montague +Harding was cruelly and brutally murdered. + +“Now, gentlemen, who committed this outrage? Who was the monster in +human form that perpetrated this villanous, cowardly, and bloodthirsty +deed? Suspicion, gentlemen of the jury, only points to one man; and +to that man suspicion points with so unerring a finger, that the +criminal stands revealed in the broad glare of detected guilt. That +man is the prisoner at the bar. On the discovery of the murder, the +returned wanderer, the penitent and dutiful son, was of course sought +for. But was he to be found? No, gentlemen. The bird had flown. The +affectionate son, who, after seven years’ desertion, had returned to +his mother’s feet--as it was of course presumed never again to leave +her--had departed, secretly, in the dead of the night; choosing to +sneak out of a window like a burglar, rather than to leave by the door, +as the legitimate master of the house. Suspicion at once points to him; +he is sought and found--where, gentlemen? Forty miles from the scene +of the murder, with the money rifled from the cabinet of the murdered +man in his possession, and with his coat-sleeve stained by the blood +of his victim. These, gentlemen, are, in brief, the circumstances of +this harrowing case; and I think you will agree with me that never did +circumstantial evidence so clearly point out the true criminal. I +shall now proceed to call the witnesses for the crown.” + +There was a pause and a little bustle in the court, the waves of the +human sea were agitated for a moment. The backers of the favourites, +“Guilty” and “Gallows,” felt they had made safe books. During this +pause, a man pushed his way through the crowd, up to the spot where the +prisoner’s counsel was seated, and put a little dirty slip of paper +into his hand. There was written on it only one word, a word of three +letters. The counsel read it, and then tore the slip of paper into the +smallest atoms it was possible to reduce it to, and threw the fragments +on the floor at his feet; but a warm flush mounted to his face, +hitherto so pale, and he prepared himself to watch the evidence. + +Richard Marwood, who knew the strength of the evidence against him, +and knew his powerlessness to controvert it, had listened to its +recapitulation with the preoccupied air of a man whom the proceedings +of the day in no way concerned. His abstracted manner had been noticed +by the spectators, and much commented upon. + +It was singular, but at this most important crisis it appeared as if +his chief attention was attracted by Joseph Peters, for he kept his +eyes intently fixed upon the corner where that individual stood. The +eyes of the people, following the direction of Richard’s eyes, saw +nothing but a little group of officials leaning over a corner of the +gallery. + +The crowd did not see what Richard saw, namely, the fingers of Mr. +Peters slowly shaping seven letters--two words--four letters in the +first word, and three letters in the second. + +There lay before the prisoner a few sprigs of rue; he took them up one +by one, and gathering them together into a little bouquet, placed them +in his button-hole--the eyes of the multitude staring at him all the +time. + +Strange to say, this trifling action appeared to be so pleasing to Mr. +Joseph Peters, that he danced, as involuntarily, the first steps of an +extempore hornpipe, and being sharply called to order by the officials, +relapsed into insignificance for the remainder of the trial. + + + + + CHAPTER IX. + + “MAD, GENTLEMEN OF THE JURY.” + + +THE first witness called was Richard’s mother. From one to another +amidst the immense number of persons in that well-packed court-room +there ran a murmur of compassion for that helpless woman with the +white, anguish-worn face, and the quivering lip which tried so vainly +to be still. All in Slopperton who knew anything of Mrs. Marwood, knew +her to be a proud woman; they knew how silently she had borne the wild +conduct of her son; how deeply she had loved that son; and they could +guess now the depth of the bitterness of her soul when called upon to +utter words which must help to condemn him. + +After the witness had been duly sworn, the counsel for the prosecution +addressed her thus: + +“We have every wish, madam, to spare your feelings; I know there is not +one individual present who does not sympathize with you in the position +in which you now stand. But the course of Justice is as inevitable +as it is sometimes painful, and we must all of us yield to its stern +necessities. You will be pleased to state how long it is since your son +left his home?” + +“Seven years--seven years last August.” + +“Can you also state his reasons for leaving his home?” + +“He had embarrassments in Slopperton--debts, which I have since his +departure liquidated.” + +“Can you tell me what species of debts?” + +“They were--” she hesitated a little, “chiefly debts of honour.” + +“Then am I to understand your son was a gambler?” + +“He was unfortunately much addicted to cards.” + +“To any other description of gambling?” + +“Yes, to betting on the events of the turf.” + +“He had fallen, I imagine, into bad companionship?” + +She bowed her head, and in a faltering voice replied, “He had.” + +“And he had acquired in Slopperton the reputation of being a scamp--a +ne’er-do-well?” + +“I am afraid he had.” + +“We will not press you further on this very painful subject; we will +proceed to his departure from home. Your son gave you no intimation of +his intention of leaving Slopperton?” + +“None whatever. The last words he said to me were, that he was sorry +for the past, but that he had started on a bad road, and must go on to +the end.” + +In this manner the examination proceeded, the account of the discovery +of the murder being elicited from the witness, whose horror at having +to give the details was exceedingly painful to behold. + +The prisoner’s counsel rose and addressed Mrs. Marwood. + +“In examining you, madam, my learned friend has not asked you whether +you had looked upon your son, the prisoner at the bar, as a good or +a bad son. Will you be kind enough to state your impression on this +subject?” + +“Apart from his wild conduct, he was a good son. He was kind and +affectionate, and I believe it was his regret for the grief his +dissipation had caused me that drove him away from his home.” + +“He was kind and affectionate. I am to understand, then, that his +disposition was naturally good?” + +“Naturally he had a most excellent disposition. He was universally +beloved as a boy; the servants were excessively attached to him; he had +a great love of animals--dogs followed him instinctively, as I believe +they always do follow people who like them.” + +“A very interesting trait, no doubt, in the prisoner’s disposition; but +if we are to have so much charmingly minute description, I’m afraid +we shall never conclude this trial,” said the opposite counsel. And a +juryman, who had a ticket for a public dinner at four o’clock in his +pocket, forgot himself so far that he applauded with the heels of his +boots. + +The prisoner’s counsel, regardless of the observation of his “learned +friend,” proceeded. + +“Madam,” he said, “had your son, before his departure from home, any +serious illness?” + +“The question is irrelevant,” said the judge. + +“Pardon me, my lord. I shall not detain you long. I believe the +question to be of importance. Permit me to proceed.” + +Mrs. Marwood looked surprised by the question, but it came from her +son’s advocate, and she did her best to answer it. + +“My son had, shortly before his leaving home, a violent attack of +brain-fever.” + +“During which he was delirious?” + +“Everybody is delirious in brain-fever,” said the judge. “This is +trifling with the court, sir.” + +The judge was rather inclined to snub the prisoner’s counsel; first, +because he was a young and struggling man, and therefore ought to be +snubbed; and secondly, because he had in a manner inferred that his +lordship was deaf. + +“Pardon me, my lord; you will see the drift of my question by-and-by.” + +“I hope so, sir,” said his lordship, very testily. + +“Was your son, madam, delirious during this fever?” + +“Throughout it, sir.” + +“And you attributed the fever----” + +“To his bad conduct having preyed upon his mind.” + +“Were you alarmed for his life during his illness?” + +“Much alarmed. But our greatest fear was for his reason.” + +“Did the faculty apprehend the loss of his reason?” + +“They did.” + +“The doctors who attended him were resident in Slopperton?” + +“They were, and are so still. He was attended by Dr. Morton and Mr. +Lamb.” + +The prisoner’s counsel here beckoned to some officials near +him--whispered some directions to them, and they immediately left the +court. + +Resuming the examination of this witness, the counsel said: + +“You repeated just now the words your son made use of on the night +of his departure from home. They were rather singular words--‘he had +started on a dark road, and he must go on to the end of it.’” + +“Those were his exact words, sir.” + +“Was there any wildness in his manner in saying these words?” he asked. + +“His manner was always wild at this time--perhaps wilder that night +than usual.” + +“His manner, you say, was always wild. He had acquired a reputation for +a wild recklessness of disposition from an early age, had he not?” + +“He had, unfortunately--from the time of his going to school.” + +“And his companions, I believe, had given him some name expressive of +this?” + +“They had.” + +“And that name was----” + +“Daredevil Dick.” + +Martha, the old servant, was next sworn. She described the finding of +the body of Mr. Harding. + +The examination by the prisoner’s counsel of this witness elicited +nothing but that-- + +Master Dick had always been a wild boy, but a good boy at heart; that +he had been never known to hurt so much as a worm; and that she, +Martha, was sure he’d never done the murder. When asked if she had +any suspicion as to who had done the deed, she became nebulous in her +manner, and made some allusions to “the French”--having lived in the +days of Waterloo, and being inclined to ascribe any deed of darkness, +from the stealing of a leg of mutton to the exploding of an infernal +machine, to the emissaries of Napoleon. + +Mr. Jinks, who was then examined, gave a minute and rather discursive +account of the arrest of Richard, paying several artful compliments to +his own dexterity as a detective officer. + +The man who met Richard on the platform at the railway station deposed +to the prisoner’s evident wish to avoid a recognition; to his even +crossing the line for that purpose. + +“There is one witness,” said the counsel for the crown, “I am sorry +to say I shall be unable to produce. That witness is the half-caste +servant of the murdered gentleman, who still lies in a precarious +state at the county hospital, and whose recovery from the injuries +inflicted on him by the murderer of his master is pronounced next to an +impossibility.” + +The case for the prosecution closed; still a very clear case against +Richard Marwood, and still the backers of the “Gallows” thought they +had made a very good book. + +The deposition of the Lascar, the servant of the murdered man, had been +taken through an interpreter, at the hospital. It threw little light +on the case. The man said, that on the night of the murder he had been +awoke by a sound in Mr. Harding’s room, and had spoken in Hindostanee, +asking if his master required his assistance, when he received in the +darkness a blow on the head, which immediately deprived him of his +senses. He could tell nothing of the person who struck the blow, except +that at the moment of striking it a hand passed across his face--a hand +which was peculiarly soft and delicate, and the fingers of which were +long and slender. + +As this passage in the deposition was read, every eye in court was +turned to the prisoner, who at that moment happened to be leaning +forward with his elbow on the ledge of the dock before him, and his +hand shading his forehead--a very white hand, with long slender +fingers. Poor Richard! In the good days gone by he had been rather +proud of his delicate and somewhat feminine hand. + +The prisoner’s counsel rose and delivered his speech for the defence. +A very elaborate defence. A defence which went to prove that the +prisoner at the bar, though positively guilty, was not morally +guilty, or legally guilty--“because, gentlemen of the jury, he is, +and for some time has been, _insane_. Yes, _mad_, gentlemen +of the jury. What has been every action of his life but the action +of a madman? His wild boyhood; his reckless extravagant youth; his +dissipated and wasted manhood, spent among drunken and dangerous +companions. What was his return? Premeditated during the sufferings +of delirium tremens, and premeditated long before the arrival of his +rich uncle at Slopperton, as I shall presently prove to you. What was +this, but the sudden repentance of a madman? Scarcely recovered from +this frightful disease--a disease during which men have been known +frequently to injure themselves, and those very dear to them, in the +most terrible manner--scarcely recovered from this disease, he starts +on foot, penniless, for a journey of upwards of two hundred miles. He +accomplishes that journey--how, gentlemen, in that dreary November +weather, I tremble even to think--he accomplishes that long and painful +journey; and on the evening of the eighth day from that on which he +left London he falls fainting at his mother’s feet. I shall prove +to you, gentlemen, that the prisoner left London on the very day on +which his uncle arrived in Slopperton; it is therefore impossible he +could have had any knowledge of that arrival when he started. Well, +gentlemen, the prisoner, after the fatigue, the extreme privation, +he has suffered, has yet another trial to undergo--the terrible +agitation caused by a reconciliation with his beloved mother. He has +eaten scarcely anything for two days, and is injudiciously allowed to +drink nearly a bottle of old madeira. That night, gentlemen of the +jury, a cruel murder is perpetrated; a murder as certain of immediate +discovery, as clumsy in execution, as it is frightful in detail. Can +there be any doubt that if it was committed by my unhappy client, +the prisoner at the bar, it was perpetrated by him while labouring +under an access of delirium, or insanity--temporary, if you will, but +unmitigated insanity--aggravated by excessive fatigue, unprecedented +mental excitement, and the bad effects of the wine he had been +drinking? It has been proved that the cabinet was rifled, and that the +pocket-book stolen therefrom was found in the prisoner’s possession. +This may have been one of those strange flashes of method which are +the distinguishing features of madness. In his horror at the crime he +had in his delirium committed, the prisoner’s endeavour was to escape. +For this escape he required money--hence the plunder of the cabinet. +The manner of his attempting to escape again proclaims the madman. +Instead of flying to Liverpool, which is only thirty miles from this +town--whence he could have sailed for any part of the globe, and thus +defied pursuit--he starts without any attempt at disguise for a small +inland town, whence escape is next to an impossibility, and is captured +a few hours after the crime has been committed, with the blood of his +unhappy victim upon the sleeve of his coat. Would a man in his senses, +gentlemen, not have removed, at any rate, this fatal evidence of his +guilt? Would a man in his senses not have endeavoured to disguise +himself, and to conceal the money he had stolen? Gentlemen of the +jury, I have perfect confidence in your coming to a just decision +respecting this most unhappy affair. Weighing well the antecedents of +the prisoner, and the circumstances of the crime, I can have not one +shadow of a doubt that your verdict will be to the effect that the +wretched man before you is, alas! too certainly his uncle’s murderer, +but that he is as certainly irresponsible for a deed committed during +an aberration of intellect.” + +Strange to say, the counsel did not once draw attention to the singular +conduct of the prisoner while in court; but this conduct had not been +the less remarked by the jury, and did not the less weigh with them. + +The witnesses for the defence were few in number. The first who +mounted the witness-box was rather peculiar in his appearance. If +you include amongst his personal attractions a red nose (which shone +like the danger-signal on a railway through the dusky air of the +court); a black eye--not that admired darkness of the organ itself +which is the handiwork of liberal nature, but that peculiarly mottled +purple-and-green appearance about the region which bears witness to the +fist of an acquaintance; a bushy moustache of a fine blue-black dye; +a head of thick black hair, not too intimately acquainted with that +modern innovation on manly habits, the comb--you may perhaps have some +notion of his physical qualifications. But nothing could ever give a +full or just idea of the recklessness, the effrontery of his manner, +the twinkle in his eye, the expression in every pimple of that radiant +nose, or the depth of meaning he could convey by one twitch of his +moustache, or one shake of his forest of black ringlets. + +His costume inclined towards the fast and furious, consisting of a +pair of loose Scotch plaid unmentionables, a bright blue greatcoat, +no under-coat or waistcoat, a great deal of shirt ornamented with +death’s-heads and pink ballet-dancers--to say nothing of coffee and +tobacco stains, and enough sham gold chain meandering over his burly +breast to make up for every deficiency. While he was being duly sworn, +the eyes of the witness wandered with a friendly and pitying glance +towards the wretched prisoner at the bar. + +“You are a member of the medical profession?” + +“I am.” + +“You were, I believe, in the company of the prisoner the night of his +departure from London for this town?” + +“I was.” + +“What was the conduct of the prisoner on that night?” + +“Rum.” + +On being further interrogated, the witness stated that he had known Mr. +Richard Marwood for many years, being himself originally a Slopperton +man. + +“Can you tell what led the prisoner to determine on returning to his +mother’s house in the month of November last?” + +“Blue devils,” replied the witness, with determined conciseness. + +“Blue devils?” + +“Yes, he’d been in a low way for three months, or more; he’d had a +sharp attack of delirium tremens, and a touch of his old complaint----” + +“His old complaint?” + +“Yes, brain-fever. During the fever he talked a great deal of his +mother; said he had killed her by his bad conduct, but that he’d beg +her forgiveness if he walked to Slopperton on his bare feet.” + +“Can you tell me at what date he first expressed this desire to come to +Slopperton?” + +“Some time during the month of September.” + +“Did you during this period consider him to be in a sound mind?” + +“Well, several of my friends at Guy’s used to think rather the reverse. +It was customary amongst us to say he had a loose slate somewhere.” + +The counsel for the prosecution taking exception to this phrase “loose +slate,” the witness went on to state that he thought the prisoner +very often off his nut; had hidden his razors during his illness, and +piled up a barricade of furniture before the window. The prisoner +was remarkable for reckless generosity, good temper, a truthful +disposition, and a talent for doing everything, and always doing it +better than anybody else. This, and a great deal more, was elicited +from him by the advocate for the defence. + +He was cross-examined by the counsel for the prosecution. + +“I think you told my learned friend that you were a member of the +medical profession?” + +“I did.” + +Was first apprenticed to a chemist and druggist at Slopperton, and was +now walking one of the hospitals in London with a view to attaining a +position in the profession; had not yet attained eminence, but hoped to +do so; had operated with some success in a desperate case of whitlow +on the finger of a servant-girl, and should have effected a surprising +cure, if the girl had not grown impatient and allowed her finger to +be amputated by a rival practitioner before the curative process had +time to develop itself; had always entertained a sincere regard for +the prisoner; had at divers times borrowed money of him; couldn’t say +he remembered ever returning any; perhaps he never had returned any, +and that might, account for his not remembering the circumstance; had +been present at the election of, and instrumental in electing the +prisoner a member of a convivial club called the “Cheerful Cherokees.” +No “Cheerful Cherokee” had ever been known to commit a murder, and the +club was convinced of the prisoner’s innocence. + +“You told the court and jury a short time ago, that the prisoner’s +state on the last night you saw him in London was ‘rum,’” said the +learned gentleman conducting the prosecution; “will you be good enough +to favour us with the meaning of that adjective--you intend it for an +adjective, I presume?” + +“Certainly,” replied the witness. “Rum, an adjective when applied to a +gentleman’s conduct; a substantive when used to denominate his tipple.” + +The counsel for the prosecution doesn’t clearly understand the meaning +of the word “tipple.” + +The witness thinks the learned gentleman had better buy a dictionary +before he again assists in a criminal prosecution. + +“Come, come, sir,” said the judge; “you are extremely impertinent. We +don’t want to be kept here all night. Let us have your evidence in a +straightforward manner.” + +The witness squared his elbows, and turned that luminary, his nose, +full on his lordship, as if it had been a bull’s-eye lantern. + +“You used another strange expression,” said the counsel, “in answer to +my friend. Will you have the kindness to explain what you mean by the +prisoner having ‘a loose slate’?” + +“A tile off. Something wrong about the roof--the garret--the upper +story--the nut.” + +The counsel for the prosecution confessed himself to be still in the +dark. + +The witness declared himself sorry to hear it--he could undertake to +give his evidence; but he could not undertake to provide the gentleman +with understanding. + +“I will trouble you to be respectful in your replies to the counsel for +the crown,” said the judge. + +The medical student’s variegated eye looked defiantly at his lordship; +the counsel for the crown had done with him, and he retired from +the witness-box, after bowing to the judge and jury with studious +politeness. + +The next witnesses were two medical gentlemen of a different stamp +to the “Cheerful Cherokee,” who had now taken his place amongst the +spectators. + +These gentlemen gave evidence of having attended the prisoner some +years before, during brain-fever, and having very much feared the fever +would have resulted in the loss of the patient’s reason. + +The trial had by this time lasted so long, that the juryman who had a +ticket for the public dinner began to feel that his card of admission +to the festive board was so much waste pasteboard, and that the green +fat of the turtle and the prime cut from the haunch of venison were not +for him. + +The counsel for the prosecution delivered himself of his second address +to the jury, in which he endeavoured to demolish the superstructure +which his “learned friend” had so ingeniously raised for the defence. +Why should the legal defender of a man whose life is in the hands of +the jury not be privileged to address that jury in favour of his client +as often, at least, as the legal representative of the prosecutor? + +The judge delivered his charge to the jury. + +The jury retired, and in an hour and fifteen minutes returned. + +They found that the prisoner, Richard Marwood, had murdered his uncle, +Montague Harding, and had further beaten and injured a half-caste +servant in the employ of his uncle, while suffering from aberration +of intellect--or, in simple phraseology, they found the prisoner “Not +Guilty, on the ground of insanity.” + +The prisoner seemed little affected by the verdict. He looked with +a vacant stare round the court, removed the bouquet of rue from his +button-hole and placed it in his bosom; and then said, with a clear +distinct enunciation-- + +“Gentlemen of the jury, I am extremely obliged to you for the +politeness with which you have treated me. Thanks to your powerful +sense of justice, I have won the battle of Arcola, and I think I have +secured the key of Italy.” + +It is common for lunatics to fancy themselves some great and +distinguished person. This unhappy young man believed himself to be +Napoleon the First. + + + + + =Book the Second.= + + A CLEARANCE OF ALL SCORES. + + + + + CHAPTER I. + + BLIND PETER. + + +THE favourite, “Gallows,” having lost in the race with Richard Marwood, +there was very little more interest felt in Slopperton about poor +Daredevil Dick’s fate. It was known that he was in the county lunatic +asylum, a prisoner for life, or, as it is expressed by persons learned +in legal matters, during the pleasure of the sovereign. It was known +that his poor mother had taken up her abode near the asylum, and +that at intervals she was allowed the melancholy pleasure of seeing +the wreck of her once light-hearted boy. Mrs. Marwood was now a very +rich woman, inheritress of the whole of her poor murdered brother’s +wealth--for Mr. Montague Harding’s will had been found to bequeath the +whole of his immense fortune to his only sister. She spent little, +however, and what she did expend was chiefly devoted to works of +charity; but even her benevolence was limited, and she did little +more for the poor than she had done before from her own small income. +The wealth of the East Indian remained accumulating in the hands of +her bankers. Mrs. Marwood was, therefore, very rich, and Slopperton +accordingly set her down as a miser. + +So the nine-days’ wonder died out, and the murder of Mr. Harding was +forgotten. The sunshine on the factory chimneys of Slopperton grew +warmer every day. Every day the “hands” appertaining to the factories +felt more and more the necessity of frequent application to the +public-house, as the weather grew brighter and brighter--till the hot +June sun blazed down upon the pavement of every street in Slopperton, +baking and grilling the stones; till the sight of a puddle or an +overflowing gutter would have been welcome as pools of water in the +great desert of Sahara; till the people who lived on the sunny side of +the way felt spitefully disposed towards the inhabitants of the shady +side; till the chandler at the corner, who came out with a watering-pot +and sprinkled the pavement before his door every evening, was thought +a public benefactor; till the baker, who added his private stock of +caloric to the great firm of Sunshine and Co., and baked the pavement +above his oven on his own account, was thought a public nuisance, and +hot bread an abomination; till the butter Slopperton had for tea was +no longer butter, but oil, and eluded the pursuit of the knife, or hid +itself in a cowardly manner in the holes of the quartern loaf when the +housewife attempted to spread it thereon; till cattle standing in pools +of water were looked upon with envy and hatred; and till--wonder of +wonders!--Slopperton paid up the water-rate sharp, in fear and anguish +at the thought of the possible cutting-off of that refreshing fluid. + +The 17th of June ushered in the midsummer holidays at Dr. Tappenden’s +establishment, and on the evening of that day Dr. Tappenden broke up. +Of course, this phrase, breaking up, is only a schoolboy’s slang. I do +not mean that the worthy Doctor (how did he ever come to be a doctor, +I wonder? or where did he get his degree?) experienced any physical +change when he broke up; or that he underwent the moral change of +going into the _Gazette_ and coming out thereof better off than +when he went in--which is, I believe, the custom in most cases of +bankruptcy; I merely mean to say, that on the evening of the 17th of +June Dr. Tappenden gave a species of ball, at which Mr. Pranskey, the +dancing-master, assisted with his pumps and his violin; and at which +the young gentlemen appeared also in pumps, a great deal of wrist-band +and shirt-collar, and shining faces--in a state of painfully high +polish, from the effect of the yellow soap that had been lavished +upon them by the respectable young person who looked to the wardrobe +department, and mended the linen of the young gentlemen. + +By the evening of the 18th, Dr. Tappenden’s young gentlemen, with the +exception of two little fellows with dark complexions and frizzy hair, +whose nearest connections were at Trinidad, all departed to their +respective family circles; and Mr. Jabez North had the schoolroom to +himself for the whole of the holidays--for, of course, the little +West Indians, playing at a sea-voyage on one of the forms, with a +cricket-bat for a mast, or reading Sinbad the Sailor in a corner, were +no hindrance to that gentleman’s proceedings. + +Our friend Jabez is as calm-looking as ever. The fair pale complexion +may be, perhaps, a shade paler, and the arched mouth a trifle more +compressed--(that absurd professor of phrenology had declared that +both the head and face of Jabez bespoke a marvellous power of +secretiveness)--but our friend is as placid as ever. The pale face, +delicate aquiline nose, the fair hair and rather slender figure, give a +tone of aristocracy to his appearance which even his shabby black suit +cannot conceal. But Jabez is not too well pleased with his lot. He +paces up and down the schoolroom in the twilight of the June evening, +quite alone, for the little West Indians have retired to the long +dormitory which they now inhabit in solitary grandeur. Dr. Tappenden +has gone to the sea-side with his slim only daughter, familiarly known +amongst the scholars, who have no eyes for ethereal beauty, as “Skinny +Jane.” Dr. Tappenden has gone to enjoy himself; for Dr. Tappenden is a +rich man. He is said to have some twenty thousand pounds in a London +bank. He doesn’t bank his money in Slopperton. And of “Skinny Jane,” it +may be observed, that there are young men in the town who would give +something for a glance from her insipid grey eyes, and who think her +ethereal figure the very incarnation of the poet’s ideal, when they add +to that slender form the bulky figures that form the sum-total of her +father’s banking account. + +Jabez paces up and down the long schoolroom with a step so light that +it scarcely wakes an echo (those crotchety physiologists call this +light step another indication of a secretive disposition)--up and down, +in the darkening summer evening. + +“Another six months’ Latin grammar,” he mutters, “another half-year’s +rudiments of Greek, and all the tiresome old fables of Paris and Helen, +and Hector and Achilles, for entertainment! A nice life for a man +with my head--for those fools who preached about my deficient moral +region were right perhaps when they told me my intellect might carry me +anywhere. What has it done for me yet? Well, at the worst, it has taken +me out of loathsome parish rags; it has given me independence. And it +shall give me fortune. But how? What is to be the next trial? This time +it must be no failure. This time my premises must be sure. If I could +only hit upon some scheme! There is a way by which I could obtain a +large sum of money; but then, the fear of detection! Detection, which +if eluded to-day might come to-morrow! And it is not a year or two’s +riot and dissipation that I want to purchase; but a long life of wealth +and luxury, with proud men’s necks to trample on, and my old patrons to +lick the dust off my shoes. This is what I must fight for, and this is +what I must attain--but how? How?” + +He takes his hat up, and goes out of the house. He is quite his own +master during these holidays. He comes in and goes out as he likes, +provided he is always at home by ten o’clock, when the house is shut up +for the night. + +He strolls with a purposeless step through the streets of Slopperton. +It is half-past eight o’clock, and the factory hands fill the streets, +enjoying the coolness of the evening, but quiet and subdued in their +manner, being exhausted by the heat of the long June day. Jabez does +not much affect these crowded streets, and turns out of one of the most +busy quarters of the town into a little lane of old houses, which +leads to a great old-fashioned square, in which stand two ancient +churches with very high steeples, an antique-looking town-hall (once +a prison), a few quaint houses with peaked roofs and projecting upper +stones, and a gaunt pump. Jabez soon leaves this square behind him, +and strolls through two or three dingy, narrow, old-fashioned streets, +till he comes to a labyrinth of tumble-down houses, pig-styes, and +dog-kennels, known as Blind Peter’s Alley. Who Blind Peter was, or how +he ever came to have this alley--or whether, as a place possessing no +thoroughfare and admitting very little light, it had not originally +been called Peter’s Blind Alley--nobody living knew. But if Blind +Peter was a myth, the alley was a reality, and a dirty loathsome +fetid reality, with regard to which the Board of Health seemed as if +smitten with the aforesaid Peter’s own infirmity, ignoring the horror +of the place with fatal blindness. So Blind Peter was the Alsatia of +Slopperton, a refuge for crime and destitution--since destitution +cannot pick its company, but must be content often, for the sake of +shelter, to jog cheek by jowl with crime. And thus no doubt it is +on the strength of that golden adage about birds of a feather that +destitution and crime are thought by numerous wise and benevolent +persons to mean one and the same thing. Blind Peter had risen to +popularity once or twice--on the occasion of a girl poisoning her +father in the crust of a beef-steak pudding, and a boy of fourteen +committing suicide by hanging himself behind a door. Blind Peter, on +the first of these occasions, had even had his portrait taken for a +Sunday paper; and very nice indeed he had looked in a woodcut--so nice, +that he had found some difficulty in recognizing himself; which perhaps +was scarcely wonderful, when it is taken into consideration that the +artist, who lived in the neighbourhood of Holborn, had sketched Blind +Peter from a mountain gorge in the Tyrol, broken up with three or four +houses out of Chancery Lane. + +Certainly Blind Peter had a peculiar wildness in his aspect, being +built on the side of a steep hill, and looked very much like a London +alley which had been removed from its site and pitched haphazard on to +a Slopperton mountain. + +It is not to be supposed for a moment that so highly respectable +an individual as Mr. Jabez North had any intention of plunging +into the dirty obscurity of Blind Peter. He had come thus far only +on his way to the outskirts of the town, where there was a little +brick-bestrewn, pseudo country, very much more liberally ornamented by +oyster-shells, broken crockery, and scaffolding, than by trees or wild +flowers--which natural objects were wondrous rarities in this part of +the Sloppertonian outskirts. + +So Jabez pursued his way past the mouth of Blind Peter--which was +adorned by two or three broken-down and rusty iron railings that looked +like jagged teeth--when he was suddenly arrested by a hideous-looking +woman, who threw her arms about him, and addressed him in a shrill +voice thus-- + +“What, he’s come back to his best friends, has he? He’s come back to +his old granny, after frightening her out of her poor old wits by +staying away four days and four nights. Where have you been, Jim, my +deary? And where did you get your fine toggery?” + +“Where did I get my fine toggery? What do you mean, you old hag? I +don’t know you, and you don’t know me. Let me pass, will you? or I’ll +knock you down!” + +“No, no,” she screamed; “he wouldn’t knock down his old granny; he +wouldn’t knock down his precious granny that nursed him, and brought +him up like a gentleman, and will tell him a secret one of these days +worth a mint of money, if he treats her well.” + +Jabez pricked up his ears at the words “mint of money,” and said in +rather a milder tone-- + +“I tell you, my good woman, you mistake me for somebody else. I never +saw you before.” + +“What! you’re not my Jim?” + +“No. My name is Jabez North. If you’re not satisfied, here’s my card,” +and he took out his card-case. + +The old woman stuck her arms akimbo, and stared at him with a gaze of +admiration. + +“Lor’,” she cried, “don’t he do it nat’ral? Ain’t he a born genius? +He’s been a-doing the respectable reduced tradesman, or the young +man brought up to the church, what waits upon the gentry with a long +letter, and has a wife and two innocent children staying in another +town, and only wants the railway fare to go to ’em. Eh, Jim, that’s +what you’ve been a-doing, ain’t it now? And you’ve brought home the +swag like a good lad to your grandmother, haven’t you now?” she said in +a wheedling tone. + +“I tell you, you confounded old fool, I’m not the man you take me for.” + +“What, not my Jim! And you can look at me with his eyes, and tell me +so with his voice. Then, if you’re not him, he’s dead, and you’re his +ghost.” + +Jabez thought the old woman was mad; but he was no coward, and the +adventure began to interest him. Who was this man who was so like him, +and who was to learn a secret some day worth a mint of money? + +“Will you come with me, then,” said the old woman, “and let me get a +light, and see whether you are my Jim or not?” + +“Where’s the house?” asked Jabez. + +“Why, in Blind Peter, to be sure. Where should it be?” + +“How should I know?” said Jabez, following her. He thought himself safe +even in Blind Peter, having nothing of value about him, and having +considerable faith in the protecting power of his strong right arm. + +The old woman led the way into the little mountain gorge, choked up +with rickety hovels lately erected, or crazy old houses which had once +been goodly residences, in the days when the site of Blind Peter had +been a pleasant country lane. The house she entered was of this latter +class; and she led the way into a stone-paved room, which had once been +a tolerably spacious entrance-hall. + +It was lighted by one feeble little candle with a long drooping wick, +stuck in an old ginger-beer bottle; and by this dim light Jabez saw, +seated on heap of rubbish by the desolate hearth, his own reflection--a +man dressed, unlike him, in the rough garments of a labourer, but whose +face gave back as faithfully as ever glass had done the shadow of his +own. + + + + + CHAPTER II. + + LIKE AND UNLIKE. + + +THE old woman stared aghast, first at one of the young men, then at the +other. + +“Why, then, he isn’t Jim!” she exclaimed. + +“Who isn’t Jim, grandmother? What do you mean? Here I am, back again; a +bundle of aching bones, old rags, and empty pockets. I’ve done no good +where I’ve been; so you needn’t ask me for any money, for I haven’t +earned a farthing either by fair means or foul.” + +“But the other,” she said,--“this young gentleman. Look at him, Jim.” + +The man took up the candle, snuffed it with his fingers, and walked +straight to Jabez. He held the light before the face of the usher, and +surveyed him with a leisurely stare. That individual’s blue eyes winked +and blinked at the flame like an owl’s in the sunshine, and looked +every way except straight into the eyes looking into his. + +“Why, curse his impudence!” said the man, with a faint sickly laugh; +“I’m blest if he hasn’t been and boned my mug. I hope it’ll do him more +good than it’s done me,” he added, bitterly. + +“I can’t make out the meaning of this,” mumbled the old woman. “It’s +all dark to me. I saw where the other one was put myself. I saw it +done, and safely done too. Oh, yes of course----” + +“What do you mean by ‘the other one’?” asked the man, while Jabez +listened intently for the answer. + +“Why, my deary, that’s a part of the secret you’re to know some of +these days. Such a secret. Gold, gold, gold, as long as it’s kept; and +gold when it’s told, if it’s told at the right time, deary.” + +“If it’s to be told at the right time to do me any good, it had better +be told soon, then,” said Jim, with a dreary shiver. “My bones ache, +and my head’s on fire, and my feet are like lumps of ice. I’ve walked +twenty miles to-day, and I haven’t had bite nor sup since last night. +Where’s Sillikens?” + +“At the factory, Jim deary. Somebody’s given her a piece of work--one +of the regular hands; and she’s to bring home some money to-night. Poor +girl, she’s been a fretting and a crying her eyes out since you’ve been +gone, Jim.” + +“Poor lass. I thought I might do some good for her and me both by going +away where I did; but I haven’t; and so I’ve come back to eat her +starvation wages, poor lass. It’s a cowardly thing to do, and if I’d +had strength I should have gone on further, but I couldn’t.” + +As he was saying these words a girl came in at the half-open door, and +running up to him, threw her arms round his neck. + +“O Jim, you’ve come back! I said you would; I knew you’d never stop +away; I knew you couldn’t be so cruel.” + +“It’s crueller to come back, lass,” he said; “it’s bad to be a burden +on a girl like you.” + +“A burden, Jim!” she said, in a low reproachful voice, and then dropped +quietly down amongst the dust and rubbish at his feet, and laid her +head caressingly against his knee. + +She was not what is generally called a pretty girl. Hers had not been +the delicate nurture which nourishes so frail an exotic as beauty. She +had a pale sickly face; but it was lighted up by large dark eyes, and +framed by a heavy mass of dark hair. + +She took the man’s rough hand in hers, and kissed it tenderly. It is +not likely that a duchess would have done such a thing; but if she had, +she could scarcely have done it with better grace. + +“A burden, Jim!” she said,--“a burden! Do you think if I worked for you +day and night, and never rested, that I should be weary? Do you think, +if I worked my fingers to the bone for you, that I should ever feel the +pain? Do you think, if my death could make you a happy man, I should +not be glad to die? Oh, you don’t know, you don’t know!” + +She said this half-despairingly, as if she knew there was no power in +his soul to fathom the depth of love in hers. + +“Poor lass, poor lass,” he said, as he laid the other rough hand +gently on her black hair. “If it’s as bad as this. I’m sorry for +it--more than ever sorry to-night.” + +“Why, Jim?” She looked up at him with a sudden glance of alarm. “Why, +Jim? Is anything the matter?” + +“Not much, lass; but I don’t think I’m quite the thing to-night.” His +head drooped as he spoke. The girl put it on her shoulder, and it lay +there as if he had scarcely power to lift it up again. + +“Grandmother, he’s ill--he’s ill! why didn’t you tell me this before? +Is that gentleman the doctor?” she asked, looking at Jabez, who still +stood in the shadow of the doorway, watching the scene within. + +“No; but I’ll fetch the doctor, if you like,” said that benevolent +personage, who appeared to take a wonderful interest in this family +group. + +“Do, sir, if you will be so good,” said the girl imploringly; “he’s +very ill, I’m sure. Jim, look up, and tell us what’s the matter?” + +The man lifted his heavy eyelids with an effort, and looked up with +bloodshot eyes into her face. No, no! Never could he fathom the depth +of this love which looks down at him now with more than a mother’s +tenderness, with more than a sister’s devotion, with more than a wife’s +self-abnegation. This love, which knows no change, which would shelter +him in those entwining arms a thief or a murderer, and which could hold +him no dearer were he a king upon a throne. + +Jabez North goes for a doctor, and returns presently with a gentleman, +who, on seeing Jim the labourer, pronounces that he had better go +to bed at once; “for,” as he whispers to the old woman, “he’s got +rheumatic fever, and got it pretty sharp, too.” + +The girl they call Sillikens bursts out crying on hearing this +announcement, but soon chokes down her tears--(as tears are wont to +be choked down in Blind Peter, whose inhabitants have little time for +weeping)--and sets to work to get ready a poor apology for a bed--a +worn-out mattress and a thin patch-work counterpane; and on this they +lay the bundle of aching bones known to Blind Peter as Jim Lomax. + +The girl receives the doctor’s directions, promises to fetch some +medicine from his surgery in a few minutes, and then kneels down by the +sick man. + +“O Jim, dear Jim,” she says, “keep a good heart, for the sake of those +who love you.” + +She might have said for the sake of her who loves you, for it never +surely was the lot of any man, from my lord the marquis to Jim the +labourer, to be twice in his life loved as this man was loved by her. + +Jabez North on his way home must go the same way as the doctor; so they +walk side by side. + +“Do you think he will recover?” asks Jabez. + +“I doubt it. He has evidently been exposed to great hardship, wet, and +fatigue. The fever is very strong upon him; and I’m afraid there’s not +much chance of his getting over it. I should think something might +be done for him, to make him a little more comfortable. You are his +brother, I presume, in spite of the apparent difference between you in +station?” + +Jabez laughed a scornful laugh. “His brother! Why, I never saw the man +till ten minutes before you did.” + +“Bless me!” said the old doctor, “you amaze me. I should have taken you +for twin brothers. The likeness between you is something wonderful; in +spite, too, of the great difference in your clothes. Dressed alike, it +would be impossible to tell one from the other.” + +“You really think so?” + +“The fact must strike any one.” + +Jabez North was silent for a little time after this. Presently, as he +parted from the doctor at a street-corner, he said-- + +“And you really think there’s very little chance of this poor man’s +recovery?” + +“I’m afraid there is positively none. Unless a wonderful change takes +place for the better, in three days he will be a dead man. Good night.” + +“Good night,” says Jabez, thoughtfully. And he walked slowly home. + +It would seem about this time that he was turning his attention to his +personal appearance, and in some danger of becoming a fop; for the next +morning he bought a bottle of hair-dye, and tried some experiments with +it on one or two of his own light ringlets, which he cut off for that +purpose. + +It would seem a very trivial employment for so superior and +intellectual a man as Jabez North, but it may be that every action of +this man’s life, however apparently trivial, bore towards one deep and +settled purpose. + + + + + CHAPTER III. + + A GOLDEN SECRET. + + +MR. JABEZ NORTH, being of such a truly benevolent character, came the +next day to Blind Peter, full of kind and sympathetic inquiries for the +sick man. For once in a way he offered something more than sympathy, +and administered what little help he could afford from his very slender +purse. Truly a good young man, this Jabez. + +The dilapidated house in Blind Peter looked still more dreary and +dilapidated in the daylight, or in such light as was called daylight +by the denizens of that wretched alley. By this light, too, Jim Lomax +looked none the better, with hungry pinched features, bloodshot eyes, +and two burning crimson spots on his hollow cheeks. He was asleep when +Jabez entered. The girl was still seated by his side, never looking +up, or taking her large dark eyes from his face--never stirring, +except to rearrange the poor bundle of rags which served as a pillow +for the man’s weary head, or to pour out his medicine, or moisten his +hot forehead with wet linen. The old woman sat by the great gaunt +fireplace, where she had lighted a few sticks, and made the best fire +she could, by the doctor’s orders; for the place was damp and draughty, +even in this warm June weather. She was rocking herself to and fro on a +low three-legged stool, and muttering some disconnected jargon. + +When Jabez had spoken a few words to the sick man, and made his offer +of assistance, he did not leave the place, but stood on the hearth, +looking with a thoughtful face at the old woman. + +She was not quite right in her mind, according to general opinion in +Blind Peter; and if a Commission of Lunacy had been called upon to give +a return of her state of intellect on that day, I think that return +would have agreed with the opinion openly expressed in a friendly +manner by her neighbours. + +She kept muttering to herself, “And so, my deary, this is the other +one. The water couldn’t have been deep enough. But it’s not my fault, +Lucy dear, for I saw it safely put away.” + +“What did you see so safely put away?” asked Jabez, in so low a voice +as to be heard neither by the sick man nor the girl. + +“Wouldn’t you like to know, deary?” mumbled the old hag, looking up at +him with a malicious grin. “Don’t you very much want to know, my dear? +But you never will; or if you ever do, you must be a rich man first; +for it’s part of the secret, and the secret’s gold--as long as it is +kept, my dear, and it’s been kept a many years, and kept faithful.” + +“Does _he_ know it?” Jabez asked, pointing to the sick man. + +“No, my dear; he’d want to tell it. I mean to sell it some day, for +it’s worth a mint of money! A mint of money! He doesn’t know it--nor +she--not that it matters to her; but it does matter to him.” + +“Then you had best let him know before three days are over or he’ll +never know it!” said the schoolmaster. + +“Why not, deary?” + +“Never you mind! I want to speak to you; and I don’t want those two to +hear what I say. Can we go anywhere hereabouts where I can talk to you +without the chance of being overheard?” + +The old woman nodded assent, and led the way with feeble tottering +steps out of the house, and through a gap in a hedge to some broken +ground at the back of Blind Peter. Here the old crone seated herself +upon a little hillock, Jabez standing opposite her, looking her full in +the face. + +“Now,” said he, with a determined look at the grinning face before +him, “now tell me,--what was the _something_ that was put away so +safely? And what relation is that man in there to me? Tell me, and tell +me the truth, or----” He only finishes the sentence with a threatening +look, but the old woman finishes it for him,-- + +“Or you’ll kill me--eh, deary? I’m old and feeble, and you might easily +do it--eh? But you won’t--you won’t, deary! You know better than that! +Kill me, and you’ll never know the secret!--the secret that may be gold +to _you_ some day, and that nobody alive but me can tell. If you’d +got some very precious wine in a glass bottle, my dear, you wouldn’t +smash the bottle now, would you? because, you see, you couldn’t smash +the bottle without spilling the wine. And you won’t lay so much as a +rough finger upon me, I know.” + +The usher looked rather as if he would have liked to lay the whole +force of ten very rough fingers upon the most vital part of the +grinning hag’s anatomy at that moment--but he restrained himself, as if +by an effort, and thrust his hands deep into his trousers-pockets, in +order the better to resist temptation. + +“Then you don’t mean to tell me what I asked you?” he said impatiently. + +“Don’t be in a hurry, my dear! I’m an old woman, and I don’t like to be +hurried. What is it you want to know?” + +“What that man in there is to me.” + +“Own brother--twin brother, my dear--that’s all. And I’m your +grandmother--your mother’s mother. Ain’t you pleased to find your +relations, my blessed boy?” + +If he were, he had a strange way of showing pleasure; a very strange +manner of welcoming newly-found relations, if his feelings were to be +judged by that contracted brow and moody glance. + +“Is this true?” he asked. + +The old harridan looked at him and grinned. “That’s an ugly mark you’ve +got upon your left arm, my dear,” she said, “just above the elbow; it’s +very lucky, though, it’s under your coat-sleeve, where nobody can see +it.” + +Jabez started. He had indeed a scar upon his arm, though very few +people knew of it. He remembered it from his earliest days in the +Slopperton workhouse. + +“Do you know how you came by that mark?” continued the old woman. +“Shall I tell you? Why, you fell into the fire, deary, when you were +only three weeks old. We’d been drinking a little bit, my dear, and we +weren’t used to drinking much then, nor to eating much either, and one +of us let you tumble into the fireplace, and before we could get you +out, your arm was burnt; but you got over it, my dear, and three days +after that you had the misfortune to fall into the water.” + +“You threw me in, you old she-devil!” he exclaimed fiercely. + +“Come, come,” she said, “you are of the same stock, so I wouldn’t call +names if I were you. Perhaps I did throw you into the Sloshy. I don’t +want to contradict you. If you say so, I dare say I did. I suppose you +think me a very unnatural old woman?” + +“It wouldn’t be so strange if I did.” + +“Do you know what choice we had, your mother and me, as to what we were +to do with our youngest hope--you’re younger by two hours than your +brother in there? Why, there was the river on one side, and a life of +misery, perhaps starvation, perhaps worse, on the other. At the very +best, such a life as he in there has led--hard labour and bad food, +long toilsome days and short nights, and bad words and black looks +from all who ought to help him. So we thought one was enough for that, +and we chose the river for the other. Yes, my precious boy, I took you +down to the river-side one very dark night and dropped you in where I +thought the water was deepest; but, you see, it wasn’t deep enough for +you. Oh, dear,” she said, with an imbecile grin, “I suppose there’s a +fate in it, and you were never born to be drowned.” + +Her hopeful grandson looked at her with a savage frown. + +“Drop that!” he said, “I don’t want any of your cursed wit.” + +“Don’t you, deary? Lor, I was quite a wit in my young days. They used +to call me Lively Betty; but that’s a long time ago.” + +There was sufficient left, however, of the liveliness of a long time +ago to give an air of ghastly mirth to the old woman’s manner, which +made that manner extremely repulsive. What can be more repulsive than +old age, which, shorn of the beauties and graces, is yet not purified +from the follies or the vices of departed youth? + +“And so, my dear, the water wasn’t deep enough, and you were saved. How +did it all come about? Tell us, my precious boy?” + +“Yes; I dare say you’d like to know,” replied her “precious boy,”--“but +you can keep your secret, and I can keep mine. Perhaps you’ll tell me +whether my mother is alive or dead?” + +Now this was a question which would have cruelly agitated some men in +the position of Jabez North; but that gentleman was a philosopher, and +he might have been inquiring the fate of some cast-off garment, for all +the fear, tenderness, or emotion of any kind that his tone or manner +betrayed. + +“Your mother’s been dead these many years. Don’t you ask me how she +died. I’m an old woman, and my head’s not so right but what some +things will set it wrong. Talking of that is one of ’em. She’s dead. I +couldn’t save her, nor help her, nor set her right. I hope there’s more +pity where she’s gone than she ever got here; for I’m sure if trouble +can need it, she needed it. Don’t ask me anything about her.” + +“Then I won’t,” said Jabez. “My relations don’t seem such an eligible +lot that I should set to work to write the history of the family. I +suppose I had a father of some kind or other. What’s become of him? +Dead or----” + +“Hung, eh, deary?” said the old woman, relapsing into the malicious +grin. + +“Take care what you’re about,” said the fascinating Mr. North, “or +you’ll tempt me to shake the life out of your shrivelled old carcass.” + +“And then you’ll never know who your father was. Eh? Ha, ha! my +precious boy; that’s part of the golden secret that none but me can +tell.” + +“Then you won’t tell me my father’s name?” + +“Perhaps I’ve forgotten it, deary; perhaps I never knew it--who knows?” + +“Was he of your class--poor, insignificant, and wretched, the scum of +the earth, the mud in the streets, the slush in the gutters, for other +people to trample upon with their dirty boots? Was he that sort of +thing? Because if he was, I shan’t put myself out of the way to make +any tender inquiries about him.” + +“Of course not, deary. You’d like him to have been a fine gentleman--a +baronet, or an earl, or a marquis, eh, my blessed boy? A marquis is +about the ticket for you, eh? What do you say to a marquis?” + +It was not very polite, certainly, what he did say; not quite the +tone of conversation to be pleasing to any marquis, or to any noble +or potentate whatever, except one, and him, by the laws of polite +literature, I am not allowed to mention. + +Puzzled by her mysterious mumblings, grinnings, and gesticulations, +our friend Jabez stared hard in the old crone’s face for about three +minutes--looking very much as if he would have liked to throttle her; +but he refrained from that temptation, turned on his heel, and walked +off in the direction of Slopperton. + +The old woman apostrophized his receding figure. + +“Oh, yes, deary, you’re a nice young man, and a clever, civil-spoken +young man, and a credit to them that reared you; but you’ll never have +the golden secret out of me till you’ve got the money to pay for it.” + + + + + CHAPTER IV. + + JIM LOOKS OVER THE BRINK OF THE TERRIBLE GULF. + + +THE light had gone down on the last of the days through which, +according to the doctor’s prophecy, Jim Lomax was to live to see that +light. + +Poor Jim’s last sun sank to his rest upon such cloud-pillows of purple +and red, and drew a curtain of such gorgeous colours round him in the +western sky, as it would have very much puzzled any earthly monarch +to have matched, though Ruskin himself had chosen the colours, and +Turner had been the man to lay them on. Of course some of this red +sunset flickered and faded upon the chimneypots and window-panes--rare +luxuries, by the bye, those window-panes--of Blind Peter; but there it +came in a modified degree only--this blessed sign-manual of an Almighty +Power--as all earthly and heavenly blessings should come to the poor. + +One ray of the crimson light fell full upon the face of the sick man, +and slanted from him upon the dark hair of the girl, who sat on the +ground in her old position by the bedside. This light, which fell on +them and on no other object in the dusky room, seemed to unite them, as +though it were a messenger from the sky that said, “They stand alone in +the world, and never have been meant to stand asunder.” + +“It’s a beautiful light, lass,” said the sick man, “and I wonder I +never cared more to notice or to watch it than I have. Lord, I’ve seen +it many a time sinking behind the sharp edge of ploughed land, as if it +had dug its own grave, and was glad to go down to it, and I’ve thought +no more of it than a bit of candle; but now it seems such a beautiful +light, and I feel as if I should like to see it again, lass.” + +“And you will--you will see it again, Jim.” She drew his head upon her +bosom, and stroked the rough hair away from his damp forehead. She +was half dead herself, with want, anxiety, and fatigue; but she spoke +in a cheerful voice. She had not shed a tear throughout his illness. +“Lord help you, Jim dear, you’ll live to see many and many a bright +sunset--live to see it go down upon our wedding-day, perhaps.” + +“No, no, lass; that’s a day no sun will ever shine upon. You must get +another sweetheart, and a better one, maybe. I’m sure you deserve a +better one, for you’re true, lass, true as steel.” + +The girl drew his head closer to her breast, and bending over him, +kissed his dry lips. She never thought, or cared to know, what fever or +what poison she might inhale in that caress. If she had thought about +it, perhaps she would have prayed that the same fever which had struck +him down might lay her low beside him. He spoke again, as the light, +with a lingering glow, brightened, and flickered, and then faded out. + +“It’s gone; it’s gone for ever; it’s behind me now, lass, and must look +straight before----” + +“At what, Jim?--at what?” + +“At a terrible gulf, my lass. I’m a-standing on the edge of it, and I’m +a-looking down to the bottom of it--a cold dark lonesome place. But +perhaps there’s another light beyond it, lass; who knows?” + +“Some say they do know, Jim,” said the girl; “some say they do know, +and that there is another light beyond, better than the one we see +here, and always shining. Some people do know all about it, Jim.” + +“Then why didn’t they tell us about it?” asked the man, with an +angry expression in his hollow eyes. “I suppose those as taught them +meant them to teach us; but I suppose they didn’t think us worth the +teaching. How many will be sorry for me, lass, when I am gone? Not +grandmother; her brain’s crazed with that fancy of hers of a golden +secret--as if she wouldn’t have sold it long before this if she’d had a +secret--sold it for bread, or more likely for gin. Not anybody in Blind +Peter--they’ve enough to do to think of the bit of food to put inside +them, or of the shelter to cover their unfortunate heads. Nobody but +you, lass, nobody but you, will be sorry for me; and I think you will.” + +He thinks she will be sorry. What has been the story of her life but +one long thought and care for him, in which her every sorrow and her +every joy have taken their colour from joys and sorrows of his? + +While they are talking, Jabez comes in, and, seating himself on a low +stool by the bed, talks to the sick man. + +“And so,” says Jim, looking him full in the face with a curious +glance--“so you’re my brother--the old woman’s told me all about it--my +twin brother; so like me, that it’s quite a treat to look at you. It’s +like looking in a glass, and that’s a luxury I’ve never been accustomed +to. Light a candle, lass; I want to see my brother’s face.” + +His brother was against the lighting of the candle--it might hurt the +eyes of the sufferer, he suggested; but Jim repeated his request, and +the girl obeyed. + +“Now come here and hold the candle, lass, and hold it close to my +brother’s face, for I want to have a good look at him.” + +Mr. Jabez North seemed scarcely to relish the unflinching gaze of his +newly-found relation; and again those fine blue eyes for which he +was distinguished, winked and shifted, and hid themselves, under the +scrutiny of the sick man. + +“It’s a handsome face,” said Jim; “and it looks like the face of one of +your fine high-born gentlemen too, which is rather queer, considering +who it belongs to; but for all that, I can’t say it’s a face I much +care about. There’s something under--something behind the curtain. +I say, brother, you’re hatching of some plot to-night, and a very +deep-laid plot it is too, or my name isn’t Jim Lomax.” + +“Poor fellow,” murmured the compassionate Jabez, “his mind wanders +sadly.” + +“Does it?” asked the sick man; “does my mind wander, lad? I hope it +does; I hope I can’t see very clear to-night, for I didn’t want to +think my own brother a villain. I don’t want to think bad of thee, lad, +if it’s only for my dead mother’s sake.” + +“You hear!” said Jabez, with a glance of appeal to the girl, “you hear +how delirious he is?” + +“Stop a bit, lad,” cried Jim, with sudden energy, laying his wasted +hand upon his brother’s wrist; “stop a bit. I’m dying fast; and before +it’s too late I’ve one prayer to make. I haven’t made so many either +to God or man that I need forget this one. You see this lass; we’ve +been sweethearts, I don’t know how long, now--ever since she was a +little toddling thing that I could carry on my shoulder; and, one of +these days, when wages got to be better, and bread cheaper, and hopes +brighter, somehow, for poor folks like us, we was to have been married; +but that’s over now. Keep a good heart, lass, and don’t look so white; +perhaps it’s better as it is. Well, as I was saying, we’ve been +sweethearts for a many year, and often when I haven’t been able to get +work, maybe sometimes when I haven’t been willing, when I’ve been lazy, +or on the drink, or among bad companions, this lass has kept a shelter +over me, and given me bread to eat with the labour of her own hands. +She’s been true to me. I could tell you how true, but there’s something +about the corners of your mouth that makes me think you wouldn’t care +to hear it. But if you want me to die in peace, promise me this--that +as long as you’ve got a shilling she shall never be without a sixpence; +that as long as you’ve got a roof to cover your head she shall never be +without a shelter. Promise!” + +He tightened his grasp convulsively upon his brother’s wrist. That +gentleman made an effort to look him full in the face; but not seeming +to relish the searching gaze of the dying man’s eyes, Mr. Jabez North +was compelled to drop his own. + +“Come,” said Jim; “promise--swear to me, by all you hold sacred, that +you’ll do this.” + +“I swear!” said Jabez, solemnly. + +“And if you break your oath,” added his brother, “never come a-nigh the +place where I’m buried, for I’ll rise out of my grave and haunt you.” + +The dying man fell back exhausted on his pillow. The girl poured out +some medicine and gave it to him, while Jabez walked to the door, and +looked up at the sky. + +A very dark sky for a night in June. A wide black canopy hung over +the earth, and as yet there was not one feeble star to break the inky +darkness. A threatening night--the low murmuring of whose sultry wind +moaned and whispered prophecies of a coming storm. Never had the +blindness of Blind Peter been darker than to-night. You could scarcely +see your hand before you. A wretched woman who had just fetched +half-a-quartern of gin from the nearest public-house, though a denizen +of the place, and familiar with every broken flagstone and crumbling +brick, stumbled over her own threshold, and spilt a portion of the +precious liquid. + +It would have been difficult to imagine either the heavens or the earth +under a darker aspect in the month of June. Not so, however, thought +Mr. Jabez North; for, after contemplating the sky for some moments in +silence, he exclaimed--“A fine night! A glorious night! It could not be +better!” + +A figure, one shade darker than the night, came between him and the +darkness. It was the doctor, who said-- + +“Well, sir, I’m glad you think it a fine night; but I must beg to +differ with you on the subject, for I never remember seeing a blacker +sky, or one that threatened a more terrible storm at this season of the +year.” + +“I was scarcely thinking of what I was saying, doctor. That poor man in +there----” + +“Ah, yes; poor fellow! I doubt if he’ll witness the storm, near as it +seems to be. I suppose you take some interest in him on account of his +extraordinary likeness to you?” + +“That would be rather an egotistical reason for being interested in +him. Common humanity induced me to come down to this wretched place, to +see if I could be of any service to the poor creature.” + +“The action does you credit, sir,” said the doctor. “And now for my +patient.” + +It was with a very grave face that the medical man looked at poor Jim, +who had, by this time, fallen into a fitful and restless slumber; and +when Jabez drew him aside to ask his opinion, he said,--“If he lives +through the next half-hour I shall be surprised. Where is the old +woman--his grandmother?” + +“I haven’t seen her this evening,” answered Jabez. And then, turning to +the girl, he asked her if she knew where the old woman was. + +“No; she went out some time ago, and didn’t say where she was going. +She’s not quite right in her mind, you know, sir, and often goes out +after dark.” + +The doctor seated himself on a broken chair, near the mattress on +which the sick man lay. Only one feeble guttering candle, with a long, +top-heavy wick, lighted the dismal and comfortless room. Jabez paced up +and down with that soft step of which we have before spoken. Although +in his character of a philosopher the death of a fellow-creature could +scarcely have been very distressing to him, there was an uneasiness +in his manner on this night which he could not altogether conceal. He +looked from the doctor to the girl, and from, the girl to his sick +brother. Sometimes he paused in his walk up and down the room to peer +out at the open door. Once he stooped over the feeble candle to look at +his watch. There was a listening expression too in his eyes; an uneasy +twitching about his mouth; and at times he could scarcely suppress a +tremulous action of his slender fingers, which bespoke impatience and +agitation. Presently the clocks of Slopperton chimed the first quarter +after ten. On hearing this, Jabez drew the medical man aside, and +whispered to him,-- + +“Are there no means,” he said, “of getting that poor girl out of the +way? She is very much attached to that unfortunate creature; and if +he dies, I fear there will be a terrible scene. It would be an act of +mercy to remove her by some stratagem or other. How can we get her away +till it is all over?” + +“I think I can manage it,” said the doctor. “My partner has a surgery +at the other end of the town; I will send her there.” + +He returned to the bedside, and presently said,-- + +“Look here, my good girl; I am going to write a prescription for +something which I think will do our patient good. Will you take it for +me, and get the medicine made up?” + +The girl looked at him with an appealing glance in her mournful eyes. + +“I don’t like to leave him, sir.” + +“But if it’s for his good, my dear?” + +“Yes, yes, sir. You’re very kind. I will go. I can run all the way. And +you won’t leave him while I’m gone, will you, sir?” + +“No, my good girl, I won’t. There, there; here’s the prescription. It’s +written in pencil, but the assistant will understand it. Now listen, +while I tell you where to find the surgery.” + +He gave her the direction; and after a lingering and mournful look at +her lover, who still slept, she left the house, and darted off in the +direction of Slopperton. + +“If she runs as fast as that all the way,” said Jabez, as he watched +her receding figure, “she will be back in less than an hour.” + +“Then she will find him either past all help, or better,” replied the +doctor. + +Jabez’ pale face turned white as death at this word “better.” + +“Better!” he said. “Is there any chance of his recovery?” + +“There are wonderful chances in this race between life and death. This +sleep may be a crisis. If he wakes, there may be a faint hope of his +living.” + +Jabez’ hand shook like a leaf. He turned his back to the doctor, walked +once up and down the room, and then asked, with his old calmness,-- + +“And you, sir--you, whose time is of such value to so many sick +persons--you can afford to desert them all, and remain here, watching +this man?” + +“His case is a singular one, and interests me. Besides, I do not know +that I have any patient in imminent danger to-night. My assistant has +my address, and would send for me were my services peculiarly needed.” + +“I will go out and smoke a cigar,” said Jabez, after a pause. “I can +scarcely support this sick room, and the suspense of this terrible +conflict between life and death.” + +He strode out into the darkness, was absent about five minutes, and +returned. + +“Your cigar did not last long,” remarked the doctor. “You are a quick +smoker. Bad for the system, sir.” + +“My cigar was a bad one. I threw it away.” + +Shortly afterwards there was a knock at the door, and a ragged +vagabond-looking boy, peeping in, asked,-- + +“Is Mr. Saunders the doctor here?” + +“Yes, my lad. Who wants me?” + +“A young woman up in Hill Fields, sir, what’s took poison, they say. +You’re wanted very bad.” + +“Poison! that’s urgent,” said Mr. Saunders. “Who sent you here for me?” + +The lad looked with a puzzled expression at Jabez standing in the +shadow, who, unperceived by the doctor, whispered something behind his +hand. + +“Surgery, sir,” answered the boy, still looking at Jabez. + +“Oh, you were sent from the surgery. I must be off, for this is no +doubt a desperate case. I must leave you to look after this poor +fellow. If he wakes, give him two teaspoonfuls of that medicine there. +I could do no more if I stopped myself. Come, my lad.” + +The doctor left the house, followed by the boy, and in a few moments +both were lost in the darkness, and far out of the ken of Blind Peter. + +Five minutes after the departure of the medical man Jabez went to the +door, and after looking out at the squalid houses, which were all dark, +gave a long low whistle. + +A figure crept out of the darkness, and came up to where he stood. It +was the old woman, his grandmother. + +“All’s right, deary,” she whispered. “Bill Withers has got everything +ready. He’s a waiting down by the wall yonder. There’s not a mortal +about; and I’ll keep watch. You’ll want Bill’s help. When you’re ready +for him, you’re to whistle softly three times running. He’ll know what +it means--and I’m going to watch while he helps you. Haven’t I managed +beautiful, deary? and shan’t I deserve the golden sovereigns you’ve +promised me? They was guineas always when I was young, deary. Nothing’s +as good now as it used to be.” + +“Don’t let us have any chattering,” said Jabez, as he laid a rough hand +upon her arm; “unless you want to wake everybody in the place.” + +“But, I say, deary, is it all over? Nothing unfair, you know. Remember +your promise.” + +“All over? Yes; half an hour ago. If you hinder me here with your talk, +the girl will be back before we’re ready for her.” + +“Let me come in and close his eyes, deary,” supplicated the old woman. +“His mother was my own child. Let me close his eyes.” + +“Keep where you are, or I’ll strangle you!” growled her dutiful +grandson, as he shut the door upon his venerable relation, and left her +mumbling upon the threshold. + +Jabez crept cautiously towards the bed on which his brother lay. Jim +at this moment awoke from his restless slumber; and, opening his eyes +to their widest extent, looked full at the man by his side. He made +no effort to speak, pointed to his lips, and, stretching out his hand +towards the bottles on the table, made signs to his brother. These +signs were a supplication for the cooling draught which always allayed +the burning beat of the fever. + +Jabez never stirred. “He has awoke,” he murmured. “This is the crisis +of his life, and of my fate.” + +The clocks of Slopperton chimed the quarter before eleven. + +“It’s a black gulf, lass,” gasped the dying man; “and I’m fast sinking +into it.” + +There was no friendly hand, Jim, to draw you back from that terrible +gulf. The medicine stood untouched upon the table; and, perhaps as +guilty as the first murderer, your twin brother stood by your bedside. + + + + + CHAPTER V. + + MIDNIGHT BY THE SLOPPERTON CLOCKS. + + +THE clouds and the sky kept their promise, and as the clocks chimed the +quarter before twelve the storm broke over the steeples at Slopperton. + +Blue lightning-flashes lit up Blind Peter, and attendant thunder-claps +shook him to his very foundation; while a violent shower of rain gave +him such a washing-down of every flagstone, chimney-pot, and doorstep, +as he did not often get. Slopperton in bed was almost afraid to go to +sleep; and Slopperton not in bed did not seem to care about going to +bed. Slopperton at supper was nervous as to handling of glittering +knives and steel forks; and Slopperton going to windows to look out +at the lightning was apt to withdraw hurriedly at the sight thereof. +Slopperton in general was depressed by the storm; thought there would +be mischief somewhere; and had a vague idea that something dreadful +would happen before the night was out. + +In Dr. Tappenden’s quiet household there was consternation and alarm. +Mr. Jabez North, the principal assistant, had gone out early in the +evening, and had not returned at the appointed hour for shutting up +the house. This was such an unprecedented occurrence, that it had +occasioned considerable uneasiness--especially as Dr. Tappenden was +away from home, and Jabez was, in a manner, deputy-master of the +house. The young woman who looked after the gentlemen’s wardrobes had +taken compassion upon the housemaid, who sat up awaiting Mr. North’s +return, and had brought her workbox, and a lapful of young gentlemen’s +dilapidated socks, to the modest chamber in which the girl waited. + +“I hope,” said the housemaid, “nothing ain’t happened to him through +the storm. I hope he hasn’t been getting under no trees.” + +The housemaid had a fixed idea that to go under a tree in a +thunderstorm was to encounter immediate death. + +“Poor dear young gentleman,” said the lady of the wardrobes; “I tremble +to think what can keep him out so. Such a steady young man; never known +to be a minute after time either. I’m sure every sound I hear makes me +expect to see him brought in on a shutter.” + +“Don’t now, Miss Smithers!” cried the housemaid, looking behind her as +if she expected to see the ghost of Jabez North pointing to a red spot +on his left breast at the back of her chair. “I wish you wouldn’t now! +Oh, I hope he ain’t been murdered. There’s been such a many murders in +Slopperton since I can remember. It’s only three years and a half ago +since a man cut his wife’s throat down in Windmill Lane, because she +hadn’t put no salt in the saucepan when she boiled the greens.” + +The frightful parallel between the woman who boiled the greens without +salt and Jabez North two hours after his time, struck such terror to +the hearts of the young women, that they were silent for some minutes, +during which they both looked uneasily at a thief in the candle which +neither of them had the courage to take out--their nerves not being +equal to the possible clicking of the snuffers. + +“Poor young man!” said the housemaid, at last. “Do you know, Miss +Smithers, I can’t help thinking he has been rather low lately.” + +Now this word “low” admits of several applications, so Miss Smithers +replied, rather indignantly,-- + +“Low, Sarah Anna! Not in his language, I’m sure. And as to his manners, +they’d be a credit to the nobleman that wrote the letters.” + +“No, no, Miss Smithers; I mean his spirits. I’ve fancied lately he’s +been a fretting about something; perhaps he’s in love, poor dear.” + +Miss Smithers coloured up. The conversation was getting interesting. +Mr. North had lent her _Rasselas_, which she thought a story of +thrilling interest; and she had kept his stockings and shirt buttons in +order for three years. Such things had happened; and Mrs. Jabez North +sounded more comfortable than Miss Smithers, at any rate. + +“Perhaps,” said Sarah Anne, rather maliciously--“perhaps he’s been +forgetting his situation and giving way to thoughts of marrying our +young missus. She’s got a deal of money, you know, Miss Smithers, +though her figure ain’t much to look at.” + +Sarah Anne’s figure was plenty to look at, having a tendency to break +out into luxuriance where you least expected it. + +It was in vain that Sarah Anne or Miss Smithers speculated on the +probable causes of the usher’s absence. Midnight struck from the +Dutch clock in the kitchen, the eight-day clock on the staircase, the +timepiece in the drawing-room--a liberal and complicated piece of +machinery which always struck eighteen to the dozen--and eventually +from every clock in Slopperton; and yet there was no sign of Jabez +North. + +No sign of Jabez North. A white face and a pair of glazed eyes staring +up at the sky, out on a dreary heath three miles from Slopperton, +exposed to the fury of a pitiless storm; a man lying alone on a +wretched mattress in a miserable apartment in Blind Peter--but no Jabez +North. + + +Through the heartless storm, dripping wet with the pelting rain, +the girl they have christened Sillikens hastens back to Blind Peter. +The feeble glimmer of the candle, with the drooping wick sputtering +in a pool of grease, is the only light which illumes that cheerless +neighbourhood. The girl’s heart beat; with a terrible flutter as she +approaches that light, for an agonizing doubt is in her soul about +that _other light_ which she left so feebly burning, and which +may be now extinct. But she takes courage; and pushing open the door, +which opposes neither bolts nor bars to any deluded votary of Mercury, +she enters the dimly-lighted room. The man lies with his face turned +to the wall; the old woman is seated by the hearth, on which a dull +and struggling flame is burning. She has on the table among the +medicine-bottles, another, which no doubt contains spirits, for she +has a broken teacup in her hand, from which ever and anon she sips +consolation, for it is evident she has been crying. + +“Mother, how is he--how is he?” the girl asks, with a hurried notation +painful to witness, since it reveals how much she dreads the answer. + +“Better, deary, better--Oh, ever so much better,” the old woman answers +in a crying voice, and with another application to the broken teacup. + +“Better! thank Heaven!--thank Heaven!” and the girl, stealing softly to +the bedside, bends down and listens to the sick man’s breathing, which +is feeble, but regular. + +“He seems very fast asleep, grandmother. Has he been sleeping all the +time?” + +“Since when, deary?” + +“Since I went out. Where’s the doctor?” + +“Gone, deary. Oh, my blessed boy, to think that it should come to this, +and his dead mother was my only child! O dear, O dear!” And the old +woman burst out crying, only choking her sobs by the aid of the teacup. + +“But he’s better, grandmother; perhaps he’ll get over it now. I always +said he would. Oh, I’m so glad--so glad.” The girl sat down in her wet +garments, of which she never once, thought, on the little stool by the +side of the bed. Presently the sick man turned round and opened his +eyes. + +“You’ve been away a long time, lass,” he said. + +Something in his voice, or in his way of speaking, she did not know +which, startled her; but she wound her arm round his neck, and said-- + +“Jim, my own dear Jim, the danger’s past. The black gulf you’ve been +looking down is closed for these many happy years to come, and maybe +the sun will shine on our wedding-day yet.” + +“Maybe, lass--maybe. But tell me, what’s the time?” + +“Never mind the time, Jim. Very late, and a very dreadful night; but +no matter for that! You’re better, Jim; and if the sun never shone upon +the earth again, I don’t think I should be able to be sorry, now you +are safe.” + +“Are all the lights out in Blind Peter, lass?” he asked. + +“All the lights out? Yes, Jim--these two hours. But why do you ask?” + +“And in Slopperton did you meet many people, lass?” + +“Not half-a-dozen in all the streets. Nobody would be out in such a +night, Jim, that could help it.” + +He turned his face to the wall again, and seemed to sleep. The old +woman kept moaning and mumbling over the broken teacup,-- + +“To think that my blessed boy should come to this--on such a night too, +on such a night!” + +The storm raged with unabated fury, and the rain pouring in at the +dilapidated door threatened to flood the room. Presently the sick man +raised his head a little way from the pillow. + +“Lass,” he said, “could you get me a drop o’ wine? I think, if I could +drink a drop o’ wine, it would put some strength into me somehow.” + +“Grandmother,” said the girl, “can I get him any? You’ve got some +money; it’s only just gone twelve; I can get in at the public-house. I +_will_ get in, if I knock them up, to get a drop o’ wine for Jim.” + +The old woman fumbled among her rags and produced a sixpence, part of +the money given her from the slender purse of the benevolent Jabez, and +the girl hurried away to fetch the wine. + +The public-house was called the Seven Stars; the seven stars being +represented on a signboard in such a manner as to bear rather a +striking resemblance to seven yellow hot-cross buns on a very blue +background. The landlady of the Seven Stars was putting her hair in +papers when the girl called Sillikens invaded the sanctity of her +private life. Why she underwent the pain and grief of curling her hair +for the admiration of such a neighbourhood as Blind Peter is one of +those enigmas of this dreary existence to solve which the Œdipus has +not yet appeared. I don’t suppose she much cared about suspending her +toilet, and opening her bar, for the purpose of selling sixpennyworth +of port wine; but when she heard it was for a sick man, she did not +grumble. The girl thanked her heartily, and hurried homewards with her +pitiful measure of wine. + +Through the pitiless rain, and under the dark sky, it was almost +impossible to see your hand before you; but as Sillikens entered the +mouth of Blind Peter, a flash of lightning revealed to her the figure +of a man gliding with a soft step between the broken iron railings. +In the instantaneous glimpse she caught of him under the blue light, +something familiar in his face or form quickened the beating of her +heart, and made her turn to look back at him; but it was too dark for +her to see more than the indistinct figure of a man hurrying away in +the direction of Slopperton. Wondering who could be leaving Blind Peter +on such a night and at such an hour, she hastened back to carry her +lover the wine. + +The old woman still sat before the hearth. The sputtering candle had +gone out, and the light from the miserable little fire only revealed +the dark outlines of the wretched furniture and the figure of Jim’s +grandmother, looking, as she sat mumbling over the broken teacup, like +a wicked witch performing an incantation over a portable cauldron. + +The girl hurried to the bedside--the sick man was not there. + +“Grandmother! Jim--Jim! Where is he?” she asked, in an alarmed voice; +for the figure she had met hurrying through the storm flashed upon her +with a strange distinctness. “Jim! Grandmother! tell me where he is, or +I shall go mad! Not gone--not gone out on such a night as this, and in +a burning fever?” + +“Yes, lass, he’s gone. My precious boy, my darling boy. His dead +mother was my only child, and he’s gone for ever and ever, and on this +dreadful night. I’m a miserable old woman.” + +No other explanation than this, no other words than these, chattered +and muttered again and again, could the wretched girl extort from the +old woman, who, half imbecile and more than half tipsy, sat grinning +and grunting over the teacup till she fell asleep in a heap on the cold +damp hearth, still hugging the empty teacup, and still muttering, even +in her sleep,-- + +“His dead mother was my only child; and it’s very cruel it should come +to this at last, and on such a night.” + + + + + CHAPTER VI. + + THE QUIET FIGURE ON THE HEATH. + + +THE morning after the storm broke bright and clear, promising a hot +summer’s day, but also promising a pleasant breeze to counterbalance +the heat of the sun. This was the legacy of the storm, which, dying +out about three o’clock, after no purposeless fury, had left behind +it a better and purer air in place of the sultry atmosphere which had +heralded its coming. + +Mr. Joseph Peters, seated at breakfast this morning, attended by +Kuppins nursing the “fondling,” has a great deal to say by means of the +dirty alphabet (greasy from the effects of matutinal bacon) about last +night’s storm. Kuppins has in nowise altered since we last saw her, +and four months have made no change in the inscrutable physiognomy of +the silent detective; but four months have made a difference in the +“fondling,” now familiarly known as “baby.” Baby is short-coated; baby +takes notice. This accomplishment of taking notice appears to consist +chiefly in snatching at every article within its reach, from Kuppins’s +luxuriant locks to the hot bowl of Mr. Peters’s pipe. Baby also is +possessed of a marvellous pair of shoes, which are alternately in his +mouth, under the fender, and upon his feet--to say nothing of their +occasionally finding their way out of the window, on to the dust-heap, +and into divers other domestic recesses too numerous to mention. Baby +is also possessed of a cap with frills, which it is Kuppins’s delight +to small-plait, and the delight of baby to demolish. Baby is devotedly +attached to Kuppins, and evinces his affection by such pleasing +demonstrations as poking his fists down her throat, hanging on to +her nose, pushing a tobacco-pipe up her nostrils, and other equally +gratifying proofs of infantine regard. Baby is, in short, a wonderful +child; and the eye of Mr. Peters at breakfast wanders from his bacon +and his watercresses to his young adopted, with a look of pride he does +not attempt to conceal. + +Mr. Peters has risen in his profession since last February. He has +assisted at the discovery of two or three robberies, and has evinced +on those occasions such a degree of tact, triumphing so completely +over the difficulties he labours under from his infirmity, as to have +won for himself a better place in the police force of Slopperton--and +of course a better salary. But business has been dull lately, and Mr. +Joseph Peters, who is ambitious, has found no proper field for his +abilities as yet. + +“I should like an iron-safe case, a regular out-and-out burglary,” he +muses, “or a good forgery, say to the tune of a thousand or so. Or a +bit of bigamy; that would be something new. But a jolly good poisoning +case might make my fortune. If that there little ’un was growed up,” he +mentally ejaculated, as Kuppins’s charge gave an unusually loud scream, +“his lungs might be a fortune to me. Lord,” he continued, waxing +metaphysical, “I don’t look upon that hinfant as a hinfant, I looks +upon him as a voice.” + +The “voice” was a very powerful one just at this moment; for in an +interval of affectionate weakness Kuppins had regaled the “fondling” +on the rind of Mr. Peters’s rasher, which, not harmonizing with the +limited development of his swallowing apparatus, had brought out the +purple tints in his complexion with alarming violence. + +For a long time Mr. Peters mused, and at last, after signalling +Kuppins, as was his wont on commencing a conversation, with a loud snap +of his finger and thumb, he began thus: + +“There’s a case of shop-lifting at Halford’s Heath, and I’ve got to go +over and look up some evidence in the village. I’ll tell you what I’ll +do with you; I’ll take you and baby over in Vorkins’s trap--he said as +how he’d lend it me whenever I liked to ask him for the loan of it; and +I’ll stand treat to the Rosebush tea-gardens.” + +Never had the dirty alphabet fashioned such sweet words. A drive in +Mr. Vorkins’s trap, and the Rosebush tea-gardens! If Kuppins had been +a fairy changeling, and had awoke one morning to find herself a queen, +I don’t think she would have chosen any higher delight wherewith to +celebrate her accession to the throne. + +Kuppins had, during the few months of Mr. Peters’s residence in the +indoor Eden of No. 5, Little Gulliver Street, won a very high place in +that gentleman’s regards. The elderly proprietress of the Eden was as +nothing in the eyes of Mr. Peters when compared with Kuppins. It was +Kuppins whom he consulted when giving his orders for dinner; Kuppins, +whose eye he knew to be infallible as regarded a chop, either mutton +or pork; whose finger was as the finger of Fate in the matter of hard +or soft-roed herrings. It was by Kuppins’s advice he purchased some +mysterious garment for the baby, or some prodigious wonder in the shape +of a bandanna or a neck-handkerchief for himself; and this tea-garden +treat he had long contemplated as a fitting reward for the fidelity of +his handmaiden. + +Mr. Vorkins was one of the officials of the police force, and Mr. +Vorkins’s trap was a happy combination of the cart of a vender of +feline provisions and the gig of a fast young man of half a century +gone by--that is to say, it partook of the disadvantages of each, +without possessing the capabilities of either: but Mr. Peters looked +at it with respect, and in the eye of Kuppins it was a gorgeous and +fashionable vehicle, which the most distinguished member of the peerage +might have driven along the Lady’s Mile, at six o’clock on a midsummer +afternoon, with pride and delight. + +At two o’clock on this June afternoon, behold Mr. Vorkins’s trap at the +door of No. 5, Little Gulliver Street, with Kuppins in a miraculous +bonnet, and baby in a wonderful hat, seated therein. Mr. Peters, +standing on the pavement, contemplated the appointments of the equipage +with some sense of pride, and the juvenile population of the street +hovered around, absorbed in admiration of the turn-out. + +“Mind your bonnet don’t make the wehicle top-heavy, miss,” said one +youthful votary of the renowned Joe Miller; “it’s big enough, anyways.” + +Miss Kuppins (she was Miss Kuppins in her Sunday costume) flung a +Parthian glance at the young barbarian, and drew down a green veil, +which, next to the “fondling,” was the pride of her heart. Mr. Peters, +armed with a formidable whip, mounted to his seat by her side, and away +drove the trap, leaving the juvenile population aforesaid venting its +envy in the explosion of a perfect artillery of _jeux de mots_. + +Mr. Vorkins’s trap was as a fairy vehicle to Kuppins, and Mr. +Vorkins’s elderly pony an enchanted quadruped, under the strokes of +whose winged hoofs Slopperton flew away like a smoky dream, and was +no more seen--an enchanted quadruped, by whose means the Slopperton +suburbs of unfinished houses, scaffolding, barren ground for sale in +building lots, ugly lean streets, and inky river, all melted into the +distance, giving place to a road that intersected a broad heath, in the +undulations of which lay fairy pools of blue water, in whose crystal +depths the good people might have admired their tiny beauties as in +a mirror. Indeed, it was pleasant to ride in Mr. Vorkins’s jingling +trap through the pure country air, scented with the odours of distant +bean-fields, and, looking back, to see the smoke of Sloppertonian +chimneys a mere black daub on the blue sky, and to be led almost to +wonder how, on the face of such a fair and lovely earth, so dark a blot +as Slopperton could be. + +The Rosebush tea-gardens were a favourite resort of Slopperton on a +Sunday afternoon; and many teachers there were in that great city who +did not hesitate to say that the rosebushes of those gardens were +shrubs planted by his Satanic Majesty, and that the winding road +over Halford’s Heath, though to the ignorant eye bordered by bright +blue streams and sweet-smelling wild flowers, lay in reality between +two lakes of fire and brimstone. Some gentlemen, however, dared to +say--gentlemen who wore white neckcloths too, and were familiar and +welcome in the dwellings of the poor--that Slopperton might go to +more wicked places than Rosebush gardens, and might possibly be led +into more evil courses than the consumption of tea and watercresses +at ninepence a-head. But in spite of all differences of opinion, the +Rosebush gardens prospered, and Rosebush tea and bread-and-butter were +pleasant in the mouth of Slopperton. + +Mr. Peters deposited his fair young companion, with the baby in her +arms, at the gate of the gardens--after having authorized her to order +two teas, and to choose an arbour--and walked off himself into the +village of Halford to transact his official business. + +The ordering of the teas and the choosing of the arbour were a labour +of love with the fair Kuppins. She selected a rustic retreat, over +which the luxuriant tendrils of a hop-vine fell like a thick green +curtain. It was a sight to see Kuppins skirmishing with the earwigs +and spiders in their sylvan bower, and ultimately routing those +insects from the nests of their fathers. Mr. Peters returned from +the village in about an hour, hot and dusty, but triumphant as to +the issue of the business he had come about, and with an inordinate +thirst for tea at ninepence a-head. I don’t know whether Rosebush +gardens made much out of the two teas at ninepence, but I know the +bread-and-butter and watercresses disappeared by the aid of the +detective and his fair companion as if by magic. It was pleasant to +watch the “fondling” during this humble _fête champêtre_. He +had been brought up by hand, which would be better expressed as by +_spoon_, and had been fed on every variety of comestible, from +pap and farinaceous food to beef-steaks and onions and the soft roes +of red herrings--to say nothing of sugar-sticks, bacon rinds, and the +claws of shell-fish; he therefore, immediately upon the appearance +of the two teas, laid violent hands on a bunch of watercresses and +a slice of bread-and-butter, wiping the buttered side upon his +face--so as to give himself the appearance of an infant in a violent +perspiration--preparatory to its leisurely consumption. He also made +an onslaught on Mr. Peters’s cup of steaming tea, but scalding his +hands therewith, withdrew to the bosom of Kuppins, and gave vent to his +indignation in loud screams, which the detective said made the gardens +quite lively. After the two teas, Mr. Peters, attended by Kuppins and +the infant, strolled round the gardens, and peered into the arbours, +very few of which were tenanted this week-day afternoon. The detective +indulged in a gambling speculation with some wonderful machine, the +distinguishing features of which were numbers and Barcelona nuts; and +by the aid of which you might lose as much as threepence half-penny +before you knew where you were, while you could not by any possibility +win anything. There was also a bowling-green, and a swing, which +Kuppins essayed to mount, and which repudiated that young lady, by +precipitating her forward on her face at the first start. + +Having exhausted the mild dissipations of the gardens, Mr. Peters +and Kuppins returned to their bower, where the gentleman sat smoking +his clay pipe, and contemplating the infant, with a perfect serenity +and calm enjoyment delightful to witness. But there was more on Mr. +Peters’s mind that summer’s evening than the infant. He was thinking of +the trial of Richard Marwood, and the part he had taken in that trial +by means of the dirty alphabet; he was thinking, perhaps, of the fate +of Richard--poor unlucky Richard, a hopeless and incurable lunatic, +imprisoned for life in a dreary asylum, and comforting himself in that +wretched place by wild fancies of imaginary greatness. Presently Mr. +Peters, with a preparatory snap of his fingers, asks Kuppins if she can +“call to mind that there story of the lion and the mouse.” + +Kuppins _can_ call it to mind, and proceeds to narrate with +volubility, how a lion, once having rendered a service to a mouse, +found himself caught in a great net, and in need of a friend; how this +insignificant mouse had, by sheer industry and perseverance, effected +the escape of the mighty lion. Whether they lived happy ever afterwards +Kuppins couldn’t say, but had no doubt they did; that being the +legitimate conclusion of every legend, in this young lady’s opinion. + +Mr. Peters scratched his head violently during this story, to which he +listened with his mouth very much round the corner; and when it was +finished he fell into a reverie that lasted till the distant Slopperton +clocks chimed the quarter before eight--at which time he laid down his +pipe, and departed to prepare Mr. Vorkins’s trap for the journey home. + +Perhaps of the two journeys, the journey home was almost the more +pleasant. It seemed to Kuppins’s young imagination as if Mr. Peters was +bent on driving Mr. Vorkins’s trap straight into the sinking sun, which +was going down in a sea of crimson behind a ridge of purple heath. +Slopperton was yet invisible, except as a dark cloud on the purple sky. +This road across the heath was very lonely on every evening except +Sunday, and the little party only met one group of haymakers returning +from their work, and one stout farmer’s wife, laden with groceries, +hastening home from Slopperton. It was a still evening, and not a sound +rose upon the clear air, except the last song of a bird or the chirping +of a grasshopper. Perhaps, if Kuppins had been with anybody else, she +might have been frightened for Kuppins had a confused idea that such +appearances as highwaymen and ghosts are common to the vesper hour; +but in the company of Mr. Peters, Kuppins would have fearlessly met a +regiment of highwaymen, or a churchyard full of ghosts: for was he not +the law and the police in person, under whose shadow there could be no +fear? + +Mr. Vorkins’s trap was fast gaining on the sinking sun, when Mr. Peters +drew up, and paused irresolutely between two roads. These diverging +roads met at a point a little further on, and the Sunday afternoon +pleasure-seekers crossing the heath took sometimes one, sometimes the +other; but the road to the left was the least frequented, being the +narrower and more hilly, and this road Mr. Peters took, still driving +towards the dark line behind which the red sun was going down. + +The broken ground of the heath was all a-glow with the warm crimson +light; a dissipated skylark and an early nightingale were singing +a duet, to which the grasshoppers seemed to listen with suspended +chirpings; a frog of an apparently fretful disposition was keeping up +a captious croak in a ditch by the tide of the road; and beyond these +voices there seemed to be no sound beneath the sky. The peaceful +landscape and the tranquil evening shed a benign influence upon +Kuppins, and awakened the dormant poetry in that young lady’s breast. + +“Lor’, Mr. Peters,” she said, “it’s hard to think in such a place as +this, that gents of your perfession should be wanted. I do think now, +if I was ever led to feel to want to take and murder somebody, which +I hopes ain’t likely--knowin’ my duty to my neighbour better--I do +think, somehow, this evening would come back to my mind, and I should +hear them birds a-singing, and see that there sun a-sinking, till I +shouldn’t be able to do it, somehow.” + +Mr. Peters shakes his head dubiously: he is a benevolent man and a +philanthropist; but he doesn’t like his profession run down, and a +murder and bread-and-cheese are inseparable things in his mind. + +“And, do you know,” continued Kuppins, “it seems to me as if, when this +world is so beautiful and quiet, it’s quite hard to think there’s one +wicked person in it to cast a shadow on its peace.” + +As Kuppins said this, she and Mr. Peters were startled by a shadow +which came between them and the sinking sun--a distorted shadow thrown +across the narrow road from the sharp outline of the figure of a man +lying upon a hillock a little way above them. Now, there is not much +to alarm the most timid person in the sight of a man asleep upon a +summer’s evening among heath and wild flowers; but something in this +man’s appearance startled Kuppins, who drew nearer to Mr. Peters, and +held the “fondling,” now fast asleep and muffled in a shawl, closer to +her bosom. The man was lying on his back, with his face upturned to +the evening sky, and his arms straight down at his sides. The sound +of the wheels of Mr. Vorkins’s trap did not awaken him; and even when +Mr. Peters drew up with a sudden jerk, the sleeping man did not raise +his head. Now, I don’t know why Mr. Peters should stop, or why either +he or Kuppins should feel any curiosity about this sleeping man; but +they certainly did feel considerable curiosity. He was dressed rather +shabbily, but still like a gentleman; and it was perhaps a strange +thing for a gentleman to be sleeping so soundly in such a lonely spot +as this. Then again, there was something in his attitude--a want of +ease, a certain stiffness, which had a strange effect upon both Kuppins +and Mr. Peters. + +“I wish he’d move,” said Kuppins; “he looks so awful quiet, lying there +all so lonesome.” + +“Call to him, my girl,” said Mr. Peters with his fingers. + +Kuppins essayed a loud “Hilloa,” but it was a dismal failure, on which +Mr. Peters gave a long shrill whistle, which must surely have disturbed +the peaceful dreams of the seven sleepers, though it might not have +awakened them. The man on the hillock never stirred. The pony, taking +advantage of the halt, drew nearer to the heath and began to crop the +short grass by the road-side, thus bringing Mr. Yorkins’s trap a little +nearer the sleeper. + +“Get down, lass,” said the fingers of the detective; “get down, my +lass, and have a look at him, for I can’t leave this ’ere pony.” + +Kuppins looked at Mr. Peters; and Mr. Peters looked at Kuppins, as much +as to say, “Well, what then?” So Kuppins to whom the laws of the Medes +and Persians would have been mild compared to the word of Mr. Peters, +surrendered the infant to his care, and descending from the trap, +mounted the hillock, and looked at the still reclining figure. + +She did not look long, but returning rapidly to Mr. Peters, took hold +of his arm, and said-- + +“I don’t think he’s asleep--leastways, his eyes is open; but he don’t +look as if he could see anything, somehow. He’s got a little bottle in +his hand.” + +Why Kuppins should keep so tight a hold on Mr. Peters’s arm while she +said this it is difficult to tell; but she did clutch his coat-sleeve +very tightly, looking back while she spoke with her white face turned +towards that whiter face under the evening sky. + +Mr. Peters jumped quickly from the trap, tied the elderly pony to a +furze-bush, mounted the hillock, and proceeded to inspect the sleeping +figure. The pale set face, and the fixed blue eyes, looked up at the +crimson light melting into the purple shadows of the evening sky, but +never more would earthly sunlight or shadow, or night or morning, or +storm or calm, be of any account to that quiet figure lying on the +heath. Why the man was there, or how he had come there, was a part of +the great mystery under the darkness of which he lay; and that mystery +was Death! He had died apparently by poison administered by his own +hand; for on the grass by his side there was a little empty bottle +labelled “Opium,” on which his fingers lay, not clasping it, but lying +as if they had fallen over it. His clothes were soaked through with +wet, so that he must in all probability have lain in that place through +the storm of the previous night. A silver watch was in the pocket +of his waistcoat, which Mr. Peters found, on looking at it, to have +stopped at ten o’clock--ten o’clock of the night before, most likely. +His hat had fallen off, and lay at a little distance, and his curling +light hair hung in wet ringlets over his high forehead. His face was +handsome, the features well chiselled, but the cheeks were sunken and +hollow, making the large blue eyes seem larger. + +Mr. Peters, in examining the pockets of the suicide, found no clue to +his identity; a handkerchief, a little silver, a few half-pence, a +penknife wrapped in a leaf torn out of a Latin Grammar, were the sole +contents. + +The detective reflected for a few moments, with his mouth on one +side, and then, mounting the highest hillock near, looked over the +surrounding country. He presently descried a group of haymakers at +a little distance, whom he signalled with a loud whistle. To them, +through Kuppins as interpreter, he gave his directions; and two of the +tallest and strongest of the men took the body by the head and feet and +carried it between them, with Kuppins’s shawl spread over the still +white face. They were two miles from Slopperton, and those two miles +were by no means pleasant to Kuppins, seated in Mr. Vorkins’s trap, +which Mr. Peters drove slowly, so as to keep pace with the two men and +their ghastly burden. Kuppins’s shawl, which of course would never be +any use as a shawl again, was no good to conceal the sharp outline of +the face it covered; for Kuppins had seen those blue eyes, and once +to see was always to see them as she thought. The dreary journey came +at last to a dreary end at the police-office, where the men deposited +their dreadful load, and being paid for their trouble, departed +rejoicing. Mr. Peters was busy enough for the next half-hour giving an +account of the finding of the body, and issuing handbills of “Found +dead, &c.” + +Kuppins and the “fondling” returned to Little Gulliver Street, and if +ever there had been a heroine in that street, that heroine was Kuppins. +People came from three streets off to see her, and to hear the story, +which she told so often that she came at last to tell it mechanically, +and to render it slightly obscure by the vagueness of her punctuation. +Anything in the way of supper that Kuppins would accept, and two or +three dozen suppers if Kuppins would condescend to partake of them, +were at Kuppins’s service; and her reign as heroine-in-chief of this +dark romance in real life was only put an end to by the appearance +of Mr. Peters, the hero, who came home by-and-by, hot and dusty, to +announce to the world of Little Gulliver Street, by means of the +alphabet, very grimy after his exertions, that the dead man had been +recognized as the principal usher of a great school up at the other +end of the town, and that his name was, or had been, Jabez North. His +motive for committing suicide he had carried a secret with him into +the dark and mysterious region to which he was a voluntary traveller; +and Mr. Peters, whose business it was to pry about the confines of +this shadowy land, though powerless to penetrate the interior, could +only discover some faint rumour of an ambitious love for his master’s +daughter as being the cause of the young usher’s untimely end. What +secrets this dead man had carried with him into the shadow-land, who +shall say? There might be one, perhaps, which even Mr. Peters, with his +utmost acuteness, could not discover. + + + + + CHAPTER VII. + + THE USHER RESIGNS HIS SITUATION. + + +ON the very day on which Mr. Peters treated Kuppins and the “fondling” +to tea and watercresses, Dr. Tappenden and Jane his daughter returned +to their household gods at Slopperton. + +Who shall describe the ceremony and bustle with which that great +dignitary, the master of the house, was received? He had announced +his return by the train which reached Slopperton at seven o’clock; +so at that hour a well-furnished tea-table was ready laid in the +study--that terrible apartment which little boys entered with red eyes +and pale cheeks, emerging therefrom in a pleasant glow, engendered +by a specific peculiar to schoolmasters whose desire it is not to +spoil the child. But no ghosts of bygone canings, no infantine +whimpers from shadow-land--(though little Allecompain, dead and gone, +had received correction in this very room)--haunted the Doctor’s +sanctorum--a cheerful apartment, warm in winter, and cool in summer, +and handsomely furnished at all times. The silver tea-pot reflected +the evening sunshine; and reflected too Sarah Jane laying the table, +none the handsomer for being represented upside down, with a tendency +to become collapsed or elongated, as she hovered about the tea-tray. +Anchovy-paste, pound-cake, Scotch marmalade and fancy bread, all seemed +to cry aloud for the arrival of the doctor and his daughter to demolish +them; but for all that there was fear in the hearts of the household as +the hour for that arrival drew near. What would he say to the absence +of his factotum? Who should tell him? Every one was innocent enough, +certainly; but in the first moment of his fury might not the descending +avalanche of the Doctor’s wrath crush the innocent? Miss Smithers--who, +as well as being presiding divinity of the young gentlemen’s wardrobes, +was keeper of the keys of divers presses and cupboards, and had sundry +awful trusts connected with tea and sugar and butchers’ bills--was +elected by the whole household, from the cook to the knife-boy, as +the proper person to make the awful announcement of the unaccountable +disappearance of Mr. Jabez North. So, when the doctor and his daughter +had alighted from the fly which brought them and their luggage from the +station, Miss Smithers hovered timidly about them, on the watch for a +propitious moment. + +“How have you enjoyed yourself, miss? Judging by your looks I should +say very much indeed, for never did I see you looking better,” said +Miss Smithers, with more enthusiasm than punctuation, as she removed +the shawl from the lovely shoulders of Miss Tappenden. + +“Thank you, Smithers, I am better,” replied the young lady, with +languid condescension. Miss Tappenden, on the strength of never having +anything the matter with her, was always complaining, and passed her +existence in taking sal-volatile and red lavender, and reading three +volumes a day from the circulating library. + +“And how,” asked the ponderous voice of the ponderous Doctor, “how +is everything going on, Smithers?” By this time they were seated at +the tea-table, and the learned Tappenden was in the act of putting +five lumps of sugar in his cup, while the fair Smithers lingered in +attendance. + +“Quite satisfactory, sir, I’m sure,” replied that young lady, growing +very much confused. “Everything quite satisfactory, sir; leastways----” + +“What do you mean by _leastways_, Smithers?” asked the Doctor, +impatiently. “In the first place it isn’t English; and in the next +it sounds as if it meant something unpleasant. For goodness sake, +Smithers, be straightforward and business-like. Has anything gone +wrong? What is it? And why wasn’t I informed of it?” + +Smithers, in despair at her incapability of answering these three +questions at once, as no doubt she ought to have been able to do, or +the Doctor would not have asked them, stammered out,-- + +“Mr. North, sir----” + +“‘Mr. North, sir’! Well, what of ‘Mr. North, sir’? By the bye, where is +Mr. North? Why isn’t he here to receive us?” + +Smithers feels that she is in for it; so, after two or three nervous +gulps, and other convulsive movements of the throat, she continues +thus--“Mr. North, sir, didn’t come home last night, sir. We sat up for +him till one o’clock this morning--last night, sir.” + +The rising storm in the Doctor’s face is making Smithers’s English more +_un_-English every moment. + +“Didn’t come last night? Didn’t return to my house at the hour of ten, +which hour has been appointed by me for the retiring to rest of every +person in my employment?” cried the Doctor, aghast. + +“No, sir! Nor yet this morning, sir! Nor yet this afternoon, sir! And +the West-Indian pupils have been looking out of the window, sir, and +would, which we told them not till we were hoarse, sir.” + +“The person intrusted by me with the care of my pupils abandoning +his post, and my pupils looking out of the window!” exclaimed Dr. +Tappenden, in the tone of a man who says--“The glory of England has +departed! You wouldn’t, perhaps, believe it; but it has!” + +“We didn’t know what to do, sir, and so we thought we’d better not do +it,” continued the bewildered Smithers. “And we thought as you was +coming back to-day, we’d better leave it till you did come back--and +please, sir, will you take any new-laid eggs?” + +“Eggs!” said the Doctor; “new-laid eggs! Go away, Smithers. There must +be some steps taken immediately. That young man was my right hand, and +I would have trusted him with untold gold; or,” he added, “with my +cheque-book.” + +As he uttered the words “cheque-book,” he, as it were instinctively, +laid his hand upon the pocket which contained that precious volume; +but as he did so, he remembered that he had used the last leaf but one +when writing a cheque for a midsummer butcher’s bill, and that he had +a fresh book in his desk untouched. This desk was always kept in the +study, and the Doctor gave an involuntary glance in the direction in +which it stood. + +It was a very handsome piece of furniture, ponderous, like the Doctor +himself; a magnificent construction of shining walnut-wood and dark +green morocco, with a recess for the Doctor’s knees, and on either +side of this recess two rows of drawers, with brass handles and Bramah +locks. The centre drawer on the left hand side contained an inner and +secret drawer, and towards the lock of this drawer the Doctor looked, +for this contained his new cheque-book. The walnut-wood round the lock +of this centre drawer seemed a little chipped; the Doctor thought he +might as well get up and look at it; and a nearer examination showed +the brass handle to be slightly twisted, as if a powerful hand had +wrenched it out of shape. The Doctor, taking hold of the handle to +pull it straight, drew the drawer out, and scattered its contents upon +the floor; also the contents of the inner drawer, and amongst them the +cheque-book, half-a-dozen leaves of which had been torn out. + +“So,” said the Doctor, “this man, whom I trusted, has broken open my +desk, and finding no money, he has taken blank cheques, in the hope of +being able to forge my name. To think that I did not know this man!” + +To think that you did not, Doctor; to think, too, that you do not even +now, perhaps, know half this man may have been capable of. + +But it was time for action, not reflection; so the Doctor hurried to +the railway station, and telegraphed to his bankers in London to +stop any cheques presented in his signature, and to have the person +presenting such cheques immediately arrested. From the railway station +he hurried, in an undignified perspiration, to the police-office, +to institute a search for the missing Jabez, and then returned +home, striking terror into the hearts of his household, ay, even to +the soul of his daughter, the lovely Jane, who took an extra dose +of sal-volatile, and went to bed to read “Lady Clarinda, or the +Heart-breaks of Belgravia.” + +With the deepening twilight came a telegraphic message from the bank +to say that cheques for divers sums had been presented and cashed by +different people in the course of the day. On the heels of this message +came another from the police-station, announcing that a body had been +found upon Halford Heath answering to the description of the missing +man. + + +The bewildered schoolmaster, hastening to the station, recognises, +at a glance, the features of his late assistant. The contents of +the dead man’s pocket, the empty bottle with the too significant +label, are shown him. No, some other hand than the usher’s must have +broken open the desk in the study, and the unfortunate young man’s +reputation had been involved in a strange coincidence. But the motive +for his rash act? That is explained by a most affecting letter in the +dead man’s hand, which is found in his desk. It is addressed to the +Doctor, expresses heartfelt gratitude for that worthy gentleman’s past +kindnesses, and hints darkly at a hopeless attachment to his daughter, +which renders the writer’s existence a burden too heavy for him to +bear. For the rest, Jabez North has passed a threshold, over which the +boldest and most inquisitive scarcely care to follow him. So he takes +his own little mystery with him into the land of the great mystery. + +There is, of course, an inquest, at which two different chemists, who +sold laudanum to Jabez North on the night before his disappearance, +give their evidence. There is another chemist, who deposes to having +sold him, a day or two before, a bottle of patent hair-dye, which is +also a poisonous compound; but surely he never could have thought of +poisoning himself with hair-dye. + +The London police are at fault in tracing the presenters of the +cheques; and the proprietors of the bank, or the clerks, who maintain +a common fund to provide against their own errors, are likely to be +considerable losers. In the meanwhile the worthy Doctor announces, by +advertisements in the Slopperton papers, that “his pupils assemble on +the 27th of July.” + + + + + =Book the Third.= + + HOLY INSTITUTION. + + + CHAPTER I. + + THE VALUE OF AN OPERA-GLASS. + + +PARIS!--City of fashion, pleasure, beauty, wealth, rank, talent, and +indeed all the glories of the earth. City of palaces, in which La +Vallière smiled, and Scarron sneered; under whose roofs the echoes +of Bossuet’s voice have resounded, while folly, coming to be amused, +has gone away in tears, only to forget to-morrow what it has heard +to-night. Glorious city, in which a _bon mot_ is more famous than +a good action; which is richer in the records of Ninon de Lenclos than +in those of Joan of Arc; for which Beaumarchais wrote, and Marmontel +moralised; which Scottish John Law infected with a furious madness, in +those halcyon days when jolly, good-tempered, accomplished, easy-going +Philippe of Orléans held the reins of power. Paris, which young Arouet, +afterwards Voltaire, ruled with the distant jingle of his jester’s +wand, from the far retreat of Ferney. Paris, in which Madame du Deffand +dragged out those weary, brilliant, dismal, salon-keeping years, +quarrelling with Mademoiselle de l’Espinasse, and corresponding with +Horace Walpole; _ce cher_ Horace, who described those brilliant +French ladies as women who neglected all the duties of life, and gave +very pretty suppers. + +Paris, in which Bailly spoke, and Madame Roland dreamed; in which +Marie Antoinette despaired, and gentle Princess Elizabeth laid down +her saintly life; in which the son of St. Louis went calmly to the +red mouth of that terrible machine invented by the charitable doctor +who thought to benefit his fellow creatures. City, under whose roofs +bilious Robespierre suspected and feared; beneath whose shadow the +glorious twenty-two went hand in hand to death, with the psalm of +freedom swelling from their lips. Paris, which rejoiced when Marengo +was won, and rang joy-bells for the victories of Lodd Arcola, +Austerlitz, Auerstedt, and Jena; Paris, which mourned over fatal +Waterloo, and opened its arms, after weary years of waiting, to take +to its heart only the ashes of the ruler of its election; Paris, +the marvellous; Paris, the beautiful, whose streets are streets of +palaces--fairy wonders of opulence and art;--can it be that under +some of thy myriad roofs there are such incidental trifles as misery, +starvation, vice, crime, and death? Nay, we will not push the question, +but enter at once into one of the most brilliant of the temples of that +goddess whose names are Pleasure, Fashion, Folly, and Idleness: and +what more splendid shrine can we choose whereat to worship the divinity +called Pleasure than the Italian Opera House? + +To-night the house is thronged with fashion and beauty. Bright uniforms +glitter in the backgrounds of the boxes, and sprinkle the crowded +parterre. The Citizen King is there--not King of France; no such poor +title will he have, but King of the French. His throne is based, not on +the broad land, but on the living hearts of his people. May it never +prove to be built on a shallow foundation! In eighteen hundred and +forty-two all is well for Louis Philippe and his happy family. + +In the front row of the stalls, close to the orchestra, a young man +lounges, with his opera-glass in his hand. He is handsome and very +elegant, and is dressed in the most perfect taste and the highest +fashion. Dark curling hair clusters round his delicately white +forehead; his eyes are of a bright blue, shaded by auburn lashes, which +contrast rather strangely with his dark hair. A very dark and thick +moustache only reveals now and then his thin lower lip and a set of +dazzling white teeth. His nose is a delicate aquiline, and his features +altogether bear the stamp of aristocracy. He is quite alone, this +elegant lounger, and of the crowd of people of rank and fashion around +him not one turns to speak to him. His listless white hand is thrown +on the cushion of the stall on which he leans, as he glances round the +house with one indifferent sweep of his opera-glass. Presently his +attention is arrested by the conversation of two gentlemen close to +him, and without seeming to listen, he hears what they are saying. + +“Is the Spanish princess here to-night?” asks one. + +“What, the marquis’s niece, the girl who has that immense property in +Spanish America? Yes, she is in the box next to the king’s; don’t you +see her diamonds? They and her eyes are brilliant enough to set the +curtains of the box on fire.” + +“She is immensely rich, then?” + +“She is an Eldorado. The Marquis de Cevennes has no children, and all +his property will go to her; her Spanish American property comes from +her mother. She is an orphan, as you know, and the marquis is her +guardian.” + +“She is handsome; but there’s just a little too much of the demon in +those great almond-shaped black eyes and that small determined mouth. +What a fortune she would be to some intriguing adventurer!” + +“An adventurer! Valerie de Cevennes the prize of an adventurer! Show me +the man capable of winning her, without rank and fortune equal to hers; +and I will say you have found the eighth wonder of the world.” + +The listener’s eyes light up with a strange flash, and lifting his +glass, he looks for a few moments carelessly round the house, and then +fixes his gaze upon the box next to that occupied by the royal party. + +The Spanish beauty is indeed a glorious creature; of a loveliness +rich alike in form and colour, but with hauteur and determination +expressed in every feature of her face. A man of some fifty years of +age is seated by her side, and behind her chair two or three gentlemen +stand, the breasts of whose coats glitter with stars and orders. They +are speaking to her; but she pays very little attention to them. If +she answers, it is only by a word, or a bend of her proud head, which +she does not turn towards them. She never takes her eyes from the +curtain, which presently rises. The opera is _La Sonnambula_. +The Elvino is the great singer of the day--a young man whose glorious +voice and handsome face have made him the rage of the musical world. +Of his origin different stories are told. Some say he was originally +a shoemaker, others declare him to be the son of a prince. He has, +however, made his fortune at seven-and-twenty, and can afford to +laugh at these stories. The opera proceeds, and the powerful glass of +the lounger in the stalls records the minutest change in the face of +Valerie de Cevennes. It records one faint quiver, and then a firmer +compression of the thin lips, when the Elvino appears; and the eyes of +the lounger fasten more intently, if possible, than before upon the +face of the Spanish beauty. + +Presently Elvino sings the grand burst of passionate reproach, in +which he upbraids Amina’s fancied falsehood. As the house applauds at +the close of the scene, Valerie’s bouquet falls at the feet of the +Amina. Elvino, taking it in his hand, presents it to the lady, and as +he does so, the lounger’s glass--which, more rapidly than the bouquet +has fallen, has turned to the stage--records a movement so quick as to +be almost a feat of leger-de-main. The great tenor has taken a note +from the bouquet. The lounger sees the triumphant glance towards the +box next the king’s, though it is rapid as lightning. He sees the tiny +morsel of glistening paper crumpled in the singer’s hand; and after one +last contemplative look at the proud brow and set lips of Valerie de +Cevennes, he lowers the glass. + +“My glass is well worth the fifteen guineas I paid for it,” he +whispers to himself. “That girl can command her eyes; they have not one +traitorous flash. But those thin lips cannot keep a secret from a man +with a decent amount of brains.” + +When the opera is over, the lounger of the stalls leaves his place by +the orchestra, and loiters in the winter night outside the stage-door. +Perhaps he is enamoured of some lovely _coryphée_--lovely in all +the gorgeousness of flake white and liquid rouge; and yet that can +scarcely be, or he would be still in the stalls, or hovering about the +side-scenes, for the _ballet_ is not over. Two or three carriages, +belonging to the principal singers, are waiting at the stage-door. +Presently a tall, stylish-looking man, in a loose overcoat, emerges; +a groom opens the door of a well-appointed little brougham, but the +gentleman says-- + +“No, Farée, you can go home. I shall walk.” + +“But, monsieur,” remonstrates the man, “monsieur is not aware that it +rains.” + +Monsieur says he is quite aware of the rain; but that he has an +umbrella, and prefers walking. So the brougham drives off with the +distressed Farée, who consoles himself at a café high up on the +boulevard, where he plays _écarté_ with a limp little pack of +cards, and drinks effervescing lemonade. + +The lounger of the stalls, standing in the shadow, hears this little +dialogue, and sees also, by the light of the carriage-lamps, that +the gentleman in the loose coat is no less a personage than the hero +of the opera. The lounger also seems to be indifferent to the rain, +and to have a fancy for walking; for when Elvino crosses the road +and turns into an opposite street, the lounger follows. It is a dark +night, with a little drizzling rain--a night by no means calculated to +tempt an elegantly-dressed young man to brave all the disagreeables +and perils of dirty pavements and overflowing gutters; but neither +Elvino nor the lounger seem to care for mud or rain, for they walk +at a rapid pace through several streets--the lounger always a good +way behind and always in the shadow. He has a light step, which wakes +no echo on the wet pavement; and the fashionable tenor has no idea +that he is followed. He walks through long narrow streets to the Rue +Rivoli, thence across one of the bridges. Presently he enters a very +aristocratic but retired street, in a lonely quarter of the city. The +distant roll of carriages and the tramp of a passing _gendarmes_ +are the only sounds that break the silence. There is not a creature +to be seen in the wide street but the two men. Elvino turns to look +about him, sees no one, and walks on till he comes to a mansion at the +corner, screened from the street by a high wall, with great gates and +a porter’s lodge. Detached from the house, and sheltered by an angle +of the wall, is a little pavilion, the windows of which look into the +courtyard or garden within. Close to this pavilion is a narrow low +door of carved oak, studded with great iron nails, and almost hidden +in the heavy masonry of the wall which frames it. The house in early +times has been a convent, and is now the property of the Marquis de +Cevennes. Elvino, with one more glance up and down the dimly-lighted +street, approaches this doorway, and stooping down to the keyhole +whistles softly three bars of a melody from Don Giovanni--_Là ci +darem la mano_. + +“So!” says the lounger, standing in the shadow of a house opposite, “we +are getting deeper into the mystery; the curtain is up, and the play is +going to begin.” + +As the clocks of Paris chime the half-hour after eleven the little door +turns on its hinges, and a faint light in the courtyard within falls +upon the figure of the fashionable tenor. This light comes from a lamp +in the hand of a pretty-looking, smartly-dressed girl, who has opened +the door. + +“She is not the woman I took her for, this Valerie,” says the +lounger, “or she would have opened that door herself. She makes her +waiting-maid her confidante--a false step, which proves her either +stupid or inexperienced. Not stupid; her face gives the lie to that. +Inexperienced then. So much the better.” + +As the spy meditates time, Elvino passes through the doorway, stooping +as he crosses the threshold, and the light disappears. + +“This is either a private marriage, or something worse,” mutters the +lounger. “Scarcely the last. Hers is the face of a woman capable of a +madness, but not of degradation--the face of a Phædra rather than a +Messalina. I have seen enough of the play for to-night.” + + + + + CHAPTER II. + + WORKING IN THE DARK. + + +EARLY the next morning a gentleman rings the bell of the porter’s lodge +belonging to the mansion of the Marquis de Cevennes, and on seeing the +porter addresses him thus-- + +“The lady’s-maid of Mademoiselle Valerie de Cevennes is perhaps visible +at this early hour?” + +The porter thinks not; it is very early, only eight o’clock; +Mademoiselle Finette never appears till nine. The toilette of her +mistress is generally concluded by twelve; after twelve, the porter +thinks monsieur may succeed in seeing Mademoiselle Finette--before +twelve, he thinks not. + +The stranger rewards the porter with a five-franc piece for this +valuable information; it is very valuable to the stranger, who is the +lounger of the last night, to discover that the name of the girl who +held the lamp is Finette. + +The lounger seems to have as little to do this morning as he had last +night; for he leans against the gateway, his cane in his hand, and a +half-smoked cigar in his mouth, looking up at the house of the marquis +with lazy indifference. + +The porter, conciliated by the five-franc piece, is inclined to gossip. + +“A fine old building,” says the lounger, still looking up at the house, +every window of which is shrouded by ponderous Venetian shutters. + +“Yes, a fine old building. It has been in the family of the marquis for +two hundred years, but was sadly mutilated in the first revolution; +monsieur may see the work of the cannon amongst the stone decorations.” + +“And that pavilion to the left, with the painted windows and Gothic +decorations--a most extraordinary little edifice,” says the lounger. + +Yes, monsieur has observed it? It is a great deal more modern than the +house; was built so lately as the reign of Louis the Fifteenth, by a +dissipated old marquis who gave supper-parties at which the guests +used to pour champagne out of the windows, and pelt the servants in +the courtyard with the empty bottles. It is certainly a curious little +place; but would monsieur believe something more curious? + +Monsieur declares that he is quite willing to believe anything the +porter may be good enough to tell him. He says this with a well-bred +indifference, as he lights a fresh cigar, which is quite aristocratic, +and which might stamp him a scion of the noble house of De Cevennes +itself. + +“Then,” replies the porter, “monsieur must know that Mademoiselle +Valerie, the proud, the high-born, the beautiful, has lately taken it +into her aristocratic head to occupy that pavilion, attended only by +her maid Finette, in preference to her magnificent apartments, which +monsieur may see yonder on the first floor of the mansion--a range of +ten windows. Does not monsieur think this very extraordinary?” + +Scarcely. Young ladies have strange whims. Monsieur never allows +himself to be surprised by a woman’s conduct, or he might pass his life +in a state of continual astonishment. + +The porter perfectly agrees with monsieur. The porter is a married +man, “and, monsieur----?” the porter ventures to ask with a shrug of +interrogation. + +Monsieur says he is not married yet. + +Something in monsieur’s manner emboldens the porter to say-- + +“But monsieur is perhaps contemplating a marriage?” + +Monsieur takes his cigar from his mouth, raises his blue eyes to the +level of the range of ten windows, indicated just now by the porter, +takes one long and meditative survey of the magnificent mansion +opposite him, and then replies, with aristocratic indifference-- + +“Perhaps. These Cevennes are immensely rich?” + +“Immensely! To the amount of millions.” The porter is prone to +extravagant gesticulation, but he cannot lift either his eyebrows or +his shoulders high enough to express the extent of the wealth of the De +Cevennes. + +The lounger takes out his pocket-book, writes a few lines, and tearing +the leaf out, gives it to the porter, saying-- + +“You will favour me, my good friend, by giving this to Mademoiselle +Finette at your earliest convenience. You were not always a married +man; and can therefore understand that it will be as well to deliver my +little note secretly.” + +Nothing can exceed the intense significance of the porter’s wink as he +takes charge of the note. The lounger nods an indifferent good-day, and +strolls away. + +“A marquis at the least,” says the porter. “O, Mademoiselle Finette, +you do not wear black satin gowns and a gold watch and chain for +nothing.” + +The lounger is ubiquitous, this winter’s day. At three o’clock in the +afternoon he is seated on a bench in the gardens of the Luxembourg, +smoking a cigar. He is dressed as before, in the last Parisian fashion; +but his greatcoat is a little open at the throat, displaying a +loosely-tied cravat of a peculiarly bright blue. + +A young person of the genus lady’s-maid, tripping daintily by, is +apparently attracted by this blue cravat, for she hovers about the +bench for a few moments and then seats herself at the extreme end of +it, as far as possible from the indifferent lounger, who has not once +noticed her by so much as one glance of his cold blue eyes. + +His cigar is nearly finished, so he waits till it is quite done; then, +throwing away the stump, he says, scarcely looking at his neighbour-- + +“Mademoiselle Finette, I presume?” + +“The same, monsieur.” + +“Then perhaps, mademoiselle, as you have condescended to favour me with +an interview, and as the business on which I have to address you is of +a strictly private nature, you will also condescend to come a little +nearer to me?” + +He says this without appearing to look at her, while he lights another +cigar. He is evidently a desperate smoker, and caresses his cigar, +looking at the red light and blue smoke almost as if it were his +familiar spirit, by whose aid he could work out wonderful calculations +in the black art, and without which he would perhaps be powerless. +Mademoiselle Finette looks at him with a great deal of surprise and +not a little indignation, but obeys him, nevertheless, and seats +herself close by his side. + +“I trust monsieur will believe that I should never have consented to +afford him this interview, had I not been assured--” + +“Monsieur will spare you, mademoiselle, the trouble of telling him why +you come here, since it is enough for him that you are here. I have +nothing to do, mademoiselle, either with your motives or your scruples. +I told you in my note that I required you to do me a service, for +which I could afford to pay you handsomely; that, on the other hand, +if you were unwilling to do me this service, I had it in my power to +cause your dismissal from your situation. Your coming here is a tacit +declaration of your willingness to serve me. So much and no more +preface is needed. And now to business.” + +He seems to sweep this curt preface away, as he waves off a cloud of +the blue smoke from his cigar with one motion of his small hand. The +lady’s-maid, thoroughly subdued by a manner which is quite new to her, +awaits his pleasure to speak, and stares at him with surprised black +eyes. + +He is not in a hurry. He seems to be consulting the blue smoke prior to +committing himself by any further remark. He takes his cigar from his +mouth, and looks into the bright red spot at the lighted end, as if it +were the lurid eye of his familiar demon. After consulting it for a few +seconds he says, with the same indifference with which he would make +some observation on the winter’s day-- + +“So, your mistress, Mademoiselle Valerie de Cevennes, has been so +imprudent as to contract a secret marriage with an opera-singer?” + +He has determined on hazarding his guess. If he is right, it is the +best and swiftest way of coming at the truth; if wrong, he is no worse +off than before. One glance at the girl’s face tells him he has struck +home, and has hit upon the entire truth. He is striking in the dark; +but he is a mathematician, and can calculate the effect of every blow. + +“Yes, a secret marriage, of which you were the witness.” This is his +second blow; and again the girl’s face tells him he has struck home. + +“Father Pérot has betrayed us, then, monsieur, for he alone could tell +you this,” said Finette. + +The lounger understands in a moment that Father Pérot is the priest who +performed the marriage. Another point in his game. He continues, still +stopping now and then to take a puff at his cigar, and speaking with an +air of complete indifference-- + +“You see, then, that this secret marriage, and the part you took with +regard to it, have, no matter whether through the worthy priest, Father +Pérot----” (he stops at this point to knock the ashes from his cigar, +and a sidelong glance at the girl’s face tells him that he is right +again, Father Pérot _is_ the priest)--“or some other channel, come +to my knowledge. Though a French woman, you may be acquainted with the +celebrated aphorism of one of our English neighbours, ‘Knowledge is +power.’ Very well, mademoiselle, how if I use my power?” + +“Monsieur means that he can deprive me of my present place, and prevent +my getting another.” As she said this, Mademoiselle Finette screwed +out of one of her black eyes a small bead of water, which was the best +thing she could produce in the way of a tear, but which, coming into +immediate contact with a sticky white compound called pearl-powder, +used by the lady’s-maid to enhance her personal charms, looked rather +more like a digestive pill than anything else. + +“But, on the other hand, I may not use my power; and, indeed, I should +deeply regret the painful necessity which would compel me to injure a +lady.” + +Mademoiselle Finette, encouraged by this speech, wiped away the +digestive pill. + +“Therefore, mademoiselle, the case resolves itself to this: serve me, +and I will reward you; refuse to do so, and I can injure you.” + +A cold glitter in the blue eyes converts the words into a threat, +without the aid of any extra emphasis from the voice. + +“Monsieur has only to command,” answers the lady’s-maid; “I am ready to +serve him.” + +“This Monsieur Elvino will be at the gate of the little pavilion +to-night----?” + +“At a quarter to twelve.” + +“Then _I_ will be there at half-past eleven. You will admit me +instead of him. That is all.” + +“But my mistress, monsieur: she will discover that I have betrayed her, +and she will kill me. You do not know Mademoiselle de Cevennes.” + +“Pardon me, I think I do know her. She need never learn that you have +betrayed her. Remember, I have discovered the appointed signal;--you +are deceived by my use of that signal, and you open the door to the +wrong man. For the rest I will shield you from all harm. Your mistress +is a glorious creature; but perhaps that high spirit may be taught to +bend.” + +“It must first be broken, monsieur,” says Mademoiselle Finette. + +“Perhaps,” answers the lounger, rising as he speaks. “Mademoiselle, +_au revoir_.” He drops five twinkling pieces of gold into her +hand, and strolls slowly away. + +The lady’s-maid watches the receding figure with a bewildered stare. +Well may Finette Léris be puzzled by this man: he might mystify wiser +heads than hers. As he walks with his lounging gait through the winter +sunset, many turn to look at his aristocratic figure, fair face, and +black hair. If the worst man who looked at him could have seen straight +through those clear blue eyes into his soul, would there have been +something revealed which might have shocked and revolted even this +worst man? Perhaps. Treachery is revolting, surely, to the worst of +us. The worst of us might shrink appalled from the contemplation of +those hideous secrets which are hidden in the plotting brain and the +unflinching heart of the cold-blooded traitor. + + + + + CHAPTER III. + + THE WRONG FOOTSTEP. + + +HALF-PAST eleven from the great booming voice of Notre Dame the +magnificent. Half-past eleven from every turret in the vast city of +Paris. The musical tones of the timepiece over the chimney in the +boudoir of the pavilion testify to the fact five minutes afterwards. +It is an elegant timepiece, surmounted by a group from the hand of a +fashionable sculptor, a group in which a golden Cupid has hushed a grim +bronze Saturn to sleep, and has hidden the old man’s hour-glass under +one of his lacquered wings--a pretty design enough, though the sand in +the glass will never move the slower, or wrinkles and gray hairs be +longer coming, because of the prettiness of that patrician timepiece; +for the minute-hand on the best dial-plate that all Paris can produce +is not surer in its course than that dark end which spares not the +brightest beginning, that weary awakening which awaits the fairest +dream. + +This little apartment in the pavilion belonging to the house of +the Marquis de Cevennes is furnished in the style of the Pompadour +days of elegance, luxury, and frivolity. Oval portraits of the +reigning beauties of that day are let into the panels of the walls, +and “Louis the Well-beloved” smiles an insipid Bourbon smile above +the mantelpiece. The pencil of Boucher has immortalized those +frail goddesses of the Versailles Olympus, and their coquettish +loveliness lights the room almost as if they were living creatures, +smiling unchangingly on every comer. The chimney-piece is of marble, +exquisitely carved with lotuses and water-nymphs. A wood fire burns +upon the gilded dogs which ornament the hearth. A priceless Persian +carpet covers the centre of the polished floor; and a golden Cupid, +suspended from the painted ceiling in an attitude which suggests such +a determination of blood to the head as must ultimately result in +apoplexy, holds a lamp of alabaster, which floods the room with a soft +light. + +Under this light the mistress of the apartment, Valerie de Cevennes, +looks gloriously handsome. She is seated in a low arm-chair by the +hearth--looking sometimes into the red blaze at her feet, with dreamy +eyes, whose profound gaze, though thoughtful, is not sorrowful. This +girl has taken a desperate step in marrying secretly the man she loves; +but she has no regret, for she _does_ love; and loss of position +seems so small a thing in the balance when weighed against this love, +which is as yet unacquainted with sorrow, that she almost forgets +she has lost it. Even while her eyes are fixed upon the wood fire +at her feet, you may see that she is listening; and when the clocks +have chimed the half-hour, she turns her head towards the door of the +apartment, and listens intently. In five minutes she hears something--a +faint sound in the distance, the sound of an outer door turning on +its hinges. She starts, and her eyes brighten; she glances at the +timepiece, and from the timepiece to the tiny watch at her side. + +“So soon!” she mutters; “he said a quarter to twelve. If my uncle had +been here! And he only left me at eleven o’clock!” + +She listens again; the sounds come nearer--two more doors open, and +then there are footsteps on the stairs. At the sound of these footsteps +she starts again, with a look of anxiety in her face. + +“Is he ill,” she says, “that he walks so slowly? Hark!” + +She turns pale and clasps her hands tightly upon her breast. + +“It is not his step!” + +She knows she is betrayed; and in that one moment she prepares herself +for the worst. She leans her hand upon the back of the chair from which +she has risen, and stands, with her thin lips firmly set, facing the +door. She may be facing her fate for aught she knows, but she is ready +to face anything. + +The door opens, and the lounger of the morning enters. He wears a coat +and hat of exactly the same shape and colour as those worn by the +fashionable tenor, and he resembles the tenor in build and height. An +easy thing, in the obscurity of the night, for the faithful Finette +to admit this stranger without discovering her mistake. One glance at +the face and attitude of Valerie de Cevennes tells him that she is not +unprepared for his appearance. This takes him off his guard. Has he, +too, been betrayed by the lady’s-maid? He never guesses that his light +step betrayed him to the listening ear which love has made so acute. He +sees that the young and beautiful girl is prepared to give him battle. +He is disappointed. He had counted upon her surprise and confusion, and +he feels that he has lost a point in his game. She does not speak, but +stands quietly waiting for him to address her, as she might were he an +ordinary visitor. + +“She is a more wonderful woman than I thought,” he says to himself, +“and the battle will be a sharp one. No matter! The victory will be so +much the sweeter.” + +He removes his hat, and the light falls full upon his pale fair face. +Something in that face, she cannot tell what, seems in a faint, dim +manner, familiar to her--she has seen some one like this man, but when, +or where, she cannot remember. + +“You are surprised, madame, to see me,” he says, for he feels that he +must begin the attack, and that he must not spare a single blow, for +he is to fight with one who can parry his thrusts and strike again. +“You are surprised. You command yourself admirably in repressing any +demonstration of surprise, but you are not the less surprised.” + +“I am certainly surprised, monsieur, at receiving any visitor at such +an hour.” She says this with perfect composure. + +“Scarcely, madame,” he looks at the timepiece; “for in five minutes +from this your husband will--or should--be here.” + +Her lips tighten, and her jaw grows rigid in spite of herself. The +secret is known, then--known to this stranger, who dares to intrude +himself upon her on the strength of this knowledge. + +“Monsieur,” she says, “people rarely insult Valerie de Cevennes +with impunity. You shall hear from my uncle to-morrow morning; for +to-night--” she lays her hand upon the mother-of-pearl handle of a +little bell; he stops her, saying, smilingly-- + +“Nay, madame, we are not playing a farce. You wish to show me the door? +You would ring that bell, which no one can answer but Finette, your +maid, since there is no one else in this charming little establishment. +I shall not be afraid of Finette, even if you are so imprudent as to +summon her; and I shall not leave you till you have done me the honour +of granting me an interview. For the rest, I am not talking to Valerie +de Cevennes, but to Valerie de Lancy; Valerie, the wife of Elvino; +Valerie, the lady of Don Giovanni.” + +De Lancy is the name of the fashionable tenor. This time the haughty +girl’s thin lips quiver, with a rapid, convulsive movement. What stings +her proud soul is the contempt with which this man speaks of her +husband. Is it such a disgrace, then, this marriage of wealth, rank, +and beauty, with genius and art? + +“Monsieur,” she says, “you have discovered my secret. I have been +betrayed either by my servant, or the priest who married me--no matter +which of them is the traitor. You, who, from your conduct of to-night, +are evidently an adventurer, a person to whom it would be utterly vain +to speak of honour, chivalry, and gentlemanly feeling--since they are +doubtless words of which you do not even know the meaning--you wish +to turn the possession of this secret to account. In other words, you +desire to be bought off. You know, then, what I can afford to pay you. +Be good enough to say how much will satisfy you, and I will appoint a +time and place at which you shall receive your earnings. You will be +so kind as to lose no time. It is on the stroke of twelve; in a moment +Monsieur De Lancy will be here. He may not be disposed to make so good +a bargain with you as I am. He might be tempted to throw you out of the +window.” + +She has said this with entire self-possession. She might be talking to +her _modiste_, so thoroughly indifferent is she in her high-bred +ease and freezing contempt for the man to whom she is speaking. As +she finishes she sinks quietly into her easy-chair. She takes up a +book from a little table near her, and begins to cut the leaves with a +jewelled-handled paper-knife. But the battle has only just begun, and +she does not yet know her opponent. + +He watches her for a moment; marks the steady hand with which she +slowly cuts leaf after leaf, without once notching the paper; and +then he deliberately seats himself opposite to her in the easy-chair +on the other side of the fireplace. She lifts her eyes from the book, +and looks him full in the face with an expression of supreme disdain; +but as she looks, he can see how eagerly she is also listening for her +husband’s step. He has a blow to strike which he knows will be a heavy +one. + +“Do not, madame,” he says, “distract yourself by listening for your +husband’s arrival. He will not be here to-night.” + +This is a terrible blow. She tries to speak, but her lips only move +inarticulately. + +“No, he will not be here. You do not suppose, madame, that when I +contemplated, nay, contrived and arranged an interview with so charming +a person as yourself, I could possibly be so deficient in foresight +as to allow that interview to be disturbed at the expiration of +one quarter of an hour? No; Monsieur Don Giovanni will not be here +to-night.” + +Again she tries to speak, but the words refuse to come. He continues, +as though he interpreted what she wants to say,-- + +“You will naturally ask what other engagement detains him from his +lovely wife’s society? Well, it is, as I think, a supper at the +_Trois Frères_. As there are ladies invited, the party will no +doubt break up early; and you will, I dare say, see Monsieur de Lancy +by four or five o’clock in the morning.” + +She tries to resume her employment with the paper-knife, but this time +she tears the leaves to pieces in her endeavours to cut them. Her +anguish and her womanhood get the better of her pride and her power of +endurance. She crumples the book in her clenched hands, and throws it +into the fire. Her visitor smiles. His blows are beginning to tell. + +For a few minutes there is silence. Presently he takes out his +cigar-case. + +“I need scarcely ask permission, madame. All these opera-singers smoke, +and no doubt you are indulgent to the weakness of our dear Elvino?” + +“Monsieur de Lancy is a gentleman, and would not presume to smoke in a +lady’s presence. Once more, monsieur, be good enough to say how much +money you require of me to ensure your silence?” + +“Nay, madame,” he replies, as he bends over the wood fire, and lights +his cigar by the blaze of the burning book, “there is no occasion +for such desperate haste. You are really surprisingly superior to +the ordinary weakness of your sex. Setting apart your courage, +self-endurance, and determination, which are positively wonderful, you +are so entirely deficient in curiosity.” + +She looks at him with a glance which seems to say she scorns to ask him +what he means by this. + +“You say your maid, Finette, or the good priest, Monsieur Pérot, must +have betrayed your confidence. Suppose it was from neither of those +persons I received my information?” + +“There is no other source, monsieur, from which you could obtain it.” + +“Nay, madame, reflect. Is there no other person whose vanity may +have prompted him to reveal this secret? Do you think it, madame, so +utterly improbable that Monsieur de Lancy himself may have been tempted +to boast over his wine of his conquest of the heiress of all the De +Cevennes?” + +“It is a base falsehood, monsieur, which you are uttering.” + +“Nay, madame, I make no assertion. I am only putting a case. Suppose +at a supper at the _Maison Dorée_, amongst his comrades of +the Opera and his admirers of the stalls--to say nothing of the +_coryphées_, who, somehow or other, contrive to find a place +at these _recherché_ little banquets--suppose our friend, Don +Giovanni, imprudently ventures some allusion to a lady of rank and +fortune whom his melodious voice or his dark eyes have captivated? This +little party is not, perhaps, satisfied with an allusion; it requires +facts; it is incredulous; it lays heavy odds that Elvino cannot name +the lady; and in the end the whole story is told, and the health of +Valerie de Cevennes is drunk in Clicquot’s finest brand of champagne. +Suppose this, madame, and you may, perhaps, guess whence I got my +information.” + +Throughout this speech Valerie has sat facing him, with her eyes fixed +in a strange and ghastly stare. Once she lifts her hand to her throat, +as if to save herself from choking; and when the schemer has finished +speaking she slides heavily from her chair, and falls on her knees upon +the Persian hearth-rug, with her small hands convulsively clasped about +her heart. But she is not insensible, and she never takes her eyes from +his face. She is a woman who neither weeps nor faints--she suffers. + +“I am here, madame,” the lounger continues--and now she listens to him +eagerly; “I am here for two purposes. To help myself before all things; +to help you afterwards, if I can. I have had to use a rough scalpel, +madame, but I may not be an unskilful physician. You love this tenor +singer very deeply; you must do so; since for his sake you were willing +to brave the contempt of that which you also love very much--the +world--the great world in which you move.” + +“I did love him, monsieur--O God! how deeply, how madly, how blindly! +Nay, it is not to such an eye as yours that I would reveal the secrets +of my heart and mind. Enough, I loved him! But for the man who could +degrade the name of the woman who had sacrificed so much for his +sake, and hold the sacrifice so lightly--for the man who could make +that woman’s name a jest among the companions of a tavern, Valerie de +Cevennes has but one sentiment, and that is--contempt.” + +“I admire your spirit, madame; but then, remember, the subject can +scarcely be so easily dismissed. A husband is not to be shaken off so +lightly; and is it likely that Monsieur de Lancy will readily resign +a marriage which, as a speculation, is so brilliantly advantageous? +Perhaps you do not know that it has been, ever since his _début_, +his design to sell his handsome face to the highest bidder; that he +has--pardon me, madame--been for two years on the look-out for an +heiress possessed of more gold than discrimination, whom a few pretty +namby-pamby speeches selected from the librettos of the operas he is +familiar with would captivate and subdue.” + +The haughty spirit is bent to the very dust. This girl, truth itself, +never for a moment questions the words which are breaking her heart. +There is something too painfully probable in this bitter humiliation. + +“Oh, what have I done,” she cries, “what have I done, that the golden +dream of my life should be broken by such an awakening as this?” + +“Madame, I have told you that I wish, if I can, to help you. I pretend +no disinterested or Utopian generosity. You are rich, and can afford +to pay me for my services. There are only three persons who, besides +yourself, were witnesses of or concerned in this marriage--Father +Pérot, Finette, and Monsieur de Lancy. The priest and the maid-servant +may be silenced; and for Don Giovanni--we will talk of him to-morrow. +Stay, has he any letters of yours in his possession?” + +“He returns my letters one by one as he receives them,” she mutters. + +“Good--it is so easy to retract what one has said; but so difficult to +deny one’s handwriting.” + +“The De Cevennes do not lie, monsieur!” + +“Do they not? What, madame, have you acted no lies, though you may +not have spoken them? Have you never lied with your face, when you +have worn a look of calm indifference, while the mental effort with +which you stopped the violent beating of your heart produced a dull +physical torture in your breast; when, in the crowded opera-house, +you heard _his_ step upon the stage? Wasted lies, madame; wasted +torture; for your idol was not worth them. Your god laughed at your +worship, because he was a false god, and the attributes for which you +worshipped him--truth, loyalty, and genius, such as man never before +possessed--were not his, but the offspring of your own imagination, +with which you invested him, because you were in love with his handsome +face. Bah! madame, after all, you were only the fool of a chiselled +profile and a melodious voice. You are not the first of your sex so +fooled; Heaven forbid you should be the last!” + +“You have shown me why I should hate this man; show me my revenge, +if you wish to serve me. My countrywomen do not forgive. O Gaston de +Lancy, to have been the slave of your every word; the blind idolater of +your every glance; to have given so much; and, as my reward, to reap +only your contempt!” + +There are no tears in her eyes as she says this in a hoarse voice. +Perhaps long years hence she may come to weep over this wild +infatuation--now, her despair is too bitter for tears. + +The lounger still preserves the charming indifference which stamps him +of her own class. He says, in reply to her entreaty,-- + +“I can lead you to your revenge, madame, if your noble Spanish blood +does not recoil from the ordeal. Dress yourself to-morrow night +in your servant’s clothes, wearing of course a thick veil; take a +hackney-coach, and at ten o’clock be at the entrance to the Bois de +Boulogne. I will join you there. You shall have your revenge, madame, +and I will show you how to turn that revenge (which is in itself an +expensive luxury) to practical account. In a few days you may perhaps +be able to say, ‘There is no such person as Gaston de Lancy: the +terrible delusion was only a dream; I have awoke, and I am free!’” + +She passes her trembling hand across her brow, and looks at the +speaker, as if she tried in vain to gather the meaning of his words. + +“At ten o’clock, at the entrance to the Bois de Boulogne? I will be +there,” she murmurs faintly. + +“Good! And now, madame, adieu! I fear I have fatigued you by this long +interview. Stay! You should know the name of the man to whom you allow +the honour of serving you.” + +He takes out his card-case, lays a card on the tiny table at her side, +bows low to her, and leaves her--leaves her stricken to the dust. He +looks back at her as he opens the door, and watches her for a moment, +with a smile upon his face. His blows have had their full effect. + +O Valerie, Valerie! loving so wildly, to be so degraded, humiliated, +deceived! Little wonder that you cry to-night. There is no light in the +sky--there is no glory in the world! Earth is weary, heaven is dark, +and death alone is the friend of the broken heart! + + + + + CHAPTER IV. + + OCULAR DEMONSTRATION. + + +INSCRIBED on the card which the lounger leaves on the table of +Mademoiselle de Cevennes, or Madame de Lancy, is the name of Raymond +Marolles. The lounger, then, is Raymond Marolles, and it is he whom we +must follow, on the morning after the stormy interview in the pavilion. + +He occupies a charming apartment in the Champs Élysées; small, +of course, as befitting a bachelor, but furnished in the best +taste. On entering his rooms there is one thing you could scarcely +fail to notice; and this is the surprising neatness, the almost +mathematical precision, with which everything is arranged. Books, +pictures, desks, pistols, small-swords, boxing-gloves, riding-whips, +canes, and guns--every object is disposed in an order quite unusual +in a bachelor’s apartment. But this habit of neatness is one of +the idiosyncrasies of Monsieur Marolles. It is to be seen in his +exquisitely-appointed dress; in his carefully-trimmed moustache; it is +to be heard even in the inflexions of his voice, which rise and fall +with rather monotonous though melodious regularity, and which are never +broken by anything so vulgar as anger or emotion. + +At ten o’clock this morning he is still seated at breakfast. He has +eaten nothing, but he is drinking his second cup of strong coffee, and +it is easy to see that he is thinking very deeply. + +“Yes,” he mutters, “I must find a way to convince her; she must be +thoroughly convinced before she will be induced to act. My first blows +have told so well, I must not fail in my masterstroke. But how to +convince her--words alone will not satisfy her long; there must be +ocular demonstration.” + +He finishes his cup of coffee, and sits playing with the teaspoon, +clinking it with a low musical sound against the china teacup. +Presently he hits it with one loud ringing stroke. That stroke is +a note of triumph. He has been working a problem and has found the +solution. He takes up his hat and hurries out of the house; but as +soon as he is out of doors he slackens his step, and resumes his usual +lounging gait. He crosses the Place de la Concorde, and makes his way +to the Boulevard, and only turns aside when he reaches the Italian +Opera House. It is to the stage-door he directs his steps. An old man, +the doorkeeper, is busy in the little dark hall, manufacturing a _pot +à feu_, and warming his hands at the same time at a tiny stove in +a corner. He is quite accustomed to the apparition of a stylish young +man; so he scarcely looks up when the shadow of Raymond Marolles +darkens the doorway. + +“Good morning, Monsieur Concierge,” says Raymond; “you are very busy, I +see.” + +“A little domestic avocation, that is all, monsieur, being a bachelor.” + +The doorkeeper is rather elderly, and somewhat snuffy for a bachelor; +but he is very fond of informing the visitors of the stage-door that +he has never sacrificed his liberty at the shrine of Hymen. He thinks, +perhaps, that they might scruple to give their messages to a married +man. + +“Not too busy, then, for a little conversation, my friend?” asks the +visitor, slipping a five-franc piece into the porter’s dingy hand. + +“Never too busy for that, monsieur;” and the porter abandons the _pot +à feu_ to its fate, and dusts with his coloured handkerchief a +knock-kneed-looking easy-chair, which he presents to monsieur. + +Monsieur is very condescending, and the doorkeeper is very +communicative. He gives monsieur a great deal of useful information +about the salaries of the principal dancers; the bouquets and diamond +bracelets thrown to them; the airs and graces indulged in by them; +and divers other interesting facts. Presently monsieur, who has been +graciously though rather languidly interested in all this, says--“Do +you happen to have amongst your supernumeraries or choruses, or any of +your insignificant people, one of those mimics so generally met with in +a theatre?” + +“Ah,” says the doorkeeper, chuckling, “I see monsieur knows a theatre. +We have indeed two or three mimics; but one above all--a chorus-singer, +a great man, who can strike off an imitation which is life itself; +a drunken, dissolute fellow, monsieur, or he would have taken to +principal characters and made himself a name. A fellow with a soul for +nothing but dominoes and vulgar wine-shops; but a wonderful mimic.” + +“Ah! and he imitates, I suppose, all your great people--your prima +donna, your basso, your tenor--” hazards Monsieur Raymond Marolles. + +“Yes, monsieur. You should hear him mimic this new tenor, this Monsieur +Gaston de Lancy, who has made such a sensation this season. He is not a +bad-looking fellow, pretty much the same height as De Lancy, and he can +assume his manner, voice, and walk, so completely that----” + +“Perhaps in a dark room you could scarcely tell one from the other, eh?” + +“Precisely, monsieur.” + +“I have rather a curiosity about these sort of people; and I should +like to see this man, if----” he hesitates, jingling some silver in his +pocket. + +“Nay, monsieur,” says the porter; “nothing more easy; this Moucée is +always here about this time. They call the chorus to rehearsal while +the great people are lounging over their breakfasts. We shall find him +either on the stage, or in one of the dressing-rooms playing dominoes. +This way, monsieur.” + +Raymond Marolles follows the doorkeeper down dark passages and up +innumerable flights of stairs; till, very high up, he stops at a low +door, on the other side of which there is evidently a rather noisy +party. This door the porter opens without ceremony, and he and Monsieur +Marolles enter a long low room, with bare white-washed walls, scrawled +over with charcoal caricatures of prima donnas and tenors, with +impossible noses and spindle legs. Seated at a deal table is a group of +young men, shabbily dressed, playing at dominoes, while others look on +and bet upon the game. They are all smoking tiny cigarettes which look +like damp curl-papers, and which last about two minutes each. + +“Pardon me, Monsieur Moucée,” says the porter, addressing one of the +domino players, a good-looking young man, with a pale dark face and +black hair--“pardon me that I disturb your pleasant game; but I bring a +gentleman who wishes to make your acquaintance.” + +The chorus-singer rises, gives a lingering look at a double-six he was +just going to play, and advances to where Monsieur Marolles is standing. + +“At monsieur’s service,” he says, with an unstudied but graceful bow. + +Raymond Marolles, with an ease of manner all his own passes his arm +through that of the young man, and leads him out into the passage. + +“I have heard, Monsieur Moucée, that you possess a talent for mimicry +which is of a very superior order. Are you willing to assist with this +talent in a little farce I am preparing for the amusement of a lady? If +so you will have a claim (which I shall not forget) on my gratitude and +on my purse.” + +This last word makes Paul Moucée prick up his ears. Poor fellow! his +last coin has gone for the half-ounce of tobacco he has just consumed. +He expresses himself only too happy to obey the commands of monsieur. + +Monsieur suggests that they shall repair to an adjoining _café_, +at which they can have half an hour’s quiet conversation. They do so; +and at the end of the half-hour, Monsieur Marolles parts with Paul +Moucée at the door of this _café_. As they separate Raymond looks +at his watch--“Half-past eleven; all goes better than I could have +even hoped. This man will do very well for our friend Elvino, and the +lady shall have ocular demonstration. Now for the rest of my work; and +to-night, my proud and beautiful heiress, for you.” + +As the clocks strike ten that night, a hackney-coach stops close to the +entrance of the Bois de Boulogne; and as the coachman checks his horse, +a gentleman emerges from the gloom, and goes up to the door of the +coach, which he opens before the driver can dismount. This gentleman is +Monsieur Raymond Marolles, and Valerie de Lancy is seated in the coach. + +“Punctual, madame!” he says. “Ah, in the smallest matters you are +superior to your sex. May I request you to step out and walk with me +for some little distance?” + +The lady, who is thickly veiled, only bows her head in reply; but she +is by his side in a moment. He gives the coachman some directions, and +the man drives off a few paces; he then offers his arm to Valerie. + +“Nay, monsieur,” she says, in a cold, hard voice, “I can follow you, or +I can walk by your side. I had rather not take your arm.” + +Perhaps it is as well for this man’s schemes that it is too dark for +his companion to see the smile that lifts his black moustache, or the +glitter in his blue eyes. He is something of a physiologist as well +as a mathematician, this man; and he can tell what she has suffered +since last night by the change in her voice alone. It has a dull and +monotonous sound, and the tone seems to have gone out of it for ever. +If the dead could speak, they might speak thus. + +“This way, then, madame,” he says. “My first object is to convince you +of the treachery of the man for whom you have sacrificed so much. Have +you strength to live through the discovery?” + +“I lived through last night. Come, monsieur, waste no more time +in words, or I shall think you are a charlatan. Let me hear from +_his_ lips that I have cause to hate him.” + +“Follow me, then, and softly.” + +He leads her into the wood. The trees are very young as yet, but all +is obscure to-night. There is not a star in the sky; the December +night is dark and cold. A slight fall of snow has whitened the ground, +and deadens the sound of footsteps. Raymond and Valerie might be two +shadows, as they glide amongst the trees. After they have walked about +a quarter of a mile, he catches her by the arm, and draws her hurriedly +into the shadow of a group of young pine-trees. “Now,” he says, “now +listen.” + +She hears a voice whose every tone she knows. At first there is a +rushing sound in her ears, as if all the blood were surging from her +heart up to her brain; but presently she hears distinctly; presently +too, her eyes grow somewhat accustomed to the gloom; and she sees a few +paces from her the dim outline of a tall figure, familiar to her. It is +Gaston de Lancy, who is standing with one arm round the slight waist of +a young girl, his head bending down with the graceful droop she knows +so well, as he looks in her face. + +Marolles’ voice whispers in her ear, “The girl is a dancer from one of +the minor theatres, whom he knew before he was a great man. Her name, +I think, is Rosette, or something like it. She loves him very much; +perhaps almost as much as you do, in spite of the quarterings on your +shield.” + +He feels the slender hand, which before disdained to lean upon his arm, +now clasp his wrist, and tighten, as if each taper finger were an iron +vice. + +“Listen,” he says again. “Listen to the drama, madame. I am the chorus!” + +It is the girl who is speaking. “But, Gaston, this marriage, this +marriage, which has almost broken my heart.” + +“Was a sacrifice to our love, my Rosette. For your sake alone would I +have made such a sacrifice. But this haughty lady’s wealth will make us +happy in a distant land. She little thinks, poor fool, for whose sake +I endure her patrician airs, her graces of the old _régime_, her +caprices, and her folly. Only be patient, Rosette, and trust me. The +day that is to unite us for ever is not far distant, believe me.” + +It is the voice of Gaston de Lancy. Who should better know those tones +than his wife? Who should better know them than she to whose proud +heart they strike death? + +The girl speaks again. “And you do not love this fine lady, Gaston? +Only tell me that you do not love her!” + +Again the familiar voice speaks. “Love her! Bah! We never love these +fine ladies who give us such tender glances from opera-boxes. We never +admire these great heiresses, who fall in love with a handsome face, +and have not enough modesty to keep the sentiment a secret; who think +they honour us by a marriage which they are ashamed to confess; and who +fancy we must needs be devoted to them, because, after their fashion, +they are in love with us.” + +“Have you heard enough?” asked Raymond Marolles. + +“Give me a pistol or a dagger!” she gasped, in a hoarse whisper; “let +me shoot him dead, or stab him to the heart, that I may go away and die +in peace!” + +“So,” muttered Raymond, “she has heard enough. Come, madame. Yet--stay, +one last look. You are sure that is Monsieur de Lancy?” + +The man and the girl are standing a few yards from them; his back is +turned to Valerie, but she would know him amongst a thousand by the +dark hair and the peculiar bend of the head. + +“Sure!” she answers. “Am I myself?” + +“Come, then; we have another place to visit to-night. You are +satisfied, are you not, madame, now that you have had ocular +demonstration?” + + + + + CHAPTER V. + + THE KING OF SPADES. + + +WHEN Monsieur Marolles offers his arm to lead Valerie de Cevennes back +to the coach, it is accepted passively enough. Little matter now what +new degradation she endures. Her pride can never fall lower than it has +fallen. Despised by the man she loved so tenderly, the world’s contempt +is nothing to her. + +In a few minutes they are both seated in the coach driving through the +Champs Élysées. + +“Are you taking me home?” she asks. + +“No, madame, we have another errand, as I told you.” + +“And that errand?” + +“I am going to take you where you will have your fortune told.” + +“_My_ fortune!” she exclaims, with a bitter laugh. + +“Bah! madame,” says her companion. “Let us understand each other. I +hope I have not to deal with a romantic and love-sick girl. I will +not gall your pride by recalling to your recollection in what a +contemptible position I have found you. I offer my services to rescue +you from that contemptible position; but I do so in the firm belief +that you are a woman of spirit, courage, and determination, and----” + +“And that I can pay you well,” she adds, scornfully. + +“And that you can pay me well. I am no Don Quixote, madame; nor have +I any great respect for that gentleman. Believe me, I intend that you +shall pay me well for my services, as you will learn by-and-by.” + +Again there is the cold glitter in the blue eyes, and the ominous smile +which a moustache does well to hide. + +“But,” he continues, “if you have a mind to break your heart for an +opera-singer’s handsome face, go and break it in your boudoir, madame, +with no better confidante than your lady’s-maid; for you are not worthy +of the services of Raymond Marolles.” + +“You rate your services very high, then, monsieur?” + +“Perhaps. Look you, madame: you despise me because I am an adventurer. +Had I been born in the purple--lord, even in my cradle, of wide lands +and a great name, you would respect me. Now, I respect myself because +I am an adventurer; because by the force alone of my own mind I have +risen from what I was, to be what I am. I will show you my cradle some +day. It had no tapestried coverlet or embroidered curtains, I can +assure you.” + +They are driving now through a dark street, in a neighbourhood utterly +unknown to the lady. + +“Where are you taking me?” she asks again, with something like fear in +her voice. + +“As I told you before, to have your fortune told. Nay, madame, unless +you trust me, I cannot serve you. Remember, it is to my interest to +serve you well: you can therefore have no cause for fear.” + +As he speaks they stop before a ponderous gateway in the blank wall +of a high dark-looking house. They are somewhere in the neighbourhood +of Notre Dame, for the grand old towers loom dimly in the darkness. +Monsieur Marolles gets out of the coach and rings a bell, at the +sound of which the porter opens the door. Raymond assists Valerie to +dismount, and leads her across a courtyard into a little hall, and up +a stone staircase to the fifth story of the house. At another time her +courage might have failed her in this strange house, at so late an +hour, with this man, of whom she knows nothing; but she is reckless +to-night. + +There is nothing very alarming in the aspect of the room into which +Raymond leads her. It is a cheerful little apartment lighted with +gas. There is a small stove, near a table, before which is seated a +gentlemanly-looking man, of some forty years of age. He has a very pale +face, a broad forehead, from which the hair is brushed away behind +the ears: he wears blue spectacles, which entirely conceal his eyes, +and in a manner shade his face. You cannot tell what he is thinking +of; for it is a peculiarity of this man that the mouth, which with +other people is generally the most expressive feature, has with him no +expression whatever. It is a thin, straight line, which opens and shuts +as he speaks, but which never curves into a smile, or contracts when he +frowns. + +He is deeply engaged, bending over a pack of cards spread out on the +green cloth which covers the table, as if he were playing _écarté_ +without an opponent, when Raymond opens the door; but he rises at the +sight of the lady, and bows low to her. He has the air of a student +rather than of a man of the world. + +“My good Blurosset,” says Raymond, “I have brought a lady to see you, +to whom I have been speaking very highly of your talents.” + +“With the pasteboard or the crucible?” asks the impassible mouth. + +“Both, my dear fellow; we shall want both your talents. Sit down, +madame; I must do the honours of the apartment, for my friend Laurent +Blurosset is too much a man of science to be a man of gallantry. Sit +down, madame; place yourself at this table--there, opposite Monsieur +Blurosset, and then to business.” + +This Raymond Marolles, of whom she knows absolutely nothing, has a +strange influence over Valerie; an influence against which she no +longer struggles. She obeys him passively, and seats herself before the +little green baize-covered table. + +The blue spectacles of Monsieur Laurent Blurosset look at her +attentively for two or three minutes. As for the eyes behind the +spectacles, she cannot even guess what might be revealed in their +light. The man seems to have a strange advantage in looking at every +one as from behind a screen. His own face, with hidden eyes and +inflexible mouth, is like a blank wall. + +“Now then, Blurosset, we will begin with the pasteboard. Madame +would like to have her fortune told. She knows of course that this +fortune-telling is mere charlatanism, but she wishes to see one of the +cleverest charlatans.” + +“Charlatanism! Charlatan! Well, it doesn’t matter. _I_ believe in +what I read here, because I find it true. The first time I find a false +meaning in these bits of pasteboard I shall throw them into that fire, +and never touch a card again. They’ve been the hobby of twenty years, +but you know I could do it, Englishman!” + +“Englishman!” exclaimed Valerie, looking up with astonishment. + +“Yes,” answered Raymond, laughing; “a surname which Monsieur Blurosset +has bestowed upon me, in ridicule of my politics, which happened once +to resemble those of our honest neighbour, John Bull.” + +Monsieur Blurosset nods an assent to Raymond’s assertion, as he takes +the cards in his thin yellow-white hands and begins shuffling them. He +does this with a skill peculiar to himself, and you could almost guess +in watching him that these little pieces of pasteboard have been his +companions for twenty years. Presently he arranges them in groups of +threes, fives, sevens, and nines, on the green baize, reserving a few +cards in his hand; then the blue spectacles are lifted and contemplate +Valerie for two or three seconds. + +“Your friend is the queen of spades,” he says, turning to Raymond. + +“Decidedly,” replies Monsieur Marolles. “How the insipid diamond +beauties fade beside this gorgeous loveliness of the south!” + +Valerie does not hear the compliment, which at another time she would +have resented as an insult. She is absorbed in watching the groups of +cards over which the blue spectacles are so intently bent. + +Monsieur Blurosset seems to be working some abstruse calculations +with these groups of cards, assisted by those he has in his hand. The +spectacles wander from the threes to the nines; from the sevens to +the fives; back again; across again; from five to nine, from three to +seven; from five to three, from seven to nine. Presently he says-- + +“The king of spades is everywhere here.” He does not look up as he +speaks--never raising the spectacles from the cards. His manner of +speaking is so passionless and mechanical, that he might almost be some +calculating automaton. + +“The king of spades,” says Raymond, “is a dark and handsome young man.” + +“Yes,” says Blurosset, “he’s everywhere beside the queen of spades.” + +Valerie in spite of herself is absorbed by this man’s words. She never +takes her eyes from the spectacles and the thin pale lips of the +fortune-teller. + +“I do not like his influence. It is bad. This king of spades is +dragging the queen down, down into the very mire.” Valerie’s cheek can +scarcely grow whiter than it has been ever since the revelation of the +Bois de Boulogne, but she cannot repress a shudder at these words. + +“There is a falsehood,” continues Monsieur Blurosset; “and there is a +fair woman here.” + +“A fair woman! That girl we saw to-night is fair,” whispers Raymond. +“No doubt Monsieur Don Giovanni admires blondes, having himself the +southern beauty.” + +“The fair woman is always with the king of spades,” says the +fortune-teller. “There is here no falsehood--nothing but devotion. The +king of spades can be true; he is true to this diamond woman; but for +the queen of spades he has nothing but treachery.” + +“Is there anything more on the cards?” asks Raymond. + +“Yes! A priest--a marriage--money. Ah! this king of spades imagines +that he is within reach of a great fortune.” + +“Does he deceive himself?” + +“Yes! Now the treachery changes sides. The queen of spades is in it +now----But stay--the traitor, the real traitor is here; this fair +man--the knave of diamonds----” + +Raymond Marolles lays his white hand suddenly upon the card to which +Blurosset is pointing, and says, hurriedly,-- + +“Bah! You have told us all about yesterday; now tell us of to-morrow.” +And then he adds, in a whisper, in the ear of Monsieur Blurosset,-- + +“Fool! have you forgotten your lesson?” + +“_They_ will speak the truth,” mutters the fortune-teller. “I was +carried away by them. I will be more careful.” + +This whispered dialogue is unheard by Valerie, who sits immovable, +awaiting the sentence of the oracle, as if the monotonous voice of +Monsieur Blurosset were the voice of Nemesis. + +“Now then for the future,” says Raymond. “It is possible to tell what +_has_ happened. We wish to pass the confines of the possible: tell +us, then, what is _going_ to happen.” + +Monsieur Blurosset collects the cards, shuffles them, and rearranges +them in groups, as before. Again the blue spectacles wander. From three +to nine; from nine to seven; from seven to five; Valerie following them +with bright and hollow eyes. Presently the fortune-teller says, in his +old mechanical way,-- + +“The queen of spades is very proud.” + +“Yes,” mutters Raymond in Valerie’s car. “Heaven help the king who +injures such a queen!” + +She does not take her eyes from the blue spectacles of Monsieur +Blurosset; but there is a tightening of her determined mouth which +seems like an assent to this remark. + +“She can hate as well as love. The king of spades is in danger,” says +the fortune-teller. + +There is, for a few minutes, dead silence, while the blue spectacles +shift from group to group of cards; Valerie intently watching them, +Raymond intently watching her. + +This time there seems to be something difficult in the calculation of +the numbers. The spectacles shift hither and thither, and the thin +white lips move silently and rapidly, from seven to nine, and back +again to seven. + +“There is something on the cards that puzzles you,” says Raymond, +breaking the deathly silence. “What is it?” + +“A death!” answers the passionless voice of Monsieur Blurosset. “A +violent death, which bears no outward sign of violence. I said, did I +not, that the king of spades was in danger?” + +“You did.” + +From three to five, from five to nine, from nine to seven, from seven +to nine: the groups of cards form a circle: three times round the +circle, as the sun goes; back again, and three times round the circle +in a contrary direction: across the circle from three to seven, from +seven to five, from five to nine, and the blue spectacles come to a +dead stop at nine. + +“Before twelve o’clock to-morrow night the king of spades will be +dead!” says the monotonous voice of Monsieur Blurosset. The voices of +the clocks of Paris seem to take up Monsieur Blurosset’s voice as they +strike the hour of midnight. + +Twenty-four hours for the king of spades! + +Monsieur Blurosset gathers up his cards and drops them into his pocket. +Malicious people say that he sleeps with them under his pillow; that +he plays _écarté_ by himself in his sleep; and that he has played +_piquet_ with a very tall dark gentleman, whom the porter never +let either in or out, and who left a sulphureous and suffocating +atmosphere behind him in Monsieur Blurosset’s little apartment. + +“Good!” says Monsieur Raymond Marolles. “So much for the pasteboard. +Now for the crucible.” + +For the first time since the discovery of the treachery of her husband +Valerie de Lancy smiles. She has a beautiful smile, which curves the +delicate lips without distorting them, and which brightens in her large +dark eyes with a glorious fire of the sunny south. But for all that, +Heaven save the man who has injured her from the light of such a smile +as hers of to-night. + +“You want my assistance in some matters of chemistry?” asks Blurosset. + +“Yes! I forgot to tell you, madame, that, my friend Laurent +Blurosset--though he chooses to hide himself in one of the most +obscure streets of Paris--is perhaps one of the greatest men in this +mighty city. He is a chemist who will one day work a revolution in +the chemical science; but he is a fanatic, madame, or, let me rather +say, he is a lover, and his crucible is his mistress. This blind +devotion to a science is surely only another form of the world’s great +madness--love! Who knows what bright eyes a problem in Euclid may have +replaced? Who can tell what fair hair may not have been forgotten in +the search after a Greek root?” + +Valerie shivers. Heaven help that shattered heart! Every word that +touches on the master-passion of her life is a wound that pierces it to +the core. + +“You do not smoke, Blurosset. Foolish man you do not know how to live. +Pardon, madame.” He lights his cigar at the green-shaded gas-lamp, +seats himself close to the stove, and smokes for a few minutes in +silence. + +Valerie, still seated before the little table, watches him with fixed +eyes, waiting for him to speak. + +In the utter shipwreck of her every hope this adventurer is the only +anchor to which she can cling. Presently he says, in his most easy and +indifferent manner,-- + +“It was the fashion at the close of the fifteenth and throughout +the sixteenth century for the ladies of Italy to acquire a certain +knowledge of some of the principles of chemistry. Of course, at the +head of these ladies we must place Lucretia Borgia.” + +Monsieur Blurosset nods an assent. Valerie looks from Raymond to the +blue spectacles; but the face of the chemist testifies no shade of +surprise at the singularity of Raymond’s observation. + +“Then,” continued Monsieur Marolles, “if a lady was deeply injured +or cruelly insulted by the man she loved; if her pride was trampled +in the dust, or her name and her weakness held up to ridicule and +contempt--then she knew how to avenge herself and to defy the world. A +tender pressure of the traitor’s hand; a flower or a ribbon given as a +pledge of love; the leaves of a book hastily turned over with the tips +of moistened fingers--people had such vulgar habits in those days--and +behold the gentleman died, and no one was any the wiser but the worms, +with whose constitutions _Aqua Tofana_ at second-hand may possibly +have disagreed.” + +“Vultures have died from the effects of poisoned carrion,” muttered +Monsieur Blurosset. + +“But in this degenerate age,” continued Raymond, “what can our Parisian +ladies do when they have reason to be revenged on a traitor? The poor +blunderers can only give him half a pint of laudanum, or an ounce or so +of arsenic, and run the risk of detection half an hour after his death! +I think that time is a circle, and that we retreat as we advance, in +spite of our talk of progress.” + +His horrible words, thrice horrible when contrasted with the coolness +of his easy manner, freeze Valerie to the very heart; but she does not +make one effort to interrupt him. + +“Now, my good Blurosset,” he resumes, “what I want of you is this. +Something which will change a glass of wine into a death-warrant, +but which will defy the scrutiny of a college of physicians. This +lady wishes to take a lesson in chemistry. She will, of course, only +experimentalise on rabbits, and she is so tender-hearted that, as you +see, she shudders even at the thought of that little cruelty. For the +rest, to repay you for your trouble, if you will give her pen and ink, +she will write you an order on her banker for five thousand francs.” + +Monsieur Blurosset appears no more surprised at this request than if +he had been asked for a glass of water. He goes to a cabinet, which he +opens, and after a little search selects a small tin box, from which +he takes a few grains of white powder, which he screws carelessly +in a scrap of newspaper. He is so much accustomed to handling these +compounds that he treats them with very small ceremony. + +“It is a slow poison,” he says. “For a full-grown rabbit use the eighth +part of what you have there; the whole of it would poison a man; but +death in either case would not be immediate. The operation of the +poison occupies some hours before it terminates fatally.” + +“Madame will use it with discretion,” says Raymond; “do not fear.” + +Monsieur Blurosset holds out the little packet as if expecting Valerie +to take it; she recoils with a ghastly face, and shudders as she looks +from the chemist to Raymond Marolles. + +“In this degenerate age,” says Raymond, looking her steadily in the +face, “our women cannot redress their own wrongs, however deadly those +wrongs may be; they must have fathers, brothers, or uncles to fight for +them, and the world to witness the struggle. Bah! There is not a woman +in France who is any better than a sentimental schoolgirl.” + +Valerie stretches out her small hand to receive the packet. + +“Give me the pen, monsieur,” says she; and the chemist presents her +a half-sheet of paper, on which she writes hurriedly an order on her +bankers, which she signs in full with her maiden name. + +Monsieur Blurosset looked over the paper as she wrote. + +“Valerie de Cevennes!” he exclaimed. “I did not know I was honoured by +so aristocratic a visitor.” + +Valerie put her hand to her head as if bewildered. “My name!” she +muttered, “I forgot, I forgot.” + +“What do you fear, madame?” asked Raymond, with a smile. “Are you not +among friends?” + +“For pity’s sake, monsieur,” she said, “give me your arm, and take me +back to the carriage! I shall drop down dead if I stay longer in this +room.” + +The blue spectacles contemplated her gravely for a moment. Monsieur +Blurosset laid one cold hand upon her pulse, and with the other took a +little bottle from the cabinet, out of which he gave his visitor a few +drops of a transparent liquid. + +“She will do now,” he said to Raymond, “till you get her home; then +see that she takes this,” he added, handing Monsieur Marolles another +phial; “it is an opiate which will procure her six hours’ sleep. +Without that she would go mad.” + +Raymond led Valerie from the room; but, once outside, her head fell +heavily on his shoulder, and he was obliged to carry her down the steep +stairs. + +“I think,” he muttered to himself as he went out into the courtyard +with his unconscious burden, “I think we have sealed the doom of the +king of spades!” + + + + + CHAPTER VI. + + A GLASS OF WINE. + + +UPON a little table in the boudoir of the pavilion lay a letter. It +was the first thing Valerie de Lancy beheld on entering the room, with +Raymond Marolles by her side, half an hour after she had left the +apartment of Monsieur Blurosset. This letter was in the handwriting of +her husband, and it bore the postmark of Rouen. Valerie’s face told her +companion whom the letter came from before she took it in her hand. + +“Read it,” he said, coolly. “It contains his excuses, no doubt. Let us +see what pretty story he has invented. In his early professional career +his companions surnamed him Baron Munchausen.” + +Valerie’s hand shook as she broke the seal; but she read the letter +carefully through, and then turning to Raymond she said-- + +“You are right; his excuse is excellent, only a little too transparent: +listen. + +“‘The reason of my absence from Paris’--(absence from Paris, and +to-night in the Bois de Boulogne)--‘is most extraordinary. At the +conclusion of the opera last night, I was summoned to the stage-door, +where I found a messenger waiting for me, who told me he had come +post-haste from Rouen, where my mother was lying dangerously ill, and +to implore me, if I wished to see her before her death, to start for +that place immediately. Even my love for you, which you well know, +Valerie, is the absorbing passion of my life, was forgotten in such a +moment. I had no means of communicating with you without endangering +our secret. Imagine, then, my surprise on my arrival here, to find that +my mother is in perfect health, and had of course sent no messenger +to me. I fear in this mystery some conspiracy which threatens the +safety of our secret. I shall be in Paris to-night, but too late to see +you. To-morrow, at dusk, I shall be at the dear little pavilion, once +more to be blest by a smile from the only eyes I love.--GASTON DE +LANCY.’” + +“Rather a blundering epistle,” muttered Raymond. “I should really have +given him credit for something better. You will receive him to-morrow +evening, madame?” + +She knew so well the purport of this question that her hand almost +involuntarily tightened on the little packet given her by Monsieur +Blurosset, which she had held all this time, but she did not answer him. + +“You will receive him to-morrow; or by to-morrow night all Paris will +know of this romantic but rather ridiculous marriage, it will be in all +the newspapers--caricatured in all the print-shops; Charivari will have +a word or two about it, and little boys will cry it in the streets, a +full, true, and particular account for only one sous. But then, as I +said before, you are superior to your sex, and perhaps you will not +mind this kind of thing.” + +“I shall see him to-morrow evening at dusk,” she said, in a hoarse +whisper not pleasant to hear; “and I shall never see him again after +to-morrow.” + +“Once more, then, good night,” says Raymond. “But stay, Monsieur begs +you will take this opiate. Nay,” he muttered with a laugh as she looked +at him strangely, “you may be perfectly assured of its harmlessness. +Remember, I have not been paid yet.” + +He bowed, and left the room. She did not lift her eyes to look at +him as he bade her adieu. Those hollow tearless eyes were fixed on +the letter she held in her left hand. She was thinking of the first +time she saw this handwriting, when every letter seemed a character +inscribed in fire, because _his_ hand had shaped it; when the +tiniest scrap of paper covered with the most ordinary words was a +precious talisman, a jewel of more price than the diamonds of all the +Cevennes. + + +The short winter’s day died out, and through the dusk a young man, in a +thick greatcoat, walked rapidly along the broad quiet street in which +the pavilion stood. Once or twice he looked round to assure himself +that he was unobserved. He tried the handle of the little wooden door, +found it unfastened, opened it softly, and went in. In a few minutes he +was in the boudoir, and by the side of Valerie. The girl’s proud face +was paler than when he had last seen it; and when he tenderly asked the +reason of this change, she said,-- + +“I have been anxious about you, Gaston. You can scarcely wonder.” + +“The voice too, even your voice is changed,” he said anxiously. “Stay, +surely I am the victim of no juggling snare. It is--it is Valerie.” + +The little boudoir was only lighted by the wood fire burning on the low +hearth. He drew her towards the blaze, and looked her full in the face. + +“You would scarcely believe me,” he said; “but for the moment I half +doubted if it were really you. The false alarm, the hurried journey, +one thing and another have upset me so completely, that you seemed +changed--altered; I can scarcely tell you how, but altered very much.” + +She seated herself in the easy-chair by the hearth. There was an +embroidered velvet footstool at her feet, and he placed himself on +this, and sat looking up in her face. She laid her slender hands on +his dark hair, and looked straight into his eyes. Who shall read her +thoughts at this moment? She had learnt to despise him, but she had +never ceased to love him. She had cause to hate him; but she could +scarcely have told whether the bitter anguish which rent her heart were +nearer akin to love or hate. + +“Pshaw, Gaston!” she exclaimed, “you are full of silly fancies +to-night. And I, you see, do not offer to reproach you once for the +uneasiness you have caused me. See how readily I accept your excuse for +your absence, and never breathe one doubt of its truth. Now, were I a +jealous or suspicious woman, I might have a hundred doubts. I might +think you did not love me, and fancy that your absence was a voluntary +one. I might even be so foolish as to picture you with another whom you +loved better than me.” + +“Valerie!” he said, reproachfully, raising her small hand to his lips. + +“Nay,” she cried, with a light laugh, “this might be the thought of a +jealous woman. But could I think so of you, Gaston?” + +“Hark!” he said, starting and rising hastily; “did you not hear +something?” + +“What?” + +“A rustling sound by that door--the door of your dressing-room. Finette +is not there, is she? I left her in the anteroom below.” + +“No, no, Gaston; there is no one there; this is another of your silly +fancies.” + +He glanced uneasily towards the door, but reseated himself at her feet, +and looked once more upward to the proudly beautiful face. Valerie did +not look at her companion, but at the fire. Her dark eyes were fixed +upon the blaze, and she seemed almost unconscious of Gaston de Lancy’s +presence. What did she see in the red light? Her shipwrecked soul? The +ruins of her hopes? The ghost of her dead happiness? The image of a +long and dreary future, in which the love on whose foundation she had +built a bright and peaceful life to come could have no part? What did +she see? A warning arm stretched out to save her from the commission +of a dreadful deed, which, once committed, must shut her out from all +earthly sympathy, though not perhaps from heavenly forgiveness; or +a stern finger pointing to the dark end to which she hastens with a +purpose in her heart so strange and fearful to her she scarcely can +believe it is her own, or that she is herself? + +With her left hand still upon the dark hair--which even now she could +not touch without a tenderness, that, having no part in her nature of +to-day, seemed like some relic of the wreck of the past--she stretched +out her right arm towards a table near her, on which there were some +decanters and glasses that clashed with a silvery sound under her touch. + +“I must try and cure you of your fancies, Gaston. My physician insists +on my taking every day at luncheon a glass of that old Madeira of which +my uncle is so fond. They have not removed the wine--you shall take +some; pour it out yourself. See, here is the decanter. I will hold the +glass for you.” + +She held the antique diamond-cut glass with a steady hand while Gaston +poured the wine into it. The light from the wood fire flickered, and he +spilt some of the Madeira over her dress. They both laughed at this, +and her laugh rang out the clearer of the two. + +There was a third person who laughed; but his was a silent laugh. This +third person was Monsieur Marolles, who stood within the half-open door +that led into Valerie’s dressing-room. + +“So,” he says to himself, “this is even better than I had hoped. I +feared his handsome face would shake her resolution. The light in those +dark eyes is very beautiful, no doubt, but it has not long to burn.” + +As the firelight flashed upon the glass, Gaston held it for a moment +between his eyes and the blaze. + +“Your uncle’s wine is not very clear,” he said; “but I would drink the +vilest vinegar from the worst tavern in Paris, if you poured it out for +me, Valerie.” + +As he emptied the glass the little timepiece struck six. + +“I must go, Valerie. I play Gennaro in Lucretia Borgia, and the King is +to be at the theatre to-night. You will come? I shall not sing well if +you are not there.” + +“Yes, yes, Gaston.” She laid her hand upon her head as she spoke. + +“Are you ill?” he asked, anxiously. + +“No, no, it is nothing. Go, Gaston; you must not keep his Majesty +waiting,” she said. + +I wonder whether as she spoke there rose the image in her mind of a +King who reigns in undisputed power over the earth’s wide face; whose +throne no revolution ever shook; whose edict no creature ever yet set +aside, and to whom all terrible things give place, owning in him the +King of Terrors! + +The young man took his wife in his arms and pressed his lips to her +forehead. It was damp with a deadly cold perspiration. + +“I am sure you are ill, Valerie,” he said. + +She shivered violently, but pushing him towards the door, said, “No, +no, Gaston; go, I implore you; you will be late; at the theatre you +will see me. Till then, adieu.” + +He was gone. She closed the door upon him rapidly, and with one long +shudder fell to the ground, striking her head against the gilded +moulding of the door. Monsieur Marolles emerged from the shadow, and +lifting her from the floor, placed her in the chair by the hearth. Her +head fell heavily back upon the velvet cushions, but her large black +eyes were open. I have said before, this woman was not subject to +fainting-fits. + +She caught Raymond’s hand in hers with a convulsive grasp. + +“Madame,” he said, “you have shown yourself indeed a daughter of the +haughty line of the De Cevennes. You have avenged yourself most nobly.” + +The large black eyes did not look at him. They were fixed on vacancy. +Vacancy? No! there could be no such thing as vacancy for this woman. +Henceforth for her the whole earth must be filled with one hideous +phantom. + +There were two wine-glasses on the table which stood a little way +behind the low chair in which Valerie was seated--very beautiful +glasses, antique, exquisitely cut, and emblazoned with the arms of +the De Cevennes. In one of those glasses, the one from which Gaston +de Lancy had drunk, there remained a few drops of wine, and a little +white sediment. Valerie did not see Raymond, as with a stealthy hand +he removed this glass from the table, and put it in the pocket of his +greatcoat. + +He looked once more at her as she sat with rigid mouth and staring +eyes, and then he said, as he moved towards the door,-- + +“I shall see you at the opera, madame! I shall be in the stalls. You +will be, with more than your wonted brilliancy and beauty, the centre +of observation in the box next to the King’s. Remember, that until +to-night is over, your play will not be played out. _Au revoir_, +madame. To-morrow I shall say _mademoiselle_! For to-morrow the +secret marriage of Valerie de Cevennes with an opera-singer will only +be a foolish memory of the past.” + + + + + CHAPTER VII. + + THE LAST ACT OF LUCRETIA BORGIA. + + +TWO hours after this interview in the pavilion Raymond Marolles is +seated in his old place in the front row of the stalls. Several times +during the prologue and the first act of the opera his glass seeks the +box next to that of the King, always to find it empty. But after the +curtain has fallen on the _finale_ to the first act, the quiet +watcher raises his glass once more, and sees Valerie enter, leaning on +her uncle’s arm. Her dark beauty loses nothing by its unusual pallor, +and her eyes to-night have a brilliancy which, to the admiring crowd, +who know so little and so little care to know the secrets of her proud +soul, is very beautiful. She wears a high dress of dark green velvet, +fastened at the throat with one small diamond ornament, which trembles +and emits bright scintillations of rainbow light. This sombre dress, +her deadly pallor, and the strange fire in her eyes, give to her beauty +of to-night a certain peculiarity which renders her more than usually +the observed of all observers. + +She seats herself directly facing the stage, laying down her costly +bouquet, which is one of pure white, being composed entirely of +orange-flowers, snowdrops, and jasmine, a mixture of winter, summer, +and hot-house blossoms for which her florist knows how to charge her. +She veils the intensity which is the distinctive character of her face +with a weary listless glance to-night. She does not once look round the +house. She has no need to look, for it seems as if without looking she +can see the pale face of Monsieur Marolles, who lounges with his back +to the orchestra, and his opera-glass in his hand. + +The Marquis de Cevennes glances at the programme of the opera, and +throws it away from him with a dissatisfied air. + +“That abominable poisoning woman!” he says; “when will the Parisians be +tired of horrors?” + +His niece raises her eyebrows slightly, but does not lift her eyelids +as she says--“Ah, when, indeed!” + +“I don’t like these subjects,” continued the marquis. “Even the +handling of a Victor Hugo cannot make them otherwise than repulsive: +and then again, there is something to be said on the score of their +evil tendency. They set a dangerous example. Lucretia Borgia, in black +velvet, avenging an insult according to the rules of high art and to +the music of Donizetti is very charming, no doubt; but we don’t want +our wives and daughters to learn how they may poison us without fear +of detection. What do you say, Rinval?” he asked, turning to a young +officer who had just entered the box. “Do you think I am right?” + +“Entirely, my dear marquis. The representation of such a hideous +subject is a sin against beauty and innocence,” he said, bowing to +Valerie. “And, though the music is very exquisite----” + +“Yes,” said Valerie, “my uncle cannot help admiring the music. How have +they been singing to-night?” + +“Why, strange to say, for once De Lancy has disappointed his admirers. +His Gennaro is a very weak performance.” + +“Indeed!” She takes her bouquet in her hand and plays with the drooping +blossom of a snowdrop. “A weak performance? You surprise me really!” +She might be speaking of the flowers she holds, from the perfect +indifference of her tone. + +“They say he is ill,” continues Monsieur Rinval. “He almost broke down +in the ‘Pescator ignobile.’ But the curtain has risen--we shall have +the poison scene soon, and you can judge for yourself.” + +She laughs. “Nay,” she says, “I have never been so enthusiastic an +admirer of this young man as you are, Monsieur Rinval. I should not +think the world had come to an end if he happened to sing a false note.” + + +The young Parisian bent over her chair, admiring her grace and +beauty--admiring, perhaps, more than all, the haughty indifference with +which she spoke of the opera-singer, as if he were something too far +removed from her sphere for her to be in earnest about him even for one +moment. Might he not have wondered even more, if he had admired her +less, could he have known that as she looked up at him with a radiant +face, she could not even see him standing close beside her; that to her +clouded sight the opera-house was only a confusion of waving lights and +burning eyes; and that, in the midst of a chaos of blood and fire, she +saw the vision of her lover and her husband dying by the hand that had +caressed him? + +“Now for the banquet scene,” exclaimed Monsieur Rinval. “Ah! there is +Gennaro. Is he not gloriously handsome in ruby velvet and gold? That +clubbed Venetian wig becomes him. It is a wig, I suppose.” + +“Oh, no doubt. That sort of people owe half their beauty to wigs, and +white and red paint, do they not?” she asked, contemptuously; and even +as she spoke she was thinking of the dark hair which her white fingers +had smoothed away from the broad brow so often, in that time which, +gone by a few short days, seemed centuries ago to her. She had suffered +the anguish of a lifetime in losing the bright dream of her life. + +“See,” said Monsieur Rinval, “Gennaro has the poisoned goblet in his +hand. He is acting very badly. He is supporting himself with one hand +on the back of that chair, though he has not yet drunk the fatal +draught.” + +De Lancy was indeed leaning on an antique stage-chair for support. +Once he passed his hand across his forehead, as if to collect his +scattered senses, but he drank the wine, and went on with the music. +Presently, however, every performer in the orchestra looked up as if +thunderstruck. He had left off singing in the middle of a concerted +piece; but the Maffeo Orsini took up the passage, and the opera +proceeded. + +“He is either ill, or he does not know the music,” said Monsieur +Rinval. “If the last, it is really shameful; and he presumes on the +indulgence of the public.” + +“It is always the case with these favourites, is it not?” asked Valerie. + +At this moment the centre of the stage was thrown open. There entered +first a procession of black and shrouded monks singing a dirge. Next, +pale, haughty, and vengeful, the terrible Lucretia burst upon the scene. + +Scornful and triumphant she told the companions of Gennaro that +their doom was sealed, pointing to where, in the ghastly background, +were ranged five coffins, waiting for their destined occupants. The +audience, riveted by the scene, awaited that thrilling question of +Gennaro, “Then, madame, where is the sixth?” and as De Lancy emerged +from behind his comrades every eye was fixed upon him. + +He advanced towards Lucretia, tried to sing, but his voice broke on +the first note; he caught with his hand convulsively at his throat, +staggered a pace or two forward, and then fell heavily to the floor. +There was immediate consternation and confusion on the stage; chorus +and singers crowded round him; one of the singers knelt down by his +side, and raised his head. As he did so, the curtain fell suddenly. + +“I was certain he was ill,” said Monsieur Rinval, “I fear it must be +apoplexy.” + +“It is rather an uncharitable suggestion,” said the marquis; “but do +you not think it just possible that the young man may be tipsy?” + +There was a great buzz of surprise amongst the audience, and in +about three minutes one of the performers came before the curtain, +and announced that in consequence of the sudden and alarming illness +of Monsieur de Lancy it was impossible to conclude the opera. He +requested the indulgence of the audience for a favourite ballet which +would commence immediately. + +The orchestra began the overture of the ballet, and several of the +audience rose to leave the house. + +“Will you stop any longer, Valerie? or has this dismal _finale_ +dispirited you?” said the marquis. + +“A little,” said Valerie; “besides, we have promised to look in at +Madame de Vermanville’s concert before going to the duchess’s ball.” + +Monsieur Rinval helped to muffle her in her cloak, and then offered her +his arm. As they passed from the great entrance to the carriage of the +marquis, Valerie dropped her bouquet. A gentleman advanced from the +crowd and restored it to her. + +“I congratulate you alike on your strength of mind, as on your beauty, +_mademoiselle_!” he said, in a whisper too low for her companions +to hear, but with a terrible emphasis on the last word. + +As she stepped into the carriage, she heard a bystander say--“Poor +fellow, only seven-and-twenty! And so marvellously handsome and gifted!” + +“Dear me,” said Monsieur Rinval, drawing up the carriage window, “how +very shocking! De Lancy is dead!” + +Valerie did not utter one exclamation at this announcement. She was +looking steadily out of the opposite window. She was counting the lamps +in the streets through the mist of a winter’s night. + +“Only twenty-seven!” she cried hysterically, “only twenty-seven! It +might have been thirty-seven, forty-seven, fifty-seven! But he despised +her love; he trampled out the best feelings of her soul; so it was only +twenty-seven! Marvellously handsome, and only twenty-seven!” + +“For heaven’s sake open the windows and stop the carriage, Rinval!” +cried the marquis--“I’m sure my niece is ill.” + +She burst into a long, ringing laugh. + +“My dear uncle, you are quite mistaken. I never was better in my life; +but it seems to me as if the death of this opera-singer has driven +everybody mad.” + +They drove rapidly home, and took her into the house. The maid Finette +begged that her mistress might be carried to the pavilion, but the +marquis overruled her, and had his niece taken into her old suite of +apartments in the mansion. The first physicians in Paris were sent for, +and when they came they pronounced her to be seized by a brain-fever, +which promised to be a very terrible one. + + + + + CHAPTER VIII. + + BAD DREAMS AND A WORSE WAKING. + + +THE sudden and melancholy death of Gaston de Lancy caused a +considerable sensation throughout Paris; more especially as it was +attributed by many to poison. By whom administered, or from what +motive, none could guess. There was one story, however, circulated that +was believed by some people, though it bore very little appearance of +probability. It was reported that on the afternoon preceding the night +on which De Lancy died, a stranger had obtained admission behind the +scenes of the opera-house, and had been seen in earnest conversation +with the man whose duty it was to provide the goblets of wine for the +poison scene in Lucretia Borgia. Some went so far as to say, that this +stranger had bribed the man to put the contents of a small packet +into the bottom of the glass given on the stage to De Lancy. But so +improbable a story was believed by very few, and, of course, stoutly +denied by the man in question. The doctors attributed the death of +the young man to apoplexy. There was no inquest held on his remains; +and at the wish of his mother he was buried at Rouen, and his funeral +was no doubt a peculiarly quiet one, for no one was allowed to know +when the ceremonial took place. Paris soon forgot its favourite. A few +engravings of him, in one or two of his great characters, lingered for +some time in the windows of the fashionable print-shops. Brief memoirs +of him appeared in several papers, and in one or two magazines; and in +a couple of weeks he was forgotten. If he had been a great general, or +a great minister, it is possible that he would not have been remembered +much longer. The new tenor had a fair complexion and blue eyes, and had +two extra notes of falsetto. So the opera-house was as brilliant as +ever, though there was for the time being a prejudice among opera-goers +and opera-singers against Lucretia Borgia, and that opera was put on +the shelf for the remainder of the season. + +A month after the death of De Lancy the physician pronounced +Mademoiselle de Cevennes sufficiently recovered to be removed from +Paris to her uncle’s château in Normandy. Her illness had been a +terrible one. For many days she had been delirious. Ah, who shall paint +the fearful dreams of that delirium!--dreams, of the anguish of which +her disjointed sentences could tell so little? The face of the man she +had loved had haunted her in every phase, wearing every expression--now +thoughtful, now sparkling with vivacity, now cynical, now melancholy; +but always distinct and palpable, and always before her night and day. +The scene of her first meeting with him; her secret marriage; the +little chapel a few miles out of Paris; the old priest; the bitter +discovery in the Bois de Boulogne--the scene of his treachery; the +lamp-lit apartment of Monsieur de Blurosset; the cards and the poisons. +Every action of this dark period of her life she acted over in her +disordered brain again and again a hundred times through the long day, +and a hundred times more through the still longer night. So when at the +expiration of a month, she was strong enough to walk from one room into +another, it was but a wreck of his proud and lovely heiress which met +her uncle’s eyes. + +The château of the marquis, some miles from the town of Caen, was +situated in a park which was as wild and uncultivated as a wood. A +park full of old timber, and marshy reedy grounds dotted with pools +of stagnant water, which in the good days of the old _régime_ +were beaten nightly by the submissive peasantry, that monseigneur, +the marquis might sleep on his bedstead of ormolu and buhl à la Louis +Quatorze, undisturbed by the croaking of the frogs. + +Everything around was falling into ruin; the château had been sacked, +and one wing of it burnt down, in the year 1793; and the present +marquis, then a very little boy, had fled with his father to the +hospitable shores of England, where for more than twenty years of his +life he had lived in poverty and obscurity, teaching sometimes his +native language, sometimes mathematics, sometimes music, sometimes one +thing, sometimes another, for his daily bread. But with the restoration +of the Bourbons came the restoration of the marquis to title and +fortune. A wealthy marriage with the widow of a rich Buonapartist +restored the house of De Cevennes to its former grandeur; and looking +now at the proud and stately head of that house, it was a difficult +thing to imagine that this man had ever taught French, music, and +mathematics, for a few shillings a lesson, in the obscure academies of +an English manufacturing town. + +The dreary park, which surrounded the still more dreary and tumble-down +château, was white with the fallen snow, through which the servants, +or their servants the neighbouring peasantry, coming backwards and +forwards with some message or commission from the village, waded +knee-deep, or well nigh lost themselves in some unsuspected hollow +where the white drifts had swept and lay collected in masses whose +depth was dangerous. The dark oak-panelled apartments appropriated to +Valerie looked out upon the snow-clad wilderness; and very dismal they +seemed in the dying February day. + +Grim pictures of dead and gone branches of this haughty house stared +and frowned from their heavy frames at the pale girl, half seated, +half reclining in a great easy-chair in the deep embayed window. One +terrible mail-clad baron, who had fought and fallen at disastrous +Agincourt, held an uplifted axe, and in the evening shadow it seemed +to Valerie as if he raised it with a threatening glance beneath his +heavy brows, which took a purpose and a meaning as the painted eyes met +hers. And turn which way she would, the eyes of these dark portraits +seemed to follow her; sometimes threateningly, sometimes reproachfully, +sometimes with a melancholy look fraught with a strange and ominous +sadness that chilled her to the soul. + +Logs of wood burned on the great hearth, supported by massive iron +dogs, and their flickering light falling now here, now there, left +always the corners of the large room in shadow. The chill white night +looking in at the high window strove with the fire light for mastery, +and won it, so that the cheery beams playing bo-peep among the quaint +oak carving of the panelled walls and ceiling hid themselves abashed +before the chill stare of the cold steel-blue winter sky. The white +face of the sick girl under this dismal light looked almost as still +and lifeless as the face of her grandmother, in powder and patches, +simpering down at her from the wall. She sat alone--no book near her, +no sign of any womanly occupation in the great chamber, no friend to +watch or tend her (for she had refused all companionship); she sat with +listless hands drooping upon the velvet cushions of her chair, her head +thrown back, as if in utter abandonment of all things on the face of +the wide earth, and her dark eyes staring straight before her out into +the dead waste of winter snow. + +So she has sat since early morning; so she will sit till her maid comes +to her and leads her to her dreary bedchamber. So she sits when her +uncle visits her, and tries every means in his power to awaken a smile, +or bring one look of animation into that dead face. Yes, it is the face +of a dead woman. Dead to hope, dead to love, dead to the past; still +more utterly dead to a future, which, since it cannot restore the dead, +can give her nothing. + +So the short February days, which seem so long to her, fade into the +endless winter nights; and for her the morning has no light, nor the +darkness any shelter. The consolations of that holy Church, on which +for ages past her ancestors have leant for succour as on a rock of +mighty and eternal strength, she dare not seek. Her uncle’s chaplain, +a white-haired old man who had nursed her in his arms a baby, and who +resides at the château, beloved and honoured by all around, comes to +her every morning, and on each visit tries anew to win her confidence; +but in vain. How can she pour into the ears of this good and benevolent +old man her dismal story? Surely he would cast her from him with +contumely and horror. Surely he would tell her that for her there is no +hope; that even a merciful Heaven, ready to hear the prayer of every +sinner, would be deaf to the despairing cries of such a guilty wretch +as she. + +So, impenitent and despairing, she wears out the time, and waits +for death. Sometimes she thinks of the arch tempter who smoothed +the path of crime and misery in which she had trodden, and, who, in +doing so seemed so much a part of herself, and so closely linked with +her anguish and her revenge, that she often, in the weakness of her +shattered mind, wondered if there were indeed such a person, or whether +he might not be only the hideous incarnation of her own dark thoughts. +He had spoken though of payment, of reward for his base services. If he +were indeed human as her wretched self, why did he not come to claim +his due? + + +As the lonely impenitent woman pondered thus in the wintry dusk, her +uncle entered the chamber in which she sat. + +“My dear Valerie,” he said, “I am sorry to disturb you, but a person +has just arrived on horseback from Caen. He has travelled, he says, all +the way from Paris to see you, and he knows that you will grant him an +interview. I told him it was not likely you would do so, and that you +certainly would not with my consent. Who can this person be who has the +impertinence to intrude at such a time as this? His name is entirely +unknown to me.” + +He gave her a card. She looked at it, and read aloud-- + +“‘Monsieur Raymond Marolles.’ The person is quite right, my dear uncle; +I will see him.” + +“But, Valerie----!” remonstrated the marquis. + +She looked at him, with her mother’s proud Spanish blood mantling in +her pale cheek. + +“My dear uncle,” she said quietly, “it is agreed between us, is it +not, that I am in all things my own mistress, and that you have entire +confidence in me? When you cease to trust me, we had better bid each +other farewell, for we can then no longer live beneath the same roof.” + +He looked with one imploring glance at the inflexible face, but it was +fixed as death. + +“Tell them,” she said, “to conduct Monsieur Marolles to this apartment. +I must see him, and alone.” + +The marquis left her, and in a few moments Raymond entered the room, +ushered in by the groom of the chambers. + +He had the old air of well-bred and fashionable indifference which so +well became him, and carried a light gold-headed riding-whip in his +hand. + +“Mademoiselle,” he said, “will perhaps pardon my intrusion of this +evening, which can scarcely surprise her, if she will be pleased +to remember that more than a month has elapsed since a melancholy +occurrence at the Royal Italian Opera House, and that I have some right +to be impatient.” + +She did not answer him immediately; for at this moment a servant +entered, carrying a lamp, which he placed on the table by her side, +and afterwards drew the heavy velvet curtains across the great window, +shutting out the chill winter night. + +“You are very much altered, mademoiselle,” said Raymond, as he +scrutinized the wan face under the lamp-light. + +“That is scarcely strange,” she answered, in a chilling tone. “I am not +yet accustomed to crime, and cannot wear the memory of it lightly.” + +Her visitor was dusting his polished riding-boot with his handkerchief +as he spoke. Looking up with a smile, he said,-- + +“Nay, mademoiselle, I give you credit for more philosophy. Why use ugly +words? Crime--poison--murder!” He paused between each of these three +words, as if every syllable had been some sharp instrument--as if every +time he spoke he stabbed her to the heart and stopped to calculate the +depth of the wound. “There are no such words as those for beauty and +high rank. A person far removed from our sphere offends us, and we +sweep him from our path. We might as well regret the venemous insect +which, having stung us, we destroy.” + +She did not acknowledge his words by so much as one glance or gesture, +but said coldly,-- + +“You were so candid as to confess, monsieur, when you served me, yonder +in Paris, that you did so in the expectation of a reward. You are here, +no doubt, to claim that reward?” + +He looked up at her with so strange a light in his blue eyes, and so +singular a smile curving the dark moustache which hid his thin arched +lips, that in spite of herself she was startled into looking at him +anxiously. He was determined that in the game they were playing she +should hold no hidden cards, and he was therefore resolved to see her +face stripped of its mask of cold indifference. After a minute’s pause +he answered her question,-- + +“I am.” + +“It is well, monsieur. Will you be good enough to state the amount you +claim for your _services_?” + +“You are determined, mademoiselle, it appears,” he said, with the +strange light still glittering in his eyes, “you are determined to give +me credit for none but the most mercenary sentiments. Suppose I do not +claim any amount of money in repayment of my services?” + +“Then, monsieur, I have wronged you. You are a disinterested villain, +and, as such, worthy of the respect of the wicked. But since this is +the case, our interview is at end. I am sorry you decline the reward +you have earned so worthily, and I have the honour to wish you good +evening.” + +He gave a low musical laugh. “Pardon me, mademoiselle,” he said, “but +really your words amuse me. ‘A disinterested villain!’ Believe me, when +I tell you that disinterested villainy is as great an impossibility +as disinterested virtue. You are mistaken, mademoiselle, but only as +to the nature of the reward I come to claim. You would confine the +question to one of money. Cannot you imagine that I have acted in the +hope of a higher reward than any recompense your banker’s book could +afford me?” + +She looked at him with a puzzled expression, but his face was hidden. +He was trifling with his light riding-whip, and looking down at the +hearth. After a minute’s pause he lifted his head, and glanced at her +with the same dangerous smile. + +“You cannot guess, then, mademoiselle, the price I claim for my +services yonder?” he asked. + +“No.” + +“Nay, mademoiselle, reflect.” + +“It would be useless. I might anticipate your claiming half my fortune, +as I am, in a manner, in your power----” + +“Oh, yes,” he murmured softly, interrupting her, “you are, in a manner, +in my power certainly.” + +“But the possibility of your claiming from me anything except money has +never for a moment occurred to me.” + +“Mademoiselle, when first I saw you I looked at you through an +opera-glass from my place in the stalls of the Italian Opera. The +glass, mademoiselle, was an excellent one, for it revealed every line +and every change in your beautiful face. From my observation of that +face I made two or three conclusions about your character, which +I now find were not made upon false premises. You are impulsive, +mademoiselle, but you are not far-seeing. You are strong in your +resolutions when once your mind is fixed; but that mind is easily +influenced by others. You have passion, genius, courage--rare and +beautiful gifts which distinguish you from the rest of womankind; but +you have not that power of calculation, that inductive science, which +never sees the effect without looking for the cause, which men have +christened mathematics. I, mademoiselle, am a mathematician. As such, I +sat down to play a deep and dangerous game with you; and as such, now +that the hour has come at which I can show my hand, you will see that I +hold the winning cards.” + +“I cannot understand, monsieur----” + +“Perhaps not, yet. When you first honoured me with an interview you +were pleased to call me ‘an adventurer.’ You used the expression as +a term of reproach. Strange to say, I never held it in that light. +When it pleased Heaven, or Fate--whichever name you please to give the +abstraction--to throw me out upon a world with which my life has been +one long war, it pleased that Power to give me nothing but my brains +for weapons in the great fight. No rank, no rent-roll, neither mother +nor father, friend nor patron. All to win, and nothing to lose. How +much I had won when I first saw you it would be hard for you, born in +those great saloons to which I have struggled from the mire of the +streets--it would be very hard, I say, for you to guess. I entered +Paris one year ago, possessed of a sum of money which to me was wealth, +but which might, perhaps, to you, be a month’s income. I had only one +object--to multiply that sum a hundredfold. I became, therefore, a +speculator, or, as you call it, ‘an adventurer.’ As a speculator, I +took my seat in the stalls of the Opera House the night I first saw +you.” + +She looked at him in utter bewilderment, as he sat in his most careless +attitude, playing with the gold handle of his riding-whip, but she did +not attempt to speak, and he continued,-- + +“I happened to hear from a bystander that you were the richest woman in +France. Do you know, mademoiselle, how an adventurer, with a tolerably +handsome face and a sufficiently gentlemanly address, generally +calculates on enriching himself? Or, if you do not know, can you guess?” + +“No,” she muttered, looking at him now as if she were in a trance, and +he had some strange magnetic power over her. + +“Then, mademoiselle, I must enlighten you. The adventurer who does not +care to grow grey and decrepit in making a fortune by that slow and +uncertain mode which people call ‘honest industry,’ looks about him +for a fortune ready made and waiting for him to claim it. He makes a +wealthy marriage.” + +“A wealthy marriage?” She repeated the words after him, as if +mechanically. + +“Therefore, mademoiselle, on seeing you, and on hearing the extent of +your fortune, I said to myself, ‘That is the woman I must marry!’” + +“Monsieur!” She started indignantly from her reclining attitude; but +the effort was too much for her shattered frame, and she sank back +exhausted. + +“Nay, mademoiselle, I did not say ‘That is the woman I will marry,’ +but rather, ‘That is the woman I must try to marry;’ for as yet, +remember, I did not hold one card in the great game I had to play. I +raised my glass, and looked long at your face. A very beautiful face, +mademoiselle, as you and your glass have long decided between you. I +was--pardon me--disappointed. Had you been an ugly woman, my chances +would have been so much better. Had you been disfigured by a hump--(if +it had been but the faintest elevation of one white shoulder, prouder, +perhaps, than its fellow)--had your hair been tinged with even a +suspicion of the ardent hue which prejudice condemns, it would have +been a wonderful advantage to me. Vain hope to win you by flattery, +when even the truth must sound like flattery. And then, again, one +glance told me that you were no pretty simpleton, to be won by a +stratagem, or bewildered by romantic speeches. And yet, mademoiselle, +I did not despair. You were beautiful; you were impassioned. In your +veins ran the purple blood of a nation whose children’s love and hate +are both akin to madness! You had, in short, a soul, and you might have +a secret!” + +“Monsieur!” + +“At any rate it would be no lost time to watch you. I therefore +watched. Two or three gentlemen were talking to you; you did not listen +to them; you were asked the same question three times, and on the +second repetition of it you started, and replied as by an effort. You +were weary, or indifferent. Now, as I have told you, mademoiselle, in +the science of mathematics we acknowledge no effect without a cause; +there was a cause, then, for this distraction on your part. In a few +minutes the curtain rose. You were no longer absent-minded. Elvino +came on the stage--you were all attention. You tried, mademoiselle, +not to appear attentive; but your mouth, the most flexible feature in +your face, betrayed you. The cause, then, of your late distraction was +Elvino, otherwise the fashionable tenor, Gaston de Lancy.” + +“Monsieur, for pity’s sake----” she cried imploringly. + +“This was card number one. My chances were looking up. In a few minutes +I saw you throw your bouquet on the stage I also saw the note. You had +a secret, mademoiselle, and I possessed the clue to it. My cards were +good ones. The rest must be done by good play. I knew I was no bad +player, and I sat down to the game with the determination to rise a +winner.” + +“Finish the recital of your villainy, monsieur, I beg--it really +becomes wearisome.” She tried as she spoke to imitate his own +indifference of manner; but she was utterly subdued and broken down, +and waited for him to continue as the victim might wait the pleasure of +the executioner, and with as little thought of opposing him. + +“Then, mademoiselle, I have little more to say, except to claim my +reward. That reward is--your hand.” He said this as if he never even +dreamt of the possibility of a refusal. + +“Are you mad, monsieur?” She had for some time anticipated this +climax, and she felt how utterly powerless she was in the hands of an +unscrupulous villain. How unscrupulous she did not yet know. + +“Nay, mademoiselle, remember! A man has been poisoned. Easy enough +to set suspicion, which has already pointed to foul play, more fully +at work. Easy enough to prove a certain secret marriage, a certain +midnight visit to that renowned and not too highly-respected chemist, +Monsieur Blurosset. Easy enough to produce the order for five thousand +francs signed by Mademoiselle de Cevennes. And should these proofs +not carry with them conviction, I am the fortunate possessor of a +wine-glass emblazoned with the arms of your house, in which still +remains the sediment of a poison well-known to the more distinguished +members of the medical science. I think, mademoiselle, these few +evidences, added to the powerful motive revealed by your secret +marriage, would be quite sufficient to set every newspaper in France +busy with the details of a murder unprecedented in the criminal annals +of this country. But, mademoiselle, I have wearied you; you are pale, +exhausted. I have no wish to hurry you into a rash acceptance of my +offer. Think of it, and to-morrow let me hear your decision. Till then, +adieu.” He rose as he spoke. + +She bowed her head in assent to his last proposition, and he left her. + +Did he know, or did he guess, that there might be another reason to +render her acceptance of his hand possible? Did he think that even his +obscure name might be a shelter to her in days to come? + +O Valerie, Valerie, for ever haunted by the one beloved creature gone +out of this world never to return! For ever pursued by the image of the +love which never was--which at its best and brightest was--but a false +dream. Most treacherous when most tender, most cruel when most kind, +most completely false when it most seemed a holy truth. Weep, Valerie, +for the long years to come, whose dismal burden shall for ever be, “Oh, +never, never more!” + + + + + CHAPTER IX. + + A MARRIAGE IN HIGH LIFE. + + +A MONTH from the time at which this interview took place, everyone +worth speaking of in Paris is busy talking of a singular marriage about +to be celebrated in that smaller and upper circle which forms the apex +of the fashionable pyramid. The niece and heiress of the Marquis de +Cevennes is about to marry a gentleman of whom the Faubourg St. Germain +knows very little. But though the faubourg knows very little, the +faubourg has, notwithstanding, a great deal to say; perhaps all the +more from the very slight foundation it has for its assertions. Thus, +on Tuesday the faubourg affirms that Monsieur Raymond Marolles is a +German, and a political refugee. On Wednesday the faubourg rescinds: +he is not a German, he is a Frenchman, the son of an illegitimate son +of Philip Egalité, and, consequently, nephew to the king, by whose +influence the marriage has been negotiated. The faubourg, in short, +has so many accounts of Monsieur Raymond Marolles, that it is quite +unnecessary for the Marquis de Cevennes to give any account of him +whatever, and he alone, therefore, is silent on the subject. Monsieur +Marolles is a very worthy man--a gentleman, of course--and his niece +is very much attached to him; beyond this, the marquis does not +condescend to enlighten his numerous acquaintance. How much more might +the faubourg have to say if it could for one moment imagine the details +of a stormy scene which took place between the uncle and niece at the +château in Normandy, when, kneeling before the cross, Valerie swore +that there was so dreadful a reason for this strange marriage, that, +did her uncle know it, he would himself kneel at her feet and implore +her to sacrifice herself to save the honour of her noble house. What +might have been suggested to the mind of the marquis by these dark +hints no one knew; but he ceased to oppose the marriage of the only +scion of one of the highest families in France with a man who could +tell nothing of himself, except that he had received the education of a +gentleman, and had a will strong enough to conquer fortune. + +The religious solemnization of the marriage was performed with great +magnificence at the Madeleine. Wealth, rank, and fashion were equally +represented at the _dejeûner_ which succeeded the ceremonial, +and Monsieur Marolles found himself the centre of a circle of the +old nobility of France. It would have been very difficult, even for +an attentive observer, to discover one triumphant flash in those +light blue eyes, or one smile playing round the thin lips, by which a +stranger might divine that the bridegroom of to-day was the winner of a +deep-laid and villanous scheme. He bore his good fortune, in fact, with +such well-bred indifference, that the faubourg immediately set him down +as a great man, even if not one of the set which was the seventh heaven +in that Parisian paradise. And it would have been equally difficult for +any observer to read the secret of the pale but beautiful face of the +bride. Cold, serene, and haughty, she smiled a stereotyped smile upon +all, and showed no more agitation during the ceremony than she might +have done had she been personating a bride in an acted charade. + +It may be, that the hour when any event, however startling, however +painful, could move her from this cold serenity, had for ever passed +away. It may be, that having outlived all the happiness of her life, +she had almost outlived the faculty of feeling or of suffering, and +must henceforth exist only for the world--a distinguished actress in +the great comedy of fashionable life. + +She is standing in a window filled with exotics, which form a great +screen of dark green leaves and tropical flowers, through which the +blue spring sky looks in, clear, bright, and cold. She is talking to an +elderly duchess, a languid and rather faded personage, dressed in ruby +velvet, and equally distinguished for the magnificence of her lace and +the artful composition of her complexion, which is as near an approach +to nature as can be achieved by pearl-powder. “And you leave France in +a month, to take possession of your estates in South America?” she asks. + +“In a month, yes,” says Valerie, playing with the large dark leaf of a +magnolia. “I am anxious to see my mother’s native country. I am tired +of Paris.” + +“Really? You surprise me!” The languid duchess cannot conceive the +possibility of any one being tired of a Parisian existence. She is deep +in her thirty-fourth platonic attachment--the object, a celebrated +novelist of the transcendental school; and as at this moment she sees +him entering the room by a distant door, she strolls away from the +window, carrying her perfumed complexion through the delighted crowd. + + +Perhaps Monsieur Raymond Marolles, standing talking to an old +Buonapartist general, whose breast is one constellation of stars and +crosses, had only been waiting for this opportunity, for he advanced +presently with soft step and graceful carriage towards the ottoman on +which his bride had seated herself. She was trifling with her costly +bridal bouquet as the bridegroom approached her, plucking the perfumed +petals one by one, and scattering them on the ground at her feet in +very wantonness. + +“Valerie,” he said, bending over her, and speaking in tones which, by +reason of the softness of their intonation, might have been tender, but +for the want of some diviner melody from within the soul of the man; +not having which, they had the false jingle of a spurious coin. + +The spot in which the bride was seated was so sheltered by the flowers +and the satin hangings which shrouded the window, that it formed a +little alcove, shut out from the crowded room. + +“Valerie!” he repeated; and finding that she did not answer, he laid +his white ungloved hand upon her jewelled wrist. + +She started to her feet, drawing herself up to her fullest height, and +shaking off his hand with a gesture which, had he been the foulest and +most loathsome reptile crawling upon the earth’s wide face, could not +have bespoken a more intense abhorrence. + +“There could not be a better time than this,” she said, “to say what +I have to say. You may perhaps imagine that to be compelled to speak +to you at all is so abhorrent to me, that I shall use the fewest words +I can, and use those words in their very fullest sense. You are the +incarnation of misery and crime. As such you can perhaps understand +how deeply I hate you. You are a villain; and so mean and despicable a +villain, that even in the hour of your success you are a creature to +be pitied; since from the very depth of your degradation you lack the +power to know how much you are degraded! As such I scorn and loathe +you, as we loathe those venemous reptiles which, from their noxious +qualities, defy our power to handle and exterminate them.” + +“And as your husband, madame?” Her bitter words discomposed him so +little, that he stooped to pick up a costly flower which in her passion +she had thrown down, and placed it carefully in his button-hole. “As +your husband, madame? The state of your feelings towards me in that +character is perhaps a question more to the point.” + +“You are right,” she said, casting all assumption of indifference +aside, and trembling with scornful rage. “That is the question. Your +speculation has been a successful one.” + +“Entirely successful,” he replied, still arranging the flower in his +coat. + +“You have the command of my fortune----” + +“A fortune which many princes might be proud to possess,” he +interposed, looking at the blossom, not at her. He may possibly have +been a brave man, but he was not distinguished for looking in people’s +faces, and he did not care about meeting her eyes to-day. + +“But if you think the words whose sacred import has been prostituted +by us this day have any meaning for you or me; if you think there is a +lacquey or a groom in this vast city, a ragged mendicant standing at +a church-door whom I would not sooner call my husband than the wretch +who stands beside me now, you neither know me nor my sex. My fortune +you are welcome to. Take it, squander it, scatter it to the winds, +spend it to the last farthing on the low vices that are pleasure to +such men as you. But dare to address me with but one word from your +false lips, dare to approach me so near as to touch but the hem of my +dress, and that moment I proclaim the story of our marriage from first +to last. Believe me when I say--and if you look me in the face you will +believe me--the restraining influence is very slight that holds me back +from standing now in the centre of this assembly to proclaim myself a +vile and cruel murderess, and you my tempter and accomplice. Believe +me when I tell you that it needs but one look of yours to provoke +me to blazon this hideous secret, and cry its details in the very +market-place. Believe this, and rest contented with the wages of your +work.” + +Exhausted by her passion, she sank into her seat. Raymond looked at her +with a supercilious sneer. He despised her for this sudden outbreak of +rage and hatred, for he felt how much his calculating brain and icy +temperament made him her superior. + +“You are somewhat hasty, madame, in your conclusions. Who said I was +discontented with the wages of my work, when for those wages alone I +have played the game in which, as you say, I am the conqueror? For the +rest, I do not think I am the man to break my heart for love of any +woman breathing, as I never quite understood what this same weakness of +the brain, which men have christened love, really is; and even were the +light of dark eyes necessary to my happiness, I need scarcely tell you, +madame, that beauty is very indulgent to a man with such a fortune as I +am master of to-day. There is nothing on earth to prevent our agreeing +remarkably well; and perhaps this marriage, which you speak of so +bitterly, may be as happy as many other unions, which, were I Asmodeus +and you my pupil, we could look down on to-day through the housetops of +this good city of Paris.” + +I wonder whether Monsieur Marolles was right? I wonder whether this +thrice-sacred sacrament, ordained by an Almighty Power for the glory +and the happiness of the earth, is ever, by any chance, profaned +and changed into a bitter mockery or a wicked lie? Whether, by any +hazard, these holy words were ever used in any dark hour of this +world’s history, to join such people as had been happier far asunder, +though they had been parted in their graves; or whether, indeed, this +solemn ceremonial has not so often united such people, with a chain +no time has power to wear or lengthen, that it has at last, unto some +ill-directed minds, sunk to the level of a pitiful and worn-out farce? + + + + + CHAPTER X. + + ANIMAL MAGNETISM. + + +NEARLY a month has passed since this strange marriage, and Monsieur +Blurosset is seated at his little green-covered table, the lamp-light +falling full upon the outspread pack of cards, over which the blue +spectacles bend with the same intent and concentrated gaze as on the +night when the fate of Valerie hung on the lips of the professor of +chemistry and pasteboard. Every now and then, with light and careful +fingers, Monsieur Blurosset changes the position of some card or cards. +Sometimes he throws himself back in his chair and thinks deeply. The +expressionless mouth, which betrays no secrets, tells nothing of the +nature of his thoughts. Sometimes he makes notes on a long slip of +paper; rows of figures, and problems in algebra, over which he ponders +long. By-and-by, for the first time, he looks up and listens. + +His little apartment has two doors. One, which leads out on to the +staircase; a second, which communicates with his bedchamber. This door +is open a very little, but enough to show that there is a feeble light +burning within the chamber. It is in the direction of this door that +the blue spectacles are fixed when Monsieur Blurosset suspends his +calculations in order to listen; and it is to a sound within this room +that he listens intently. + +That sound is the laboured and heavy breathing of a man. The room is +tenanted. + +“Good,” says Monsieur Blurosset, presently, “the respiration is +certainly more regular. It is really a most wonderful case.” + +As he says this, he looks at his watch. “Five minutes past eleven--time +for the dose,” he mutters. + +He goes to the little cabinet from which he took the drug he gave to +Valerie, and busies himself with some bottles, from which he mixes a +draught in a small medicine-glass; he holds it to the light, puts it to +his lips, and then passes with it into the next room. + +There is a sound as if the person to whom he gave the medicine made +some faint resistance, but in a few minutes Monsieur Blurosset emerges +from the room carrying the empty glass. + +He reseats himself before the green table, and resumes his +contemplation of the cards. Presently a bell rings. “So late,” mutters +Monsieur Blurosset; “it is most likely some one for me.” He rises, +sweeps the cards into one pack, and going over to the door of his +bedroom, shuts its softly. When he has done so, he listens for a +moment with his ear close to the woodwork. There is not a sound of the +breathing within. + +He has scarcely done so when the bell rings for the second time. He +opens the door communicating with the staircase, and admits a visitor. +The visitor is a woman, very plainly dressed, and thickly veiled. + +“Monsieur Blurosset?” she says, inquiringly. + +“The same, madame. Pray enter, and be good enough to be seated.” He +hands her a chair at a little distance from the green table, and as +far away as he can place it from the door of the bedchamber: she sits +down, and as he appears to wait for her to speak, she says,-- + +“I have heard of your fame, monsieur, and come----” + +“Nay, madame,” he says, interrupting her, “you can raise your veil if +you will. I perfectly remember you; I never forget voices, Mademoiselle +de Cevennes.” + +There is no shade of impertinence in his manner as he says this; he +speaks as though he were merely stating a simple fact which it is as +well for her to know. He has the air, in all he does or says, of a +scientific man who has no existence out of the region of science. + +Valerie--for it is indeed she--raises her veil. + +“Monsieur,” she says, “you are candid with me, and it will be the best +for me to be frank with you. I am very unhappy--I have been so for some +months past; and I shall be so until my dying day. One reason alone has +prevented my coming to you long ere this, to offer you half my fortune +for such another drug as that which you sold to me some time past. You +may judge, then, that reason is a very powerful one, since, though +death alone can give me peace, I yet do not wish to die. But I wish to +have at my command a means of certain death. I may never use it at all: +I swear never to use it on anyone but myself!” + +All this time the blue spectacles have been fixed on her face, and now +Monsieur Blurosset interrupts her-- + +“And now for such a drug, mademoiselle, you would offer me a large sum +of money?” he asks. + +“I would, monsieur.” + +“I cannot sell it you,” he says, as quietly as though he were speaking +of some unimportant trifle. + +“You cannot?” she exclaims. + +“No, mademoiselle. I am a man absorbed entirely in the pursuit of +science. My life has been so long devoted to science only, that perhaps +I may have come to hold everything beyond the circle of my little +laboratory too lightly. You asked me some time since for a poison, or +at least you were introduced to me by a pupil of mine, at whose request +I sold you a drug. I had been twenty years studying the properties +of that drug. I may not know them fully yet, but I expect to do so +before this year is out. I gave it to you, and, for all I know to the +contrary, it may in your hands have done some mischief.” He pauses here +and looks at her for a moment; but she has borne the knowledge of her +crime so long, and it has become so much a part of her, that she does +not flinch under his scrutiny. + +“I placed a weapon in your hands,” he continues, “and I had no right to +do so. I never thought of this at that time; but I have thought of it +since. For the rest, I have no inducement to sell you the drug you ask +for. Money is of little use to me except in the necessary expenses of +the chemicals I use. These”--he points to the cards--“give me enough +for those expenses; beyond those, my wants amount to some few francs a +week.” + +“Then you will not sell me this drug? You are determined?” she asks. + +“Quite determined.” + +She shrugs her shoulders. “As you please. There is always some river +within reach of the wretched; and you may depend, monsieur, that they +who cannot support life will find a means of death. I will wish you +good evening.” + +She is about to leave the room, when she stops, with her hand upon the +lock of the door, and turns round. + +She stands for a few minutes motionless and silent, holding the handle +of the door, and with her other hand upon her heart. Monsieur Blurosset +has the faintest shadow of a look of surprise in his expressionless +countenance. + +“I don’t know what is the matter with me to-night,” she says, “but +something seems to root me to this spot. I cannot leave this room.” + +“You are ill, mademoiselle, perhaps. Let me give you some restorative.” + +“No, no, I am not ill.” + +Again she is silent; her eyes are fixed, not on the chemist, but with a +strange vacant gaze upon the wall before her. Suddenly she asks him,-- + +“Do you believe in animal magnetism?” + +“Madame, I have spent half my lifetime in trying to answer that +question, and I can only answer it now by halves. Sometimes no; +sometimes yes.” + +“Do you believe it possible for one soul to be gifted with a mysterious +prescience of the emotions of another soul?--to be sad when that is +sad, though utterly unconscious of any cause for sadness; and to +rejoice when that is happy, having no reason for rejoicing?” + +“I cannot answer your question, madame, because it involves another. I +never yet have discovered what the soul really is. Animal magnetism, +if it ever become a science, will be a material science, and the soul +escapes from all material dissection.” + +“Do you believe, then, that by some subtle influence, whose nature is +unknown to us, we may have a strange consciousness of the presence or +the approach of some people, conveyed to us by neither the hearing nor +the sight, but rather as if we _felt_ that they were near?” + +“_You_ believe this possible, madame, or you would not ask the +question.” + +“Perhaps. I have sometimes thought that I had this consciousness; but +it related to a person who is dead----” + +“Yes, madame.” + +“And--you will think me mad; Heaven knows, I think myself so--I feel as +if that person were near me to-night.” + +The chemist rises, and, going over to her, feels her pulse. It is rapid +and intermittent. She is evidently violently agitated, though she is +trying with her utmost power to control herself. + +“But you say that this person is dead?” he asks. + +“Yes; he died some months since.” + +“You know that there are no such things as ghosts?” + +“I am perfectly convinced of that!” + +“And yet--?” he asks. + +“And yet I feel as though the dead were near me to-night. Tell +me--there is no one in this room but ourselves?” + +“No one.” + +“And that door--it leads----” + +“Into the room in which I sleep.” + +“And there is no one there?” she asks. + +“No one. Let me give you a sedative, madame: you are certainly ill.” + +“No, no, monsieur; you are very good. I am still weak from the effects +of a long illness. That weakness may be the cause of my silly fancies +of to-night. To-morrow I leave France, perhaps for ever.” + +She leaves him; but on the steep dark staircase she pauses for a +moment, and seems irresolute, as if half determined to return: then she +hurries on, and in a minute is in the street. + +She takes a circuitous route towards the house in which she lives. So +plainly dressed, and thickly veiled, no one stops to notice her as she +walks along. + +Her husband, Monsieur Marolles, is engaged at a dinner given by a +distinguished member of the chamber of peers. Decidedly he has held +winning cards in the game of life. And she, for ever haunted by the +past, with weary step goes onward to a dark and unknown future. + + + + + =Book the Fourth.= + + NAPOLEON THE GREAT. + + + + + CHAPTER I. + + THE BOY FROM SLOPPERTON. + + +EIGHT years have passed since the trial of Richard Marwood. How have +those eight years been spent by “Daredevil Dick?” + +In a small room a few feet square, in the County Lunatic Asylum, +fourteen miles from the town of Slopperton, with no human being’s +companionship but that of a grumpy old deaf keeper, and a boy, his +assistant--for eight monotonous years this man’s existence has crept +slowly on; always the same: the same food, the same hours at which that +food must be eaten, the same rules and regulations for every action of +his inactive life. Think of this, and pity the man surnamed “Daredevil +Dick,” and once the maddest and merriest creature in a mad and merry +circle. Think of the daily walk in a great square flagged yard--the +solitary walk, for he is not allowed even the fellowship of the other +lunatics, lest the madness which led him to commit an awful crime +should again break out, and endanger the lives of those about him. +During eight long years he has counted every stone in the flooring, +every flaw and every crack in each of those stones. He knows the shape +of every shadow that falls upon the white-washed wall, and can, at +all seasons of the year, tell the hour by the falling of it. He knows +that at such a time on a summer’s evening the shadows of the iron bars +of the window will make long black lines across the ground, and mount +and mount, dividing the wall as if it were in panels, till they meet, +and absorbing altogether the declining light, surround and absorb him +too, till he is once more alone in the darkness. He knows, too, that +at such a time on the grey winter’s morning these same shadows will be +the first indications of the coming light; that, from the thick gloom +of the dead night they will break out upon the wall, with strips of +glimmering day between, only enough like light to show the blackness +of the shade. He has sometimes been mad enough and wretched enough to +pray that these shadows might fall differently, that the very order of +nature might be reversed, to break this bitter and deadly monotony. +He has sometimes prayed that, looking up, he might see a great fire +in the sky, and know that the world was at an end. How often he has +prayed to die, it would be difficult to say. At one time it was his +only prayer; at one time he did not pray at all. He has been permitted +at intervals to see his mother; but her visits, though he has counted +the days, hours, and even minutes between them, have only left him +more despondent than ever. She brings so much with her into his lonely +prison, so much memory of a joyous past, of freedom, of a happy home, +whose happiness he did his best in his wild youth to destroy; the +memory, too, of that careless youth, its boon companions, its devoted +friends. She brings so much of all this back to him by the mere fact +of her presence, that she leaves behind her the blackness of a despair +far more terrible than the most terrible death. She represents to him +the outer world; for she is the only creature belonging to it who ever +crosses the threshold of his prison. The asylum chaplain, the asylum +doctor, the keepers and the officials belonging to the asylum--all +these are part and parcel of this great prison-house of stone, brick, +and mortar, and seem to be about as capable of feeling for him, +listening to him, or understanding him, as the stones, bricks, and +mortar themselves. Routine is the ruler of this great prison; and if +this wretched insane criminal cannot live by rules and regulations, he +must die according to them, and be buried by them, and so be done with, +out of the way; and his little room, No. 35, will be ready for some one +else, as wicked, as dangerous, and as unfortunate as he. + +During the earlier part of his imprisonment the idea had pervaded the +asylum that as he had been found guilty of committing one murder, he +might, very likely, find it necessary to his peculiar state of mind +to commit more murders, and would probably find it soothing to his +feelings to assassinate anybody who might come in his way any morning +before breakfast. The watch kept upon him was therefore for some +time very strict. He was rather popular at first in the asylum, as a +distinguished public character; and the keepers, though a little shy +of attending upon him in their proper persons, were extremely fond of +peering in at him through a little oval opening in the upper panel +of the door of his cell. They also brought such visitors as came to +improve their minds by going over the hospital for the insane to have a +special and private view of this maniacal murderer; and they generally +received an extra donation from the sight-seers thus gratified. Even +the lunatics themselves were interested in the supposed assassin. A +gentleman, who claimed to be the Emperor of the German Ocean and the +Chelsea Waterworks, was very anxious to see him, as he had received +a despatch from his minister of police informing him that Richard +Marwood had red hair, and he particularly wished to confirm this +intelligence, or to give the minister his _congé_. + +Another highly-respectable person, whose case was before the House of +Commons, and who took minutes of it every day on a slate, with a bit +of slate pencil which he wore attached to his button-hole by a string, +and which also served him as a toothpick--the slate being intrusted to +a keeper who forwarded it to the electric telegraph, to be laid on the +table of the House, and brought home, washed clean, in half an hour, +which was always done to the minute;--this gentleman also sighed for an +introduction to poor Dick, for Maria Martin had come to him in a vision +all the way from the Red Barn, to tell him that the prisoner was his +first cousin, through the marriage of his uncle with the third daughter +of Henry the Eighth’s seventh wife; and he considered it only natural +and proper that such near relations should become intimately acquainted +with each other. + +A lady, who pronounced herself to be the only child of the Pope of +Rome, by a secret union with a highly-respectable youngperson, heiress +to a gentleman connected with the muffin trade somewhere about Drury +Lane, fell in love off-hand with Richard, from description alone; and +begged one of the keepers to let him know that she had a clue to a +subterranean passage, which led straight from the asylum to a baker’s +shop in Little Russell Street, Covent Garden, a distance of some two +hundred and fifty miles, and had been originally constructed by William +the Conqueror for the convenience of his visits to Fair Rosamond when +the weather was bad. The lady begged her messenger to inform Mr. +Marwood that if he liked to unite his fortune with hers, they could +escape by this passage, and set up in the muffin business--unless, +indeed, his Holiness of the triple crown invited them over to the +Vatican, which perhaps, under existing circumstances, was hardly likely. + +But though a wonder, which elsewhere would only last nine days, may in +the dreary monotony of such a place as this, endure for more than nine +weeks, it must still die out at last. So at last Richard was forgotten +by every one except his heartbroken mother, and the keeper and boy +attending upon him. + +His peculiar hallucination being his fancy that he was the Emperor +Napoleon the First, was, of course, little wonder in a place where +every wretched creature fancied himself some one or something which he +was not; where men and women walked about in long disjointed dreams, +which had no waking but in death; where once bright and gifted human +beings found a wild and imbecile happiness in crowns of straw, and +decorations of paper and rags; which was more sad to see than the worst +misery a consciousness of their state might have brought them. At +first, Richard had talked wildly of his fancied greatness, had called +his little room the rock of St. Helena, and his keeper, Sir Hudson +Lowe. But he grew quieter day by day, and at last never spoke at all, +except in answer to a question. And so on, for eight long years. + +In the autumn of the eighth year he fell ill. A strange illness. +Perhaps scarcely to be called an illness. Rather a dying out of the +last light of hope, and an utter abandonment of himself to despair. +Yes, that was the name of the disease under which the high and bold +spirit of Daredevil Dick sank at last. Despair. A curious disease. Not +to be cured by rules and regulations, however salutary those rules +might be; not to be cured even by the Board, which was supposed to be +in a manner omnipotent, and to be able to cure anything in one sitting; +not to be cured certainly by the asylum doctor, who found Richard’s +case very difficult to deal with--more especially difficult since there +was no positive physical malady to attack. There was a physical malady, +because the patient grew every day weaker, lost appetite, and was +compelled to take to his bed; but it was the malady of the mind acting +on the body, and the cure of the last could only be effected by the +cure of the first. + +So Richard lay upon his narrow little couch, watching the shadows on +the bare wall, and the clouds that passed across the patch of sky which +he could see through the barred window opposite his bed, through long +sunny days, and moonlight nights, throughout the month of September. + +Thus it happened that one dull afternoon, on looking up, he saw a +darker cloud than usual hurry by; and in its train another, darker +still; then a black troop of ragged followers; and then such a shower +of rain came down, as he could not remember having seen throughout the +time of his captivity. But this heavy shower was only the beginning +of three weeks’ rainy weather; at the end of which time the country +round was flooded in every direction, and Richard heard his keeper +tell another man that the river outside the prison, which usually ran +within twenty feet of the wall on one side of the great yard, was now +swollen to such a degree as to wash the stonework of this wall for a +considerable height. + +The day Richard heard this he heard another dialogue, which took place +in the passage outside his room. He was lying on his bed, thinking of +the bitterness of his fate, as he had thought so many hundred times, +through so many hundred days, till he had become, as it were, the slave +of a dreadful habit of his mind, and was obliged to go over the same +ground for ever and ever, whether he would or no--he was lying thus, +when he heard his keeper say-- + +“To think as how the discontented little beast should take and go and +better hisself at such a time as this here, when there ain’t a boy to +be had for love or money--which three shillings a week is all the Board +will give--as will come here to take care of him.” + +Richard knew himself to be the “him” alluded to. The doctor had ordered +the boy to sit up with him at night during the latter part of his +illness, and it had been something of a relief to him, in the blank +monotony of his life, to watch this boy’s attempts to keep awake, and +his furtive games at marbles under the bed when he thought Richard was +not looking, or to listen to his snoring when he slept. + +“You see, boys as is as bold as brass many ways--as would run under +’osses’ heads, and like it; as thinks it fun to run across the railroad +when there’s a _h_express _h_engine a comin’, and as will amuse +theirselves for the hour together with twopen’orth of gunpowder and a +lighted candle--still feels timersome about sittin’ up alone of nights +with him,” said the keeper. + +“But he’s harmless enough, ain’t he?” asked the other. + +“Harmless! Lord bless his poor hinnercent ’art! there ain’t no more +harm in him nor a baby. But it’s no use a sayin’ that, for there ain’t +a boy far or near what’ll come and help to take care of him.” + +A minute or two after this, the keeper came into Richard’s room with +the regulation basin of broth--a panacea, as it was supposed, for all +ills, from water on the brain to rheumatism. As he put the basin down, +and was about to go, Richard spoke to him,-- + +“The boy is going, then?” + +“Yes, sir.” The keeper treated him with great respect, for he had been +handsomely fed by Mrs. Marwood on every visit throughout the eight +years of her son’s imprisonment. “Yes, he’s a-goin’, sir. The place +ain’t lively enough for him, if you please. I’d lively him, if I was +the Board! Ain’t he had the run of the passages, and half an hour +every night to enjoy hisself in the yard! He’s a goin’ into a doctor’s +service. He says it’ll be jolly, carrying out medicine for other people +to take, and gloating over the thought of ’em a-taking it.” + +“And you can’t get another boy to come here?” + +“Well, you see, sir, the boys about here don’t seem to take kindly to +the place. So I’ve got orders from the Board to put an advertisement in +one of the Slopperton papers; and I’m a-goin’ to do it this afternoon. +So you’ll have a change in your attendance, maybe, sir, before the +week’s out.” + +Nothing could better prove the utter dreariness and desolation of +Richard’s life than that such a thing as the probable arrival of a +strange boy to wait upon him seemed an event of importance. He could +not help, though he despised himself for his folly, speculating upon +the possible appearance of the new boy. Would he be big or little, +stout or thin? What would be the colour of his eyes and hair? Would his +voice be gruff or squeaky; or would it be that peculiar and uncertain +voice, common to over-grown boys, which is gruff one minute and squeaky +the next, and always is in one of these extremes when you most expect +it to be in the other? + +But these speculations were of course a part of his madness; for it is +not to be supposed that a long course of solitary confinement could +produce any dreadful change in the mind of a sane man; or surely no +human justices or lawgivers would ever adjudge so terrible a punishment +to any creature, human as themselves, and no more liable to error than +themselves. + + +So Richard, lying on his little bed through the long rainy days, awaits +the departure of his old attendant and the coming of a new one; and in +the twilight of the third day he still lies looking up at the square +grated window, and counting the drops falling from the eaves--for there +is at last some cessation in the violence of the rain. He knows it is +an autumn evening; but he has not seen the golden red of one fallen +leaf, or the subdued colouring of one autumnal flower: he knows it is +the end of September, because his keeper has told him so; and when +his window is open, he can hear sometimes, far away, deadened by the +rainy atmosphere as well as by the distance, the occasional report +of some sportsman’s gun. He thinks, as he hears this, of a September +many years ago, when he and a scapegrace companion took a fortnight’s +shooting in a country where to brush against a bush, or to tread upon +the long grass, was to send a feathered creature whirring up in the +clear air. He remembers the merry pedestrian journey, the road-side +inns, the pretty barmaids, the joint purse; the blue smoke from two +short meerschaum pipes curling up to the grey morning sky; the merry +laughter from two happy hearts ringing out upon the chill morning air. +He remembers encounters with savage gamekeepers, of such ferocious +principle and tender consciences as even the administration of a +half-crown could not lull to sleep; he remembers jovial evenings in +the great kitchens of old inns, where unknown quantities of good old +ale were drunk, and comic songs were sung, with such a chorus, that to +join in it was to be overcome by such fatigue, or to be reduced from +wildest mirth to such a pitch of sudden melancholy, as ultimately to +lead to the finishing of the evening in tears, or else under the table. +He remembers all these things, and he wonders--as, being a madman, it +is natural he should--wonders whether it can be indeed himself, who +once was that wittiest, handsomest, most generous, and best of fellows, +baptised long ago in a river of sparkling hock, moselle, and burgundy, +“Daredevil Dick.” + +But something more than these sad memories comes with the deepening +twilight, for presently Richard hears the door of his room unlocked, +and his keeper’s voice, saying,-- + +“There, go in, and tell the gent you’ve come. I’m a-comin’ in with his +supper and his lamp presently, and then I’ll tell you what you’ve got +to do.” + +Naturally Richard looked round in the direction of the door, for he +knew this must be the strange boy. Now, his late juvenile attendant +had numbered some fifteen summers; to say nothing of the same number +of winters, duly chronicled by chilblains and chapped hands. Richard’s +eyes therefore looked towards the open door at about that height from +the ground which a lad of fifteen has commonly attained; and looking +thus, Richard saw nothing. He therefore lowered his glance, and in +about the neighbourhood of what would have been the lowest button of +his last attendant’s waistcoat, he beheld the small pale thin face of a +very small and very thin boy. + +This small boy was standing rubbing his right little foot against his +left little wizen leg, and looking intently at Richard. To say that his +tiny face had a great deal of character in it would not be to say much; +what face he had was all character. + +Determination, concentration, energy, strength of will, and brightness +of intellect, were all written in unmistakable lines upon that pale +pinched face. The boy’s features were wonderfully regular, and had +nothing in common with the ordinary features of a boy of his age +and his class; the tiny nose was a perfect aquiline; the decided +mouth might have belonged to a prime minister with the blood of the +Plantagenets in his veins. The eyes, of a bluish grey, were small, and +a little too near together, but the light in them was the light of an +intelligence marvellous in one so young. + +Richard, though a wild and reckless fellow, had never been devoid of +thought, and in the good days past had dabbled in many a science, +and had adopted and abandoned many a creed. He was something of a +physiognomist, and he read enough in one glance at this boy’s face to +awaken both surprise and interest in him. + +“So,” said he, “you are the new boy! Sit down,” he pointed to a little +wooden stool near the bed as he spoke. “Sit down, and make yourself at +home.” + +The boy obeyed, and seated himself firmly by the side of Richard’s +pillow; but the stool was so low, and he was so small, that Richard +had to change his position to look over the edge of the bed at his +new attendant. While Daredevil Dick contemplated him the boy’s small +grey eyes peered round the four white-washed walls, and then fixed +themselves upon the barred window with such a look of concentration, +that it seemed to Richard as if the little lad must be calculating the +thickness and power of resistance of each iron bar with the accuracy of +a mathematician. + +“What’s your name, my lad?” asked Richard. He had been always beloved +by all his inferiors for a manner combining the stately reserve of a +great king with the friendly condescension of a popular prince. + +“Slosh, sir,” answered the boy, bringing his grey eyes with a great +effort away from the iron bars and back to Richard. + +“Slosh! A curious name. Your surname, I suppose?” + +“Surname and christen name too, sir. Slosh--short for Sloshy.” + +“But have you no surname, then?” + +“No, sir; _fondling_, sir.” + +“A foundling: dear me, and you are called Sloshy! Why, that is the name +of the river that runs through Slopperton.” + +“Yes, sir, which I was found in the mud of the river, sir, when I was +only three months old, sir.” + +“Found in the river--were you? Poor boy--and by whom?” + +“By the gent what adopted me, sir.” + +“And he is----?” asked Richard. + +“A gent connected with the police force, sir; detective----” + +This one word worked a sudden change in Richard’s manner. He raised +himself on his elbow, looked intently at the boy, and asked, eagerly,-- + +“This detective, what is his name? But no,” he muttered, “I did not +even know the name of that man. Stay--tell me, you know perhaps some of +the men in the Slopperton police force besides your adopted father?” + +“I knows every man jack of ’em, sir; and a fine staff they is--a credit +to their country and a happiness to theirselves.” + +“Do you happen to know amongst them a dumb man?” asked Richard. + +“Lor’, sir, that’s him.” + +“Who?” + +“Father, sir. The gent what found me and adopted me. I’ve got a message +for you, sir, from father, and I was a-goin’ to give it you, only I +thought I’d look about me a little first; but stay--Oh, dear, the +gentleman’s took and fainted. Here,” he said, running to the door and +calling out in a shrill voice, “come and unlock this here place, will +yer, and look alive with that lamp! The gentleman’s gone off into a +dead faint, and there ain’t so much as a drop of water to chuck over +his face.” + +The prisoner had indeed fallen back insensible on the bed. For eight +long years he had nourished in his heart a glimmering though dying hope +that he might one day receive some token of remembrance from the man +who had taken a strange part in the eventful crisis of his life. This +ray of light had lately died out, along with every other ray which had +once illuminated his dreary life; but in the very moment when hope was +abandoned, the token once eagerly looked for came upon him so suddenly, +that the shock was too much for his shattered mind and feeble frame. + +When Richard recovered from his swoon, he found himself alone with the +boy from Slopperton. He was a little startled by the position of that +young person, who had seated himself upon the small square deal table +by the bedside, commanding from this elevation a full view of Richard’s +face, whereon his two small grey eyes were intently fixed, with that +same odd look of concentration with which he had regarded the iron bars. + +“Come now,” said he, with the consolatory tone of an experienced +sick-nurse; “come now, we mustn’t give way like this, just because we +hears from our friends; because, you see, if we does, our friends can’t +be no good to us whichever way their intention may be.” + +“You said you had a message for me,” said Richard, in feeble but +anxious tones. + +“Well, it ain’t a long un, and here it is,” answered the young +gentleman from his extempore pulpit; and then he continued, with very +much the air of giving out a text--“Keep up your pecker.” + +“Keep up what?” muttered Richard. + +“Your pecker. ‘Keep up your pecker,’ them’s his words; and as he never +yet vos known to make a dirty dinner off his own syllables, it ain’t +likely as he’ll take and eat ’em. He says to me--on his fingers, in +course--‘Tell the gent to keep up his pecker, and leave all the rest +to you; for you’re a pocket edition of all the sharpness as ever +knives was nothing to, or else say I’ve brought you up for no good +whatsomedever.’” + +This was rather a vague speech; so perhaps it is scarcely strange that +Richard did not derive much immediate comfort from it. But, in spite +of himself, he did derive a great deal of comfort from the presence of +this boy, though he almost despised himself for attaching the least +importance to the words of an urchin of little better than eight years +of age. Certainly this urchin of eight had a shrewdness of manner which +would have been almost remarkable in a man of the world of fifty, and +Richard could scarcely help fancying that he must have graduated in +some other hemisphere, and been thrown, small as to size, but full +grown as to acuteness, into this; or it seemed as if some great strong +man had been reduced into the compass of a little boy, in order to +make him sharper, as cooks boil down a gallon of gravy to a pint in the +manufacture of strong soup. + +But, however the boy came to be what he was, there he was, holding +forth from his pulpit, and handing Richard the regulation basin of +broth which composed his supper. + +“Now, what you’ve got to do,” said he, “is to get well; for until you +are well, and strong too, there ain’t the least probability of your +bein’ able to change your apartments, if you should feel so inclined, +which perhaps ain’t likely.” + +Richard looked at the diminutive speaker with a wonderment he could not +repress. + +“Starin’ won’t cure you,” said his juvenile attendant, with friendly +disrespect, “not if you took the pattern of my face till you could draw +it in the dark. The best thing you can do is to eat your supper, and +to-morrow we must try what we can do for you in the way of port wine; +for if you ain’t strong and well afore that ere river outside this ere +vall goes down, it’s a chance but vot it’ll be a long time afore you +sees the outside of the val in question.” + +Richard caught hold of the boy’s small arm with a grasp which, in +spite of his weakness, had a convulsive energy that nearly toppled his +youthful attendant from his elevation. + +“You never can think of anything so wild?” he said, in a tumult of +agitation. + +“Lor’ bless yer ’art, no,” said the boy; “we never thinks of anything +vot’s wild--our ’abits is business-like; but vot you’ve got to do is to +go to sleep, and not to worrit yourself; and as I said before, I say +again, when you’re well and strong we’ll think about changin’ these +apartments. We can make excuse that the look-out was too lively, or +that the colour of the whitewash was a-hinjurin’ our eyesight.” + +For the first time for many nights Richard slept well; and opening +his eyes the next morning, his first anxiety was to convince himself +that the arrival of the boy from Slopperton was not some foolish dream +engendered in his disordered brain. No, there the boy sat: whether +he had been to sleep on the table, or whether he had never taken his +eyes off Richard the whole night, there he was, with those eyes fixed, +exactly as they had been the night before, on the prisoner’s face. + +“Why, I declare we’re all the better for our good night’s rest,” he +said, rubbing his hands, as he contemplated Richard; “and we’re ready +for our breakfast as soon as ever we can get it, which will be soon, +judging by our keeper’s hobnailed boots as is a-comin’ down the passage +with a tray in his hand.” + +This rather confused statement was confirmed by a noise in the stone +corridor without, which sounded as if a pair of stout working men’s +bluchers were walking in company with a basin and a teaspoon. + +“Hush!” said the boy, holding up a warning forefinger, “keep it dark!” +Richard did not exactly know what he was to keep dark; but as he had, +without one effort at resistance, surrendered himself, mentally and +physically, to the direction of his small attendant, he lay perfectly +still, and did not utter a word. + +In obedience to this youthful director, he also took his breakfast, to +the last mouthful of the regulation bread, and to the last spoonful of +the regulation coffee--ay, even to the grounds (which, preponderating +in that liquid, formed a species of stratum at the bottom of the basin, +commonly known to the inmates of the asylum as “the thick”)--for as the +boy said, “grounds is strengthening.” Breakfast finished, the asylum +physician came, in the course of his rounds, for his matutinal visit +to Richard’s cell. His skill was entirely at a loss to find any cure +for so strange a disease as that which affected the prisoner. One of +the leading features, however, in this young man’s sickness, had been +an entire loss of appetite, and almost an entire inability to sleep. +When, therefore, he heard that his patient had eaten a good supper, +slept well all night, and had just finished the regulation breakfast, +he said,-- + +“Come, come, we are getting better, then--our complaint is taking a +turn. We are quiet in our mind, too, eh? Not fretting about Moscow, or +making ourselves unhappy about Waterloo, I hope?” + +The asylum doctor was a cheerful easy good-tempered fellow, who +humoured the fancies of his patients, however wild they might be; +and though half the kings in the history of England, and some +sovereigns unchronicled in any history whatever were represented +in the establishment, he was never known to forget the respect due +to a monarch, however condescending that monarch might be. He was, +therefore, a general favourite; and had received more orders of the +Bath and the Garter, in the shape of red tape and scraps of paper, and +more title-deeds, in the way of old curl-papers and bits of newspaper, +than would have served as the stock-in-trade of a marine storekeeper, +with the addition of a few bottles and a black doll. He knew that one +characteristic of Richard’s madness was to fancy himself the chained +eagle of the sea-bound rock, and he thought to humour the patient by +humouring the hallucination. + +Richard looked at this gentleman with a thoughtful glance in his dark +eyes. + +“I didn’t mind Moscow, sir,” he said, very gravely; “the elements beat +me there--and they were stronger than Hannibal; but at Waterloo, what +broke my heart was--not the defeat, but the disgrace!” He turned away +his head as he spoke, and lay in silence, with his back turned to the +good natured physician. + +“No complaints about Sir Hudson Lowe, I hope?” said the medical man. +“They give you everything you want, general?” + +The good doctor, being so much in the habit of humouring his patients, +had their titles always at the tip of his tongue; and walked about in a +perfect atmosphere of Pinnock’s Goldsmith. + +As the general made no reply to his question, the doctor looked from +him to the boy, who had, out of respect to the medical official, +descended from his pulpit, and stood tugging at a very diminutive lock +of hair, with an action which he intended to represent a bow. + +“Does he ask for anything?” asked the doctor. + +“Don’t he, sir?” said the boy, answering one question with another. +“He’s been doing nothin’ for ever so long but askin’ for a drop o’ +wine. He says he feels a kind of sinkin’ that nothin’ but wine can +cure.” + +“He shall have it, then,” said the doctor. “A little port wine with a +touch of iron in it would help to bring him round as soon as anything, +and be sure you see that he takes it. I’ve been giving him quinine for +some time past; but it has done so little towards making him stronger, +that I sometimes doubt his having taken it. Has he complained of +anything else?” + +“Well, sir,” said the boy, this time looking at his questioner very +intently, and seeming to consider every word before he said it, “there +is somethin’ which I can make out from what he says when he talks to +hisself--and he does talk to hisself awful--somethin’ which preys upon +his mind very much; but I don’t suppose it’s much good mentioning it +either.” Here he stopped, hesitating, and looking very earnestly at the +doctor. + +“Why not, my boy?” + +“Because you see, sir, what he hankers after is agen the rules of the +asylum--leastways, the rules the Board makes for such as him.” + +“But what is it, my good lad? Tell me what it is he wishes for?” said +the medical man. + +“Why, it’s a singular wish, I dare say, sir; but he’s allus a talkin’ +about the other lun----” he hesitated, as if out of delicacy towards +Richard, and substituted the word “boarders” for that which he had +been about to use--“and he says, if he could only be allowed to mix +with ’em now and then he’d be as happy as a king. But, of course, as +I was a-tellin’ him when you come in, sir, that’s agen the rules of +the establishment, and in consequence is impossible--’cause why, these +’ere rules is like Swedes and Nasturtiums--[the boy from Slopperton may +possibly have been thinking of the Medes and Persians]--and can’t be +gone agen.” + +“I don’t know about that,” said the good-natured doctor. “So, general,” +he added, turning to Richard, who had shifted his position, and now lay +looking at his visitor rather anxiously, “so, general, you would like +to mix with your friends out there?” + +“Indeed I should, sir.” Those deep and earnest dark eyes, with which +Richard watched the doctor’s face, were scarcely the eyes of a madman. + +“Very well, then,” said the medical man, “very well; we must see +if it can’t be managed. But I say, general, you’ll find the Prince +Regent among your fellow-boarders; and I wouldn’t answer for your not +meeting with Lord Castlereagh, and that might cause unpleasantness--eh, +general?” + +“No, no, sir; there’s no fear of that. Political differences should +never----” + +“Interfere with private friendship. A noble sentiment, general. Very +well, you shall mix with the other boarders to-morrow. I’ll speak to +the Board about it this afternoon. This, luckily, is a Board-day. +You’ll find George the Fourth a very nice fellow. He came here because +he would take everything of other people’s that he could lay his hands +on, and said he was only taking taxes from his subjects. Good-day. I’ll +send round some port wine immediately, and you shall have a couple of +glasses a day given you; so keep up your spirits, general.” + +“Well,” said the boy from Slopperton, as the doctor closed the door +behind him, “that ’ere medical officer’s a regular brick: and all I +can say is to repeat his last words--which ought to be printed in +gold letters a foot high--and those words is,--‘Keep up your spirits, +general.’” + + + + + CHAPTER II. + + MR. AUGUSTUS DARLEY AND MR. JOSEPH PETERS GO OUT FISHING. + + +A LONG period of incessant rains had by no means improved the +natural beauties of the Sloshy; nor had it in any manner enhanced +the advantages attending a residence on the banks of that river. The +occupants of the houses by the waterside were in the habit of going to +sleep at night with the firm conviction that the lower portion of their +tenement was a comfortable kitchen, and awakening in the morning were +apt to find it a miniature lake. + +Then, again, the river had a knack of dropping in at odd times, in a +friendly way, when least expected--when Mrs. Jones was cooking the +Sunday’s dinner, or while Mrs. Brown was gone to market; and, as its +manner of entering an apartment was, after the fashion of a ghost in +a melodrama, to rise through the floor, the surprise occasioned by its +appearance was not unalloyed by vexation. + +It would intrude, an uninvited guest, at a social tea-party, and +suddenly isolate every visitor on his or her chair as on an island. + +There was not a mouse or a black-beetle in any of the kitchens by the +Sloshy whose life was worth the holding, such an enemy was the swelling +water to all domestic peace or comfort. + +It is true that to some fresh and adventurous spirits the rising of the +river afforded a kind of eccentric gratification. It gave a smack of +the flavour of Venice to the dull insipidity of Slopperton life; and to +an imaginative mind every coal-barge that went by became a gondola, and +only wanted a cavalier, with a very short doublet, pointed shoes, and a +guitar, to make it perfection. + +Indeed, Miss Jones, milliner and dressmaker, had been heard to say, +that when she saw the water coming up to the parlour-windows she could +hardly believe she was not really in the city of the winged horses, +round the corner out of the square of St. Mark’s, and three doors from +the Bridge of Sighs. Miss Jones was well up in Venetian topography, as +she was engaged in the perusal of a powerful work in penny numbers, +detailing the adventures of a celebrated ‘Bravo’ of that city. + +To the ardent minds of the juvenile denizens of the waterside the +swollen river was a source of pure and unalloyed delight. To take a +tour round one’s own back kitchen in a washing-tub, with a duster +for a sail, is perhaps, at the age of six, a more perfect species of +enjoyment than that afforded by any Alpine glories or Highland scenery +through which we may wander in after-years, when Reason has taught us +her cold lesson, that, however bright the sun may shine on one side of +the mountain, the shadows are awaiting us on the other. + +There is a gentleman in a cutaway coat and a white hat, smoking a very +short and black clay pipe, as he loiters on the bank of the Sloshy. I +wonder what he thinks of the river? + +It is eight years since this gentleman was last in Slopperton; then +he came as a witness in the trial of Richard Marwood; then he had a +black eye, and was out-at-elbows; now, his optics are surrounded with +no dark shades which mar their natural colour--clear bright grey. Now, +too, he is, to speak familiarly, in high feather. His cutaway coat +of the newest fashion (for there is fashion even in cutaways); his +plaid trousers, painfully tight at the knees, and admirably adapted to +display the development of the calf, are still bright with the greens +and blues of the Macdonald. His hat is not crushed or indented in above +half-a-dozen directions--a sign that it is comparatively new, for the +circle in which he moves considers bonneting a friendly demonstration, +and to knock a man’s hat off his head and into the gutter rather a +polite attention. + +Yes, during the last eight years the prospects of Mr. Augustus +Darley--(that is the name of the witness)--have been decidedly looking +up. Eight years ago he was a medical student, loose on wide London; +eating bread-and-cheese and drinking bottled stout in dissecting-rooms, +and chalking up alarming scores at the caravansary round the corner +of Goodge Street--when the proprietor of the caravansary _would_ +chalk up. There were days which that stern man refused to mark with a +white stone. Now, he has a dispensary of his own; a marvellous place, +which would be entirely devoted to scientific pursuits if dominoes +and racing calendars did not in some degree predominate therein. +This dispensary is in a populous neighbourhood on the Surrey side +of the water; and in the streets and squares--to say nothing of the +court and mews--round this establishment the name of Augustus Darley +is synonymous with everything which is popular and pleasant. His +very presence is said to be as good as physic. Now, as physic in the +abstract, and apart from its curative qualities, is scarcely a very +pleasant thing, this may be considered rather a doubtful compliment; +but for all that, it was meant in perfect good faith, and what’s more, +it meant a great deal. + +When anybody felt ill, he sent for Gus Darley--(he had never been +called Mr. but once in his life, and then by a sheriff’s officer, +who, arresting him for the first time, wasn’t on familiar terms; all +Cursitor Street knew him as “Gus, old fellow,” and “Darley, my boy,” +before long). If the patient was very bad, Gus told him a good story. +If the case seemed a serious one, he sang a comic song. If the patient +felt, in popular parlance, “low,” Darley would stop to supper; and +if by that time the patient was not entirely restored, his medical +adviser would send him a ha’porth of Epsom salts, or three-farthings’ +worth of rhubarb and magnesia, jocosely labelled “The Mixture.” It +was a comforting delusion, laboured under by every patient of Gus +Darley’s, that the young surgeon prescribed for him a very mysterious +and peculiar amalgamation of drugs, which, though certain death to any +other man, was the only preparation in the whole pharmacopœia that +could possibly keep him alive. + +There was a saying current in the neighbourhood of the dispensary, to +the effect that Gus Darley’s description of the Derby Day was the best +Epsom salts ever invented for the cure of man’s diseases; and he has +been known to come home from the races at ten o’clock at night, and +assist at a sick-bed (successfully), with a wet towel round his head, +and a painful conviction that he was prescribing for two patients at +once. + +But all this time he is strolling by the swollen Sloshy, with his +pipe in his mouth and a contemplative face, which ever and anon looks +earnestly up the river. Presently he stops by a boat-builder’s yard, +and speaks to a man at work. + +“Well,” he says, “is that boat finished yet?” + +“Yes, sir,” says the man, “quite finished, and uncommon well she looks +too; you might eat your dinner off her; the paint’s as dry as a bone.” + +“How about the false bottom I spoke of?” he asks. + +“Oh, that’s all right, sir, two feet and a half deep, and six feet and +a half long. I’ll tell you what, sir,--no offence--but you must catch +a precious sight more eels than I think you will catch, if you mean to +fill the bottom of that ’ere punt.” + +As the man speaks, he points to where the boat lies high and dry in the +builder’s yard. A great awkward flat-bottomed punt, big enough to hold +half-a-dozen people. + +Gus strolls up to look at it. The man follows him. + +He lifts up the bottom of the boat with a great thick loop of rope. It +is made like a trap-door, two feet and a half above the keel. + +“Why,” said Gus, “a man could lie down in the keel of the boat, with +that main deck over him.” + +“To be sure he could, sir, and a pretty long un, too; though I don’t +say much for its being a over-comfortable berth. He might feel himself +rather cramped if he was of a restless disposition.” + +Gus laughed, and said,--“You’re right, he might, certainly, poor +fellow! Come, now, you’re rather a tall chap, I should like to see if +you could lie down there comfortably for a minute or so. We’ll talk +about some beer when you come out.” + +The man looked at Mr. Darley with rather a puzzled glance. He had heard +the legend of the mistletoe bough. He had helped to build the boat, but +for all that there might be a hidden spring somewhere about it, and +Gus’s request might conceal some sinister intent; but no one who had +once looked our medical friend in the face ever doubted him; so the man +laughed and said,-- + +“Well, you’re a rum un, whoever the other is” (people were rarely very +deferential in their manner of addressing Gus Darley); “howsomedever, +here’s to oblige you.” And the man got into the boat, and lying down, +suffered Gus to lower the false bottom of it over him. + +“How do you feel?” asks Gus. “Can you breathe?--have you plenty of air?” + +“All right, sir,” says the man through a hole in the plank. “It’s quite +a extensive berth, when you’ve once settled yourself, only it ain’t +much calculated for active exercise.” + +“Do you think you could stand it for half an hour?” Gus inquires. + +“Lor, bless you, sir! for half-a-dozen hours, if I was paid accordin’.” + +“Should you think half-a-crown enough for twenty minutes?” + +“Well, I don’t know, sir; suppose you made it three shillings?” + +“Very good,” said Gus; “three shillings it shall be. It’s now half-past +twelve;” he looks at his watch as he speaks. “I’ll sit here and smoke a +pipe; and if you lie quiet till ten minutes to one, you’ll have earned +the three bob.” + +Gus steps into the boat, and seats himself at the prow; the man’s head +lies at the stern. + +“Can you see me?” Gus inquires. + +“Yes, sir, when I squints.” + +“Very well, then, you can see I don’t make a bolt of it. Make your mind +easy: there’s five minutes gone already.” + +Gus finishes his pipe, looks at his watch again--a quarter to one. He +whistles a scena from an opera, and then jumps out of the boat and +pulls up the false bottom. + +“All’s right,” he says; “time’s up.” + +The man gets out and stretches his legs and arms, as if to convince +himself that those members are unimpaired. + +“Well, was it pretty comfortable?” Gus asks. + +“Lor’ love you, sir! regular jolly, with the exception of bein’ rather +warm, and makin’ a cove precious dry.” + +Gus gives the man wherewith to assuage this drought, and says,-- + +“You may shove the boat down to the water, then. My friend will be here +in a minute with the tackle, and we can then see about making a start.” + +The boat is launched, and the man amuses himself with rowing a few +yards up the river, while Gus waits for his friend. + +In about ten minutes his friend arrives, in the person of Mr. Joseph +Peters, of the police force, with a couple of eel-spears over his +shoulder (which give him somewhat the appearance of a dry-land +Neptune), and a good-sized carpet-bag, which he carries in his hand. + +Gus and he exchange a few remarks in the silent alphabet, in which Gus +is almost as great an adept as the dumb detective, and they step into +the punt. + +The boat-builder’s man is sent for a gallon of beer in a stone bottle, +a half-quartern loaf, and a piece of cheese. These provisions being +shipped, Darley and Peters each take an oar, and they pull away from +the bank and strike out into the middle of the river. + + + + + CHAPTER III. + + THE EMPEROR BIDS ADIEU TO ELBA. + + +ON this same day, but at a later hour in the afternoon, Richard +Marwood, better known as the Emperor Napoleon, joined the inmates of +the county asylum in their daily exercise in the grounds allotted for +that purpose. These grounds consisted of prim grass-plots, adorned +with here and there a bed in which some dismal shrubs, or a few sickly +chrysanthemums held up their gloomy heads, beaten and shattered by the +recent heavy rains. These grass-plots were surrounded by stiff straight +gravel-walks; and the whole was shut in by a high wall, surmounted by a +_chevaux-de-frise_. The iron spikes composing this adornment had +been added of late years; for, in spite of the comforts and attractions +of the establishment, some foolish inhabitants thereof, languishing +for gayer and more dazzling scenes, had been known to attempt, if not +to effect, an escape from the numerous advantages of their home. I +cannot venture to say whether or not the vegetable creation may have +some mysterious sympathy with animated nature; but certainly no trees, +shrubs, flowers, grass, or weeds ever grew like the trees, shrubs, +flowers, grass, and weeds in the grounds of the county lunatic asylum. +From the gaunt elm, which stretched out two great rugged arms, as if +in a wild imprecation, such as might come from the lips of some human +victim of the worst form of insanity, to the frivolous chickweed in +a corner of a gravel-walk, which grew as if not a root, or leaf, or +fibre but had a different purpose to its fellow, and flew off at its +own peculiar tangent, with an infantine and kittenish madness, such +as might have afflicted a love-sick miss of seventeen; from the great +melancholy mad laurel-bushes that rocked themselves to and fro in the +wind with a restlessness known only to the insane, to the eccentric +dandelions that reared their disordered heads from amidst the troubled +and dishevelled grass--every green thing in that great place seemed +more or less a victim to that terrible disease whose influence is of +so subtle a nature, that it infects the very stones of the dark walls +which shut in shattered minds that once were strong and whole, and +fallen intellects that once were bright and lofty. + +But as a stranger to this place, looking for the first time at the +groups of men and women lounging slowly up and down these gravel-walks, +perhaps what most startles you, perhaps even what most distresses you, +is, that these wretched people scarcely seem unhappy. Oh, merciful +and wondrous wise dispensation from Him who fits the back to bear the +burden! He so appoints it. The man, whose doubts or fears, or wild +aspirings to the misty far away, all the world’s wisdom could not +yesterday appease, is to-day made happy by a scrap of paper or a shred +of ribbon. We who, standing in the blessed light, look in upon this +piteous mental darkness, are perhaps most unhappy, because we cannot +tell how much or how little sorrow this death-in-life may shroud. They +have passed away from us; their language is not our language, nor their +world our world. I think some one has asked a strange question--Who can +tell whether their folly may not perhaps be better than our wisdom? He +only, from whose mighty hand comes the music of every soul, can tell +which is the discord and which the harmony. We look at them as we look +at all else--through the darkened glass of earth’s uncertainty. + +No, they do not seem unhappy. Queen Victoria is talking to Lady Jane +Grey about to-day’s dinner, and the reprehensible superabundance of +fat in a leg-of-mutton served up thereat. Chronology never disturbs +these good people; nobody thinks it any disgrace to be an anachronism. +Lord Brougham will divide an unripe apple with Cicero, and William the +Conqueror will walk arm-in-arm with Pius the Ninth, without the least +uneasiness on the score of probability; and when, on one occasion, a +gentleman, who for three years had enjoyed considerable popularity as +Cardinal Wolsey, all of a sudden recovered, and confessed to being +plain John Thomson, the inmates of the asylum were unanimous in feeling +and expressing the most profound contempt for his unhappy state. + +To-day, however, Richard is the hero. He is surrounded immediately +on his appearance by all the celebrities and a great many of the +non-celebrities of the establishment. The Emperor of the German Ocean +and the Chelsea Waterworks in particular has so much to say to him, +that he does not know how to begin; and when he does begin, has to go +back and begin again, in a manner both affable and bewildering. + +Why did not Richard join them before, he asks--they are so very +pleasant, they are so very social; why, in goodness-gracious’ name (he +opens his eyes very wide as he utters the name of goodness-gracious, +and looks back over his shoulder rather as if he thinks he may have +invoked some fiend), why did not Richard join them? + +Richard tells him he was not allowed to do so. + +On this, the potentate looks intensely mysterious. He is rather +stout, and wears a head-dress of has own manufacture--a species of +coronet, constructed of a newspaper and a blue-and-white bird’s-eye +pocket-handkerchief. He puts his hands to the very furthest extent +that he can push them into his trousers-pockets; plants himself right +before Richard on the gravel-walk, and says, with a wink of intense +significance, “Was it the Khan?” + +Richard says, he thinks not. + +“Not the Khan!” he mutters thoughtfully. “You really are of opinion +that it was not the Khan?” + +“I really am,” Richard replies. + +“Then it lies between the last Duke of Devonshire but sixteen and +Abd-el-Kader: I do hope it wasn’t Abd-el-Kader; I had a better opinion +of Abd-el-Kader--I had indeed.” + +Richard looks rather puzzled, but says nothing. + +“There has evidently,” continued his friend, “been some malignant +influence at work to prevent your appearing amongst us before this. +You have been a member of this society for, let me see, three hundred +and sixty-three years--be kind enough to set me right if I make a +mis-statement--three hundred and--did I say seventy-twelve years?--and +you have never yet joined us! Now, there is something radically +wrong here; to use the language of the ancients in their religious +festivals, there is ‘a screw loose.’ You ought to have joined us, +you really ought! We are very social; we are positively buoyant; +we have a ball every evening. Well, no, perhaps it is not every +evening. My ideas as to time, I am told, are vague; but I know it is +either every ten years, or every other week. I incline to thinking +it must be every other week. On these occasions we dance. Are you +a votary of Terp--what-you-may-call-her, the lady who had so many +unmarried sisters? Do you incline to the light fantastic?” By way of +illustration, the Emperor of the Waterworks executed a caper, which +would have done honour to an elderly elephant taking his first lesson +in the polka. + +There was one advantage in conversing with this gentleman. If his +questions were sometimes of rather a difficult and puzzling nature, +he never did anything so under-bred as to wait for an answer. It now +appeared for the first time to strike him, that perhaps the laws of +exclusiveness had in some manner been violated, by a person of his +distinction having talked so familiarly to an entire stranger; he +therefore suddenly skipped a pace or two backwards, leaving a track +of small open graves in the damp gravel made by the impression of +his feet, and said, in a tone of voice so dignified as to be almost +freezing-- + +“Pray, to whom have I the honour to make these observations?” + +Richard regretted to say he had not a card about him, but added--“You +may have heard of the Emperor Napoleon?” + +“Buonaparte? Oh, certainly; very frequently, very frequently: and you +are that worthy person? Dear me! this is very sad. Not at your charming +summer residence at Moscow, or your pleasant winter retreat on the +field of Waterloo: this is really distressing, very.” + +His pity for Richard was so intense, that he was moved to tears, and +picked a dandelion with which to wipe his eyes. + +“My Chelsea property,” he said presently, “is fluctuating--very. I find +a tendency in householders to submit to having their water cut off, +rather than pay the rate. Our only plan is to empty every cistern half +an hour before tea-time. Persevered in for a week or so, we find that +course has a harassing effect, and they pay. But all this is wearing +for the nerves--very.” + +He shook his head solemnly, rubbed his eyes very hard with the +dandelion, and then ate that exotic blossom. + +“An agreeable tonic,” he said; “known to be conducive to digestion. My +German Ocean I find more profitable, on account of the sea-bathing.” + +Richard expressed himself very much interested in the commercial +prospects of his distinguished friend; but at this moment they were +interrupted by the approach of a lady, who, with a peculiar hop, skip, +and jump entirely her own, came up to the Emperor of the Waterworks and +took hold of his arm. + +She was a gushing thing of some forty-odd summers, and wore a bonnet, +the very purchase of which would have stamped her as of unsound +intellect, without need of any further proof whatever. To say that +it was like a coal-scuttle was nothing; to say that it resembled a +coal-scuttle which had suffered from an aggravated attack of water on +the brain, and gone mad, would be perhaps a little nearer the mark. +Imagine such a bonnet adorned with a green veil, rather bigger than an +ordinary table cloth, and three quill pens tastefully inserted in the +direction in which Parisian milliners are wont to place the plumage of +foreign birds--and you may form some idea of the lady’s head-gear. Her +robes were short and scanty, but plentifully embellished with a species +of trimming, which to an ordinary mind suggested strips of calico, but +which amongst the inmates passed current as Valenciennes lace. Below +these robes appeared a pair of apple-green boots--boots of a pattern +such as no shoemaker of sound mind ever in his wildest dreams could +have originated, but which in this establishment were voted rather +recherché than otherwise. This lady was no other than the damsel who +had suggested an elopement with Richard some eight years ago, and who +claimed for her distinguished connections the Pope and the muffin-man. + +“Well,” she said to the Emperor of the Waterworks, with a voice and +manner which would have been rather absurdly juvenile in a girl of +fifteen,--“and where has its precious one been hiding since dinner? +Was it the fat mutton which rendered the most brilliant of mankind +unfit for general society; or was it that it ‘had a heart for falsehood +framed?’ I hope it was the fat mutton.” + +“It’s precious one” looked from the charmer at his side to Richard, +with rather an apologetic shrug. + +“The sex is weak,” he said, “conqueror of Agincourt--I beg pardon, +Waterloo. The sex is weak: it is a fact established alike by medical +science and political economy. Poor thing! she loves me.” + +The lady, for the first time, became aware of the presence of Richard. +She dropped a very low curtesy, in the performance of which one of the +green boots described a complete circle, and said-- + +“From Gloucestershire, sir?” interrogatively. + +“The Emperor Napoleon Buonaparte,” said the proprietor of the German +Ocean. “My dear, you ought to know him.” + +“The Emperor Nap-o-le-on Bu-o-na-parte,” she said very slowly, +checking off the syllables on her fingers, “and from Gloucestershire? +How gratifying! All our great men come from Gloucestershire. It is +a well-known fact--from Gloucestershire? Muffins were invented in +Gloucestershire by Alfred the Great. Did you know our dear Alfred? +You are perhaps too young--a great loss, my dear sir, a great loss; +conglomerated essence of toothache on the cerebral nerves took him off +in fourteen days, three weeks, and one month. We tried everything, +from dandelions--(her eyes wandered as if searching the grounds +for information as to what they had tried)--from dandelions to +chevaux-de-frise--” + +She stopped abruptly, staring Richard full in the face, as if she +expected him to say something; but as he said nothing, she became +suddenly interested in the contemplation of the green boots, looking +first at one and then at the other, as if revolving in her mind the +probability of their wanting mending. + +Presently she looked up, and said with great solemnity-- + +“Do you know the muffin-man?” + +Richard shook his head. + +“He lives in Drury Lane,” she added, looking at him rather sternly, as +much as to say, “Come, no nonsense! you know him well enough!” + +“No,” said Richard, “I don’t remember having met him.” + +“There are seventy-nine of us who know the muffin-man in this +establishment, sir--seventy-nine; and do you dare to stand there and +tell me that you----” + +“I assure you, madam, I have not the honour of his acquaintance.” + +“Not know the muffin-man!--you don’t know the muffin-man! Why, you +contemptible stuck-up jackanapes----” + +What the lady might have gone on to say, it would be difficult to +guess. She was not celebrated for the refinement of her vocabulary +when much provoked; but at this moment a great stout man, one of the +keepers, came up, and cried out-- + +“Holloa! what’s all this!” + +“He says he doesn’t know the muffin-man!” exclaimed the lady, her veil +flying in the wind like a pennant, her arms akimbo, and the apple-green +boots planted in a defiant manner on the gravel-walk. + +“Oh, we know him well enough,” said the man, with a wink at Richard, +“and very slack he bakes his muffins.” Having uttered which piece +of information connected with the gentleman in question, the keeper +strolled off, giving just one steady look straight into the eyes of the +lively damsel, which seemed to have an instantaneous and most soothing +effect upon her nerves. + +As all the lunatics allowed to disport themselves for an hour in the +gardens of the establishment were considered to be, upon the whole, +pretty safe, the keepers were not in the habit of taking much notice +of them. Those officials would congregate in little groups here and +there, talking among themselves, and apparently utterly regardless of +the unhappy beings over whom it was their duty to watch. But let Queen +Victoria or the Emperor Nero, Lady Jane Grey or Lord John Russell, +suffer themselves to be led away by their respective hobbies, or to +ride those animals at too outrageous and dangerous a pace, and a +strong hand would be laid upon the rider’s shoulder, accompanied by a +recommendation to “go indoors,” which was very seldom disregarded. + +As Richard was this afternoon permitted to mix with his +fellow-prisoners for the first time, the boy from Slopperton was +ordered to keep an eye upon him; and a very sharp eye the boy kept, +never for one moment allowing a look, word, or action of the prisoner +to escape him. + +The keepers this afternoon were assembled near the portico, before +which the gardens extended to the high outer wall. The ground between +the portico and the wall was a little less than a quarter of a mile +in length, and at the bottom was the grand entrance and the porter’s +lodge. The gardens surrounded the house on three sides, and on the left +side the wall ran parallel with the river Sloshy. This river was now so +much swollen by the late heavy rains that the waters washed the wall to +the height of four feet, entirely covering the towing-path, which lay +ordinarily between the wall and the waterside. + +Now Richard and the Emperor of the Waterworks, accompanied by the +gushing charmer in the green boots, being all three engaged in friendly +though rather erratic conversation, happened to stroll in the direction +of the grounds on this side, and consequently out of sight of the +keepers. + +The boy from Slopperton was, however, close upon their heels. This +young gentleman had his hands in his pockets, and was loitering and +lounging along with an air which seemed to say, that neither man nor +woman gave him any more delight than they had afforded the Danish +prince of used-up memory. Perhaps it was in utter weariness of life +that he was, as if unconsciously, employed in whistling the melody of +a song, supposed to relate to a passage in the life of a young lady of +the name of Gray, christian name Alice, whose heart it was another’s, +and consequently, by pure logic, never could belong to the singer. + +Now there may be something infectious in this melody; for no sooner had +the boy from Slopperton whistled the first few bars, than some person +in the distance outside the walls of the asylum gardens took up the +air and finished it. A trifling circumstance this in itself; but it +appeared to afford the boy considerable gratification; and he presently +came suddenly upon Richard in the middle of a very interesting +conversation, and whispered in his ear, or rather at his elbow, “All +right, general!” Now as Richard, the Emperor of the Waterworks, and +the only daughter of the Pope all talked at once, and all talked of +entirely different subjects, their conversation might, perhaps, have +been just a little distracting to a short-hand reporter; but as a +conversation, it was really charming. + +Richard--still musing on the wild idea which was known in the asylum +to have possessed his disordered brain ever since the day of his +trial--was giving his companions an account of his escape from Elba. + +“I was determined,” he said, taking the Emperor of the Waterworks by +the button, “I was determined to make one desperate effort to return to +my friends in France----” + +“Very creditable, to be sure,” said the damsel of the green boots; +“your sentiments did you honour.” + +“But to escape from the island was an enterprise of considerable +difficulty,” continued Richard. + +“Of course,” said the damsel, “considering the price of flour. Flour +rose a half-penny in the bushel in the neighbourhood of Drury Lane, +which, of course, reduced the size of muffins----” + +“And had a depressing effect upon the water-rates,” interrupted the +gentleman. + +“Now,” continued Richard, “the island of Elba was surrounded by a high +wall----” + +“A very convenient arrangement; of course facilitating the process of +cutting off the water from the inhabitants,” muttered the Emperor of +the German Ocean. + +The boy Slosh again expressed his feelings with reference to Alice +Gray, and some one on the other side of the wall coincided with him. + +“And,” said Richard, “on the top of this wall was a chevaux-de-frise.” + +“Dear me,” exclaimed the Emperor, “quite a what-you-may-call-it. I mean +an extraordinary coincidence; we too have a chevaux-de-thing-a-me, for +the purpose, I believe, of keeping out the cats. Cats are unpleasant; +especially,” he added, thoughtfully, “especially the Tom-sex--I mean +the sterner sex.” + +“To surmount this wall was my great difficulty.” + +“Naturally, naturally,” said the damsel, “a great undertaking, +considering the fall in muffins--a dangerous undertaking.” + +“There was a boat waiting to receive me on the other side,” said +Richard, glancing at the wall, which was about a hundred yards distant +from him. + +Some person on the other side of the wall had got a good deal nearer by +this time; and, dear me, how very much excited he was about Alice Gray. + +“But the question,” Richard continued, “was how to climb the +wall,”--still looking up at the chevaux-de-frise. + +“I should have tried muffins,” said the lady. + +“I should have cut off the water,” remarked the gentleman. + +“I did neither,” said Richard; “I tried a rope.” + +At this very moment, by some invisible agency, a thickly-knotted rope +was thrown across the chevaux-de-frise, and the end fell within about +four feet of the ground. + +“But her heart it is another’s, and it never can be mine.” + +The gentleman who couldn’t succeed in winning the affections of Miss +Gray was evidently close to the wall now. + +In a much shorter time than the very greatest master in the art of +stenography could possibly have reported the occurrence, Richard threw +the Emperor of the Waterworks half-a-dozen yards from him, with such +violence as to cause that gentleman to trip-up the heels of the only +daughter of the Pope, and fall in a heap upon that lady as on a feather +bed; and then, with the activity of a cat or a sailor, clambered up the +rope, and disappeared over the chevaux-de-frise. + +The gentleman outside was now growing indifferent to the loss of Miss +Gray, for he whistled the melody in a most triumphant manner, keeping +time with the sharp plash of his oars in the water. + +It took the Emperor and his female friend some little time to recover +from the effects of the concussion they had experienced, each from +each; and when they had done so, they stood for a few moments looking +at one another in mute amazement. + +“The gentleman has left the establishment,” at last said the lady. + +“And a bruise on my elbow,” muttered the gentleman, rubbing the +locality in question. + +“Such a very unpolite manner of leaving too,” said the lady. “His +muffins--I mean his manners--have evidently been very much neglected.” + +“He must be a Chelsea householder,” said the Emperor. “The householders +of Chelsea are proverbial for bad manners. They are in the habit of +slamming the door in the face of the tax-gatherer, with a view to +injuring the tip of his nose; and I’m sure Lord Chesterfield never +advised his son to do that.” + +It may be as well here to state that the Emperor of the Waterworks had +in early life been collector of the water-rate in the neighbourhood +of Chelsea; but having unfortunately given his manly intellect to +drinking, and being further troubled with a propensity for speculation +(some people pronounced the word without the first letter), which +involved the advantageous laying-out of his sovereign’s money for his +own benefit, he had first lost his situation and ultimately his senses. + +His lady friend had once kept a baker’s shop in the vicinity of Drury +Lane, and happening, in an evil hour, at the ripe age of forty, to +place her affections on a young man of nineteen, the bent of whose +genius was muffins, and being slighted by the youth in question, she +had retired into the gin-bottle, and thence had been passed to the +asylum of her native country. + +Perhaps the inquiring reader will ask what the juvenile guardian of +Richard is doing all this time? He has been told to keep an eye upon +him; and how has he kept his trust? + +He is standing, very coolly, staring at the lady and gentleman before +him, and is apparently much interested in their conversation. + +“I shall certainly go,” said the Emperor of the Waterworks, after +a pause, “and inform the superintendent of this proceeding--the +superintendent ought really to know of it.” + +“Superintendent” was, in the asylum, the polite name given the keepers. +But just as the Emperor began to shamble off in the direction of the +front of the house, the boy called Slosh flew past him and ran on +before, and by the time the elderly gentleman reached the porch, the +boy had told the astonished keepers the whole story of the escape. + +The keepers ran down to the gate, called to the porter to have it +opened, and in a few minutes were in the road in front of it. They +hurried thence to the river-side. There was not a sign of any human +being on the swollen waters, except two men in a punt close to the +opposite shore, who appeared to be eel-spearing. + +“There’s no boat nearer than that,” said one of the men; “he never +could have reached that in this time if he had been the best swimmer in +England.” + +The men took it for granted that they had been informed of his escape +the moment it occurred. + +“He must have jumped slap into the water,” said another; “perhaps he’s +about somewhere, contriving to keep his head under.” + +“He couldn’t do it,” said the first man who had spoken; “it’s my +opinion the poor chap’s drowned. They will try these escapes, though no +one ever succeeded yet.” + +There was a boat moored at the angle of the asylum wall, and one of the +men sprang into it. + +“Show me the place where he jumped over the wall,” he called to the +boy, who pointed out the spot at his direction. + +The man rowed up to it. + +“Not a sign of him anywhere about here!” he cried. + +“Hadn’t you better call to those men?” asked his comrade; “they must +have seen him jump.” + +The man in the boat nodded assent, and rowed across the river to the +two fishermen. + +“Holloa!” he said, “have you seen any one get over that wall?” + +One of the men, who had just impaled a fine eel, looked up with a +surprised expression, and asked-- + +“Which wall?” + +“Why the asylum, yonder, straight before you.” + +“The asylum! Now, you don’t mean to say that that’s the asylum; and +I’ve been taking it for a gentleman’s mansion and grounds all the +time,” said the angler (who was no other than Mr. Augustus Darley), +taking his pipe out of his mouth. + +“I wish you’d give a straight answer to my question,” said the man; +“have you seen any one jump over that wall; yes, or no?” + +“Then, no!” said Gus; “if I had, I should have gone over and picked him +up, shouldn’t I, stupid?” + +The other fisherman, Mr. Peters, here looked up, and laying down his +eel-spear, spelt out some words on his fingers. + +“Stop a bit,” cried Gus to the man, who was rowing off, “here’s my +friend says he heard a splash in the water ten minutes ago, and thought +it was some rubbish shot over the wall.” + +“Then he did jump! Poor chap, I’m afraid he must be drowned.” + +“Drowned?” + +“Yes; don’t I tell you one of the lunatics has been trying to escape +over that wall, and must have fallen into the river?” + +“Why didn’t you say so before, then?” said Gus. “What’s to be done? +Where are there any drags?” + +“Why, half a mile off, worse luck, at a public-house down the river, +the ‘Jolly Life-boat.’” + +“Then I’ll tell you what,” said Gus, “my friend and I will row down and +fetch the drags, while you chaps keep a look-out about here.” + +“You’re very good, sir,” said the man; “dragging the river’s about all +we can do now, for it strikes me we’ve seen the last of the Emperor +Napoleon. My eyes! won’t there be a row about it with the Board!” + +“Here we go,” says Gus; “keep a good heart; he may turn up yet;” with +which encouraging remarks Messrs. Darley and Peters struck off at a +rate which promised the speedy arrival of the drags. + + + + + CHAPTER IV. + + JOY AND HAPPINESS FOR EVERYBODY. + + +WHETHER the drags reached the county asylum in time to be of any +service is still a mystery; but Mr. Joseph Peters arrived with the punt +at the boat-builder’s yard in the dusk of the autumn evening. He was +alone, and he left his boat, his tridents, and other fishing-tackle in +the care of the men belonging to the yard, and then putting his hands +in his pockets, trudged off in the direction of Little Gulliver Street. + +If ever Mr. Peters had looked triumphant in his life, he looked +triumphant this evening: if ever his mouth had been on one side, it was +on one side this evening; but it was the twist of a conqueror which +distorted that feature. + +Eight years, too, have done something for Kuppins. Time hasn’t +forgotten Kuppins, though she is a humble individual. Time has touched +up Kuppins; adding a little bit here, and taking away a little bit +there, and altogether producing something rather imposing. Kuppins +has grown. When that young lady had attained her tenth year, there +was a legend current in little Gulliver Street and its vicinity, that +in consequence of a fatal predilection for gin-and-bitters evinced +by her mother during the infancy of Kuppins, that diminutive person +would never grow any more: but she gave the lie both to the legend +and the gin-and-bitters by outgrowing her frocks at the advanced age +of seventeen; and now she was rather a bouncing young woman than +otherwise, and had a pair of such rosy cheeks as would have done honour +to healthier breezes than those of Slopperton-on-the-Sloshy. + +Time had done something, too, for Kuppins’s shock of hair, for it +was now brushed, and combed, and dragged, and tortured into a state +not so very far from smoothness; and it was furthermore turned up; an +achievement in the hair-dressing line which it had taken her some years +to effect, and which, when effected, was perhaps a little calculated to +remind the admiring beholder of a good-sized ball of black cotton with +a hair-pin stuck through it. + +What made Kuppins in such a state of excitement on this particular +evening, who shall say? Certain it is that she was excited. At the +first sound of the click of Mr. Peters’s latch-key in the door of No. +5, Little Gulliver Street, Kuppins, with a lighted candle, flew to open +it. How she threw her arms round Mr. Peters’s neck and kissed him--how +she left a lump of tallow in his hair, and a smell of burning in his +whiskers--how, in her excitement she blew the candle out--and how, by +a feat of leger-de-main, or leger-de-lungs, she blew it in again, must +have been seen to be sufficiently appreciated. Her next proceeding was +to drag Mr. Peters upstairs into the indoor Eden, which bore the very +same appearance it had done eight years ago. One almost expected to +find the red baby grown up--but it wasn’t; and that dreadful attack +of the mumps from which the infant had suffered when Mr. Peters first +became acquainted with it did not appear to have abated in the least. +Kuppins thrust the detective into his own particular chair, planted +herself in an opposite seat, put the candlestick on the table, snuffed +the candle, and then, with her eyes opened to the widest extent, +evidently awaited his saying something. + +He did say something--in his own way, of course; the fingers went to +work. “I’ve d----” said the fingers. + +“_’One_ it,” cried Kuppins, dreadfully excited by this time, “done +it! you’ve done it! Didn’t I always say you would? Didn’t I know you +would? Didn’t I always dream you would, three times running, and a +house on fire?--that meant the river; and an army of soldiers--that +meant the boat; and everybody in black clothes--meaning joy and +happiness. It’s come true; it’s all come out. Oh, I’m so happy!” In +proof of which Kuppins immediately commenced a series of evolutions +of the limbs and exercises of the human voice, popularly known in the +neighbourhood as strong hysterics--so strong, in fact, that Mr. Peters +couldn’t have held her still if he had tried. Perhaps that’s why he +didn’t try; but he looked about in every direction for something cold +to put down her back, and finding nothing handy but the poker, he +stirred her up with that in the neighbourhood of the spinal marrow, as +if she had been a bad fire; whereon she came to. + +“And where’s the blessed boy?” she asked, presently. + +Mr. Peters signified upon his fingers that the blessed boy was still +at the asylum, and that there he must remain till such time as he +should be able to leave without raising suspicion. + +“And to think,” said Kuppins, “that we should have seen the +advertisement for a boy to wait upon poor Mr. Marwood; and to think +that we should have thought of sending our Slosh to take the situation; +and to think that he should have been so clever in helping you through +with it! Oh my!” As Kuppins here evinced a desire for a second edition +of the hysterics, Mr. Peters changed the conversation by looking +inquiringly towards a couple of saucepans on the fire. + +“Tripe,” said Kuppins, answering the look, “and taters, floury ones;” +whereon she began to lay the supper-table. Kuppins was almost mistress +of the house now, for the elderly proprietress was a sufferer from +rheumatism, and kept to her room, enlivened by the society of a large +black cat, and such gossip as Kuppins collected about the neighbourhood +in the course of the day and retailed to her mistress in the evening. +So we leave Mr. Peters smoking his pipe and roasting his legs at his +own hearth, while Kuppins dishes the tripe and onions, and strips the +floury potatoes of their russet jackets. + +Where all this time is the Emperor Napoleon? + +There are two gentlemen pacing up and down the platform of the +Birmingham station, waiting for the 10 p.m. London express. One of them +is Mr. Augustus Darley; the other is a man wrapped in a greatcoat, who +has red hair and whiskers, and wears a pair of spectacles; but behind +these spectacles there are dark brown eyes, which scarcely match the +red hair, any better than the pale dark complexion agrees with the very +roseate hue of the whiskers. These two gentlemen have come across the +country from a little station a few miles from Slopperton-on-the-Sloshy. + + +“Well, Dick,” said Darley, “doesn’t this bring back old times, my boy?” + +The red-haired gentleman, who was smoking a cigar, took it from his +mouth and clasped his companion by the hand, and said-- + +“It does, Gus, old fellow; and when I forget the share you’ve had in +to-day’s work, may I----may I go back to that place and eat out my own +heart, as I have done for eight years!” + +There was something so very like a mist behind his spectacles, and such +an ominous thickness in his voice, as the red-haired gentleman said +this, that Gus proposed a glass of brandy before the train started. + +“Come, Dick, old fellow, you’re quite womanish to-night, I declare. +This won’t do, you know. I shall have to knock up some of our old pals +and make a jolly night of it, when we get to London; though it will be +to-morrow morning if you go on in this way.” + +“I’ll tell you what it is, Gus,” replied the red-haired gentleman, +“nobody who hadn’t gone through what I’ve gone through could tell +what I feel to-night. I think, Gus, I shall end by being mad in real +earnest; and that my release will do what my imprisonment even couldn’t +effect--turn my brain. But I say, Gus, tell me, tell me the truth; did +any of the old fellows--did they ever think me guilty?” + +“Not one of them, Dick, not one; and I know if one of them had so much +as hinted at such a thought, the others would have throttled him before +he could have said the words. Have another drop of brandy,” he said +hastily, thrusting the glass into his hand; “you’ve no more pluck than +a kitten or a woman, Dick.” + +“I had pluck enough to bear eight years of that,” said the young man, +pointing in the direction of Slopperton, “but this does rather knock me +over. My mother, you’ll write to her, Gus--the sight of my hand might +upset her, without a word of warning--you’ll write and tell her that +I’ve got a chance of escaping; and then you’ll write and say that I +have escaped. We must guard against a shock, Gus; she has suffered too +much already on my account.” + +At this moment the bell rang for the train’s starting: the young men +took their seats in a second-class carriage; and away sped the engine, +out through the dingy manufacturing town, into the open moonlit country. + +Gus and Richard light their cigars, and wrap themselves in their +railway rugs. Gus throws himself back and drops off to sleep (he can +almost smoke in his sleep), and in a quarter of an hour he is dreaming +of a fidgety patient who doesn’t like comic songs, and who can never +see the point of a joke; but who has three pretty daughters, and who +pays his bill every Christmas without even looking at the items. + +But Richard Marwood doesn’t go to sleep. Will he ever sleep again? Will +his nerves ever regain their tranquillity, after the intense excitement +of the last three or four days? He looks back--looks back at that +hideous time, and wonders at its hopeless suffering--wonders till he is +obliged to wrench his mind away from the subject, for fear he should go +mad. How did he ever endure it? How did he ever live through it? He had +no means of suicide? Pshaw! he might have dashed out his brains against +the wall. He might have resolutely refused food, and so have starved +himself to death. How did he endure it. Eight years! Eight centuries! +and every hour a fresh age of anguish! Looking back now, he knows, +what then he did not know, that at the worst--that in his bitterest +despair, there was a vague undefined something, so vague and undefined +that he did not recognise it for itself--a glimmering ray of hope, by +the aid of which alone he bore the dreadful burden of his days; and +with clasped hands and bent head he renders up to that God from whose +pity came this distant light a thanksgiving, which perhaps is not the +less sincere and heartfelt for a hundred reckless words, said long ago, +which rise up now in his mind a shame and a reproach. + +Perhaps it was such a trial as this that Richard Marwood wanted, to +make him a good and earnest man. Something to awaken dormant energies; +something to arouse the better feelings of a noble soul, to stimulate +to action an intellect hitherto wasted; something to throw him back +upon the God he had forgotten, and to make him ultimately that which +God, in creating such a man, meant him to become. + +Away flies the engine. Was there ever such an open country? Was there +ever such a moonlight night? Was earth ever so fair, or the heavens +ever so bright, since man’s universe was created? Not for Richard! He +is free; free to breathe that blessed air; to walk that glorious earth; +free to track to his doom the murderer of his uncle. + +In the dead of the night the express train rattles into the Euston +Square station; Richard and Gus spring out, and jump into a cab. Even +smoky London, asleep under the moonlight, is beautiful in the eyes of +Daredevil Dick, as they rattle through the deserted streets on the way +to their destination. + + + + + CHAPTER V. + + THE CHEROKEES TAKE AN OATH. + + +THE cab stops in a narrow street in the neighbourhood of Drury Lane, +before the door of a small public-house, which announces itself, in +tarnished gilt letters on a dirty board, as “The Cherokee, by Jim +Stilson.” Jim Stilson is a very distinguished professor of the noble +art of self-defence; and (in consequence of a peculiar playful knack +he has with his dexter fist) is better known to his friends and the +general public as the Left-handed Smasher. + +Of course, at this hour of the night, the respectable hostelry is +wrapped in that repose which befits the house of a landlord who puts +up his shutters and locks his door as punctually as the clocks of St. +Mary-le-Strand and St. Clement Danes strike the midnight hour. There +is not so much as the faintest glimmer of a rushlight in one of the +upper windows; but for all that, Richard and Darley alight, and having +dismissed the cab, Gus looks up and down the street to see that it +is clear, puts his lips to the keyhole of the door of Mr. Stilson’s +hostelry, and gives an excellent imitation of the feeble miaow of an +invalid member of the feline species. + +Perhaps the Left-handed Smasher is tender-hearted, and nourishes +an affection for distressed grimalkins; for the door is softly +opened--just wide enough to admit Richard and his friend. + +The person who opens the door is a young lady, who has apparently +been surprised in the act of putting her hair in curl-papers, as +she hurriedly thrusts her brush and comb in among the biscuits and +meat-pies in a corner of the bar. She is evidently very sleepy, and +rather inclined to yawn in Mr. Augustus Darley’s face; but as soon as +they are safe inside, she fastens the door and resumes her station +behind the bar. There is only one gas-lamp alight, and it is rather +difficult to believe that the gentleman seated in the easy-chair +before an expiring fire in the bar-parlour, his noble head covered +with a red cotton bandanna, is neither more nor less than the immortal +Left-handed one; but he snores loud enough for the whole prize-ring, +and the nervous listener is inclined to wish that he had made a point +of clearing his head before he went to sleep. + +“Well, Sophia Maria,” says Mr. Darley, “are they all up there?” +pointing in the direction of a door that leads to the stairs. + +“Most every one of ’em, sir; there’s no getting ’em to break up, nohow. +Mr. Splitters has been and wrote a drama for the Victoria Theayter, and +they’ve been a-chaffing of him awful because there’s fifteen murders, +and four low-comedy servants that all say, ‘No you don’t,’ in it. The +guv’nor had to go up just now, and talk to ’em, for they was a throwin’ +quart pots at each other, playful.” + +“Then I’ll run up, and speak to them for a minute,” said Gus. “Come +along, Dick.” + +“How about your friend, sir,” remonstrated the Smasher’s Hebe; “he +isn’t a Cheerful, is he, sir?” + +“Oh, I’ll answer for him,” said Gus. “It’s all right, Sophia Maria; +bring us a couple of glasses of brandy-and-water hot, and tell the +Smasher to step up, when I ring the bell.” + +Sophia Maria looked doubtfully from Gus to the slumbering host, and +said-- + +“He’ll wake up savage if I disturb him. He’s off for his first sleep +now, and he’ll go to bed as soon as the place is clear.” + +“Never mind, Sophia; wake him up when I ring, and send him upstairs; +he’ll find something there to put him in a good temper. Come, Dick, +tumble up. You know the way.” + +The Cheerful Cherokees made their proximity known by such a stifling +atmosphere of tobacco about the staircase as would have certainly +suffocated anyone not initiated in their mysteries. Gus opened the +door of a back room on the first floor, of a much larger size than +the general appearance of the house would have promised. This room was +full of gentlemen, who, in age, size, costume, and personal advantages, +varied as much as it is possible for any one roomful of gentlemen to +do. Some of them were playing billiards; some of them were looking on, +betting on the players; or more often upbraiding them for such play +as, in the Cheerful dialect, came under the sweeping denunciation of +the Cherokee adjective “duffing.” Some of them were eating a peculiar +compound entitled “Welsh rarebit”--a pleasant preparation, if it had +not painfully reminded the casual observer of mustard-poultices, or +yellow soap in a state of solution--while lively friends knocked the +ashes of their pipes into their plates, abstracted their porter just +as they were about to imbibe that beverage, and in like fascinating +manner beguiled the festive hour. One gentleman, a young Cherokee, had +had a rarebit, and had gone to sleep with his head in his plate and his +eyebrows in his mustard. Some were playing cards; some were playing +dominoes; one gentleman was in tears, because the double six he wished +to play had fallen into a neighbouring spittoon, and he lacked either +the moral courage or the physical energy requisite for picking it up; +but as, with the exception of the sleepy gentleman, everybody was +talking very loud and on an entirely different subject, the effect was +lively, not to say distracting. + +“Gentlemen,” said Gus, “I have the honour of bringing a friend, whom I +wish to introduce to you.” + +“All right, Gus!” said the gentleman engaged at dominoes, “that’s the +cove I ought to play,” and fixing one half-open eye on the spotted +ivory, he lapsed into a series of imbecile imprecations on everybody in +general, and the domino in particular. + +Richard took a seat at a little distance from this gentleman, and at +the bottom of the long table--a seat sacred on grand occasions to the +vice-chairman. Some rather noisy lookers-on at the billiards were a +little inclined to resent this, and muttered something about Dick’s red +wig and whiskers, in connection with the popular accompaniments to a +boiled round of beef. + +“I say, Darley,” cried a gentleman, who held a billiard-cue in his +hand, and had been for some time impotently endeavouring to smooth his +hair with the same. “I say, old fellow, I hope your friend’s committed +a murder or two, because then Splitters can put him in a new piece.” + +Splitters, who had for four hours been in a state of abject misery, +from the unmerciful allusions to his last _chef d’œuvre_, gave +a growl from a distant corner of the table, where he was seeking +consolation in everybody else’s glass; and as everybody drank a +different beverage, was not improving his state of mind thereby. + +“My friend never committed a murder in his life, Splitters, so he +won’t dramatize on that score; but he’s been accused of one; and he’s +as innocent as you are, who never murdered any thing in your life but +Lindley Murray and the language of your country.” + +“Who’s been murdering somebody?” said the domino-player, passing his +left hand through his hair, till his chevelure resembled a turk’s-head +broom. “Who’s murdered? I wish everybody was; and that I could dance +my favourite dance upon their graves. Blow that double-six; he’s the +fellow I ought to play.” + +“Perhaps you’ll give us your auburn-haired friend’s name, Darley,” said +a gentleman with his mouth full of Welsh rarebit; “he doesn’t seem too +brilliant to live; he’d better have gone to the ‘Deadly Livelies,’ in +the other street.” The “Deadly Livelies” was the sobriquet of a rival +club, which plumed itself on being a cut above the Cherokees. “Who’s +dead?” muttered the domino-player. “I wish everybody was, and that I +was contracted with to bury ’em cheap. I should have won the game,” he +added plaintively, “if I could have picked up that double-six.” + +“I suppose your friend wants to be Vice at our next meeting,” said +the gentleman with the billiard-cue; who, in default of a row, always +complained that the assembly was too quiet for him. + +“It wouldn’t be the first time if he were Vice, and it wouldn’t be the +first time if you made him Chair,” said Gus. “Come, old fellow, tell +them you’re come back, and ask them if they’re glad to see you?” + +The red-haired gentleman at this sprang to his feet, threw off the rosy +locks and the ferocious whiskers, and looked round at the Cherokees +with his hands in his pockets. + +“Daredevil Dick!” A shout arose--one brief wild huzza, such as +had not been heard in that room--which, as we know, was none of +the quietest--within the memory of the oldest Cherokee. Daredevil +Dick--escaped--come back--as handsome as ever--as jolly as ever--as +glorious a fellow--as thoroughgoing a brick--as noble-hearted a trump +as eight years ago, when he had been the life and soul of all of them! +such shaking of hands; everybody shaking hands with him again and +again, and then everybody shaking hands with everybody else; and the +billiard-player wiping his eyes with his cue; and the sleepy gentleman +waking up and rubbing the mustard into his drowsy optics; and the +domino-player, who, though he execrates all mankind, wouldn’t hurt the +tiniest wing of the tiniest fly, even he makes a miraculous effort, +picks up the double-six, and magnanimously presents it to Richard. + +“Take it--take it, old fellow, and may it make you happy! If I’d played +that domino, I should have won the game.” Upon which he executed two +or three steps of a Cherokee dance, and relapsed into the aforesaid +imbecile imprecations, in mixed French and English, on the inhabitants +of a world not capable of appreciating him. + +It was a long time before anything like quiet could be restored; but +when it was, Richard addressed the meeting. + +“Gentlemen, before the unfortunate circumstance which has so long +separated us, you knew me, I believe, well, and I am proud to think you +esteemed and trusted me.” + +Did they? Oh, _rather_. They jingled all the glasses, and broke +three in the enthusiastic protestation of an affirmative. + +“I need not allude to the unhappy accusation of which I have been the +victim. You are, I understand, acquainted with the full particulars +of my miserable story, and you render me happy by thinking me to be +innocent.” + +By thinking him to be innocent? By knowing him to be innocent! They +are so indignant at the bare thought of anybody believing otherwise, +that somebody in the doorway, the Smasher himself, growls out something +about a--forcible adjective--noise, and the police. + +“Gentlemen, I have this day regained my liberty; thanks to the +exertions of a person to whom I am also indebted for my life, and +thanks also to the assistance of my old friend Gus Darley.” + +Everybody here insisted on shaking hands over again with Gus, which was +rather a hindrance to the speaker’s progress; but at last Richard went +on,-- + +“Now, gentlemen, relying on your friendship” (hear, hear! and another +glass broken), “I am about to appeal to you to assist me in the future +object of my life. That object will be to discover the real murderer +of my uncle, Montague Harding. In what manner, when, or where you may +be able to assist me in this, I cannot at present say, but you are +all, gentlemen, men of talent.” (More glasses broken, and a good deal +of beer spilt into everybody’s boots.) “You are all men of varied +experience, of inexhaustible knowledge of the world, and of the life +of London. Strange things happen every day of our lives. Who shall +say that some one amongst you may not fall, by some strange accident, +or let me say rather by the handiwork of Providence, across a clue to +this at present entirely unravelled mystery? Promise me, therefore, +gentlemen, to give me the benefit of your experience; and whenever that +experience throws you into the haunts of bad men, remember that the man +I seek may, by some remote chance, be amongst them; and that to find +him is the one object of my life. I cannot give you the faintest index +to what he may be, or who he may be. He may be dead, and beyond the +reach of justice--but he may live! and if he does, Heaven grant that +the man who has suffered the stigma of his guilt may track him to his +doom. Gentlemen, tell me that your hearts go with me.” + +They told him so, not once, but a dozen times; shaking hands with him, +and pushing divers liquors into his hand every time. But they got over +it at last, and the gentleman with the billiard-cue rapped their heads +with that instrument to tranquillize them, and then rose as president, +and said,-- + +“Richard Marwood, our hearts go with you, thoroughly and entirely, and +we swear to give you the best powers of our intellects and the utmost +strength of our abilities to aid you in your search. Gentlemen, are you +prepared to subscribe to this oath?” + +They were prepared to subscribe to it, and they did subscribe to it, +every one of them--rather noisily, but very heartily. + +When they had done so, a gentleman emerges from the shadow of the +doorway, who is no other than the illustrious left-handed one, who +had come upstairs in answer to Darley’s summons, just before Richard +addressed the Cherokees. The Smasher was not a handsome man. His nose +had been broken a good many times, and that hadn’t improved him; he had +a considerable number of scars about his face, including almost every +known variety of cut, and they didn’t improve him. His complexion, +again, bore perhaps too close a resemblance to mottled soap to come +within the region of the beautiful; but he had a fine and manly +expression of countenance, which, in his amiable moments, reminded the +beholder of a benevolent bulldog. + +He came up to Richard, and took him by the hand. It was no small ordeal +of courage to shake hands with the Left-handed Smasher, but Daredevil +Dick stood it like a man. + +“Mr. Richard Marwood,” said he, “you’ve been a good friend to me, +ever since you was old enough--” he stopped here, and cast about in +his mind for the fitting pursuits of early youth--“ever since you was +old enough to give a cove a black eye, or knock your friend’s teeth +down his throat with a light backhander. I’ve known you down stairs, +a-swearin’ at the barmaid, and holdin’ your own agin the whole lot +of the Cheerfuls, when other young gents of your age was a-makin’ +themselves bad with sweetstuffs and green apples, and callin’ it life. +I’ve known you help that gent yonder,” he gave a jerk with his thumb +in the direction of the domino-player, “to wrench off his own pa’s +knocker, and send it to him by twopenny post next mornin’, seventeen +and sixpence to pay postage; but I never know’d you to do a bad action, +or to hit out upon a cove as was down.” + +Richard thanked the Smasher for his good opinion, and they shook hands +again. + +“I’ll tell you what it is,” continued the host, “I’m a man of few +words. If a cove offends me, I give him my left between his eyes, +playful; if he does it agen, I give him my left agen, with a meanin’, +and he don’t repeat it. If a gent as I like does me proud, I feels +grateful, and when I has a chance I shows him my gratitude. Mr. Richard +Marwood, I’m your friend to the last spoonful of my claret; and let the +man as murdered your uncle keep clear of my left mawley, if he wants to +preserve his beauty.” + + + + + CHAPTER VI. + + MR. PETERS RELATES HOW HE THOUGHT HE HAD A CLUE, AND HOW HE LOST IT. + + +A WEEK after the meeting of the Cherokees Richard Marwood received his +mother, in a small furnished house he had taken in Spring Gardens. Mrs. +Marwood, possessed of the entire fortune of her murdered brother, was +a very rich woman. Of her large income she had, during the eight years +of her son’s imprisonment, spent scarcely anything; as, encouraged by +Mr. Joseph Peters’s mysterious hints and vague promises, she had looked +forward to the deliverance of her beloved and only child. The hour had +come. She held him in her arms again, free. + +“No, mother, no,” he says, “not free. Free from the prison walls, but +not free from the stain of the false accusation. Not till the hour +when all England declares my innocence shall I be indeed a free man. +Why, look you, mother, I cannot go out of this room into yonder street +without such a disguise as a murderer himself might wear, for fear +some Slopperton official should recognise the features of the lunatic +criminal, and send me back to my cell at the asylum.” + +“My darling boy,” she lays her hands upon his shoulders, and looks +proudly into his handsome face, “my darling boy, these people at +Slopperton think you dead. See,” she touched her black dress as she +spoke, “it is for you I wear this. A painful deception, Richard, even +for such an object. I cannot bear to think of that river, and of what +might have been.” + +“Dear mother, I have been saved, perhaps, that I may make some +atonement for that reckless, wicked past.” + +“Only reckless, Richard; never wicked. You had always the same noble +heart, always the same generous soul; you were always my dear and only +son.” + +“You remember what the young man says in the play, mother, when he gets +into a scrape through neglecting his garden and making love to his +master’s daughter--‘You shall be proud of your son yet.’” + +“I _shall_ be proud of you, Richard. I am proud of you. We are +rich; and wealth is power. Justice shall be done you yet, my darling +boy. You have friends----” + +“Yes, mother, good and true ones. Peters--you brought him with you?” + +“Yes; I persuaded him to resign his situation. I have settled a hundred +a year on him for life--a poor return for what he has done, Richard; +but it was all I could induce him to accept, and he only agreed to take +that on condition that every moment of his life should be devoted to +your service.” + +“Is he in the house now, mother?” + +“Yes, he is below; I will ring for him.” + +“Do, mother. I must go over to Darley, and take him with me. You must +not think me an inattentive or neglectful son; but remember that my +life has but one business till that man is found.” + +He wrung her hand, and left her standing at the window watching his +receding figure through the quiet dusky street. + +Her gratitude to Heaven for his restoration is deep and heartfelt; +but there is a shade of sadness in her face as she looks out into the +twilight after him, and thinks of the eight wasted years of his youth, +and of his bright manhood now spent on a chimera; for she thinks he +will never find the murderer of his uncle. How, after eight years, +without one clue by which to trace him, how can he hope to track the +real criminal? + +But Heaven is above us all, Agnes Marwood; and in the dark and winding +paths of life light sometimes comes when and whence we least expect it. + +If you go straight across Blackfriars Bridge, and do not suffer +yourself to be beguiled either by the attractions of that fashionable +transpontine lounge, the “New Cut,” or by the eloquence of the last +celebrity at that circular chapel some time sacred to Rowland Hill--if +you are not a man to be led away by whelks and other piscatorial +delicacies, second-hand furniture, birds and bird-cages, or easy +shaving, you may ultimately reach, at the inland end of the road, a +locality known to the inhabitants of the district of Friar Street. +Whether, in any dark period of our ecclesiastical history, the members +of the mother church were ever reduced to the necessity of living in +this neighbourhood I am not prepared to say. But if ever any of the +magnates of the Catholic faith did hang out in this direction, it is +to be hoped that the odours from the soapboiler’s round the corner, +the rich essences from the tallow manufactory over the way, the varied +perfumes from the establishment of the gentleman who does a thousand +pounds a week in size, to say nothing of such minor and domestic +effluvia as are represented by an amalgamation of red herrings, damp +corduroy, old boots, onions, washing, a chimney on fire, dead cats, +bad eggs, and an open drain or two--it is to be hoped, I say, that +these conflicting scents did not pervade the breezes of Friar Street so +strongly in the good old times as they do in these our later days of +luxury and refinement. + +Mr. Darley’s establishment, ordinarily spoken of as _the_ surgery +_par excellence_, was perhaps one of the most pretending features +of the street. It asserted itself, in fact, with such a redundancy +of gilt letters and gas burners, that it seemed to say, “Really now, +you must be ill; or if you’re not, you ought to be.” It was not a +very large house, this establishment of Mr. Darley’s, but there were +at least half-a-dozen bells on the doorpost. There was Surgery; then +there was Day and Night (Gus wanted to have Morning and Afternoon, +but somebody told him it wasn’t professional); then there was besides +surgery, day, and night bells, another brilliant brass knob, inscribed +“Visitors,” and a ditto, whereon was engraved “Shop.” Though, as there +was only one small back-parlour beyond the shop into which visitors +ever penetrated, and as it was the custom for all such visitors to walk +straight through the aforesaid shop into the aforesaid parlour without +availing themselves of any bell whatever, the brass knobs were looked +upon rather in the light of a conventionality than a convenience. + +But Gus said they looked like business, especially when they were +clean, which wasn’t always, as a couple of American gentlemen, friends +of Darley’s, were in the habit of squirting tobacco-juice at them from +the other side of the way, in the dusky twilight; the man who hit the +brass oftenest out of six times to be the winner, and the loser to +stand beer all the evening--that is to say, until some indefinite time +on the following morning, for Darley’s parties seldom broke up very +early; and to let the visitors out and take the morning milk in was +often a simultaneous proceeding in the household of our young surgeon. + +If he had been a surgeon only, he would surely have been a Sir Benjamin +Brodie; for when it is taken into account that he could play the piano, +organ, guitar, and violoncello, without having learned any of those +instruments; that he could write a song, and compose the melody to it; +that he could draw horses and dogs after Herring and Landseer; make +more puns in one sentence than any burlesque writer living; make love +to half-a-dozen women at once, and be believed by every one of them; +sing a comic song, or tell a funny story; name the winner of the Derby +safer than any prophet on that side of the water; and make his book for +the Leger with one hand while he wrote a prescription with the other; +the discriminating reader will allow that there was a good deal of some +sort of talent or other in the composition of Mr. Augustus Darley. + +In the twilight of this particular autumn evening he is busily engaged +putting up a heap of little packets labelled “Best Epsom Salts,” while +his assistant, a very small youth, of a far more elderly appearance +than his master, lights the gas. The half-glass door that communicates +with the little back parlour is ajar, and Gus is talking to some one +within. + +“If I go over the water to-night, Bell--” he says. + +A feminine voice from within interrupts him--“But you won’t go +to-night, Gus; the last time you went to that horrid Smasher’s, Mrs. +Tompkins’s little boy was ill, and they sent into the London Road +for Mr. Parker. And you are such a favourite with everybody, dear, +that they say if you’d only stay at home always, you’d have the best +practice in the neighbourhood.” + +“But, Bell, how can a fellow stay at home night after night, and +perhaps half his time only sell a penn’orth of salts or a poor man’s +plaster? If they’d be ill,” he added, almost savagely, “I wouldn’t mind +stopping in; there’s some interest in that. Or if they’d come and have +their teeth drawn; but they never will: and I’m sure I sell ’em our +Infallible Anti-toothache Tincture; and if that don’t make ’em have +their teeth out, nothing will.” + +“Come and have your tea, Gus; and tell Snix to bring his basin.” + +Snix was the boy, who forthwith drew from a cupboard under the counter +the identical basin into which, when a drunken man was brought into the +shop, Gus usually bled him, with a double view of obtaining practice in +his art and bringing the patient back to consciousness. + +The feminine occupant of the parlour is a young lady with dark hair and +grey eyes, and something under twenty years of age. She is Augustus +Darley’s only sister; she keeps his house, and in an emergency she +can make up a prescription--nay, has been known to draw a juvenile +patient’s first tooth, and give him his money back after the operation +for the purchase of consolatory sweetstuffs. + +Perhaps Isabel Darley is just a little what very prim young +ladies, who have never passed the confines of the boarding-school +or the drawing-room, might call “fast.” But when it is taken into +consideration that she was left an orphan at an early age, that +she never went to school in her life, and that she has for a very +considerable period been in the habit of associating with her brother’s +friends, chiefly members of the Cherokee Society, it is not so much to +be wondered at that she is a little more masculine in her attainments, +and “go-ahead” in her opinions, than some others of her sex. + +The parlour is small, as has before been stated. One of the Cherokees +has been known to suggest, when there were several visitors present +and the time arrived for their departure, that they should be taken +out singly with a corkscrew. Other Cherokees, arriving after the room +had been filled with visitors, had been heard to advise that somebody +should go in first with a candle, to ascertain whether vitality could +be sustained in the atmosphere. Perhaps the accommodation was not +extended by the character of the furniture, which consisted of a +cottage piano, a chair for the purposes of dental surgery, a small +Corinthian column supporting a basin with a metal plug and chain +useful for like purposes; also a violoncello in the corner, a hanging +bookshelf--(which was a torture to tall Cherokees, as one touch from +a manly head would tilt down the shelves and shower the contents +of Mr. Darley’s library on the head in question, like a literary +waterfall)--and a good-sized sofa, with that unmistakable well, and +hard back and arms, which distinguish the genus sofa-bedstead. Of +course tables, chairs, china ornaments, a plaster-of-Paris bust here +and there, caricatures on the walls, a lamp that wouldn’t burn, and a +patent arrangement for the manufacture of toasted cheese, are trifles +in the way of furniture not worth naming. Miss Darley’s birds, again, +though they did spill seed and water into the eyes of unoffending +visitors, and drop lumps of dirty sugar sharply down upon the noses of +the same, could not of course be considered a nuisance; but certainly +the compound surgery and back-parlour in the mansion of Augustus Darley +was, to say the least, a little too full of furniture. + +While Isabel is pouring out the tea, two gentlemen open the shop door, +and the bell attached thereto, which should ring but doesn’t, catching +in the foremost visitor’s foot, nearly precipitates him headlong into +the emporium of the disciple of Esculapius. This foremost visitor is +no other than Mr. Peters, and the tall figure behind him, wrapped in a +greatcoat, is Daredevil Dick. + +“Here I am, Gus!” he cries out, in his own bold hearty voice; “here I +am; found your place at last, in spite of the fascinations of half the +stale shell-fish in the United Kingdom. Here I am; and here’s the best +friend I have in the world, not even excepting yourself, old fellow.” + +Gus introduces Richard to his sister Isabel, who has been taught from +her childhood to look upon the young man shut up in a lunatic asylum +down at Slopperton as the greatest hero, next to Napoleon Buonaparte, +that ever the world had boasted. She was a little girl of eleven years +old at the time of Dick’s trial, and had never seen her wild brother’s +wilder companion; and she looks up now at the dark handsome face with +a glance of almost reverence in her deep gray eyes. But Bell is by +no means a heroine; and she has a dozen unheroine-like occupations. +She has the tea to pour out, and in her nervous excitement she scalds +Richard’s fingers, drops the sugar into the slop-basin, and pours all +the milk into one cup of tea. What she would have done without the +assistance of Mr. Peters, it is impossible to say; for that gentleman +showed himself the very genius of order; cut thin bread-and-butter +enough for half-a-dozen, which not one of the party touched; re-filled +the tea-pot before it was empty; lit the gas-lamp which hung from the +ceiling; shut the door which communicated with the shop and the other +door which led on to the staircase; and did all so quietly that nobody +knew he was doing anything. + +Poor Richard! In spite of the gratitude and happiness he feels in his +release, there is a gloom upon his brow and an abstraction in his +manner, which he tries in vain to shake off. + +A small, round, chubby individual, who might be twelve or twenty, +according to the notions of the person estimating her age, removed +the tea-tray, and in so doing broke a saucer. Gus looked up. “She +always does it,” he said, mildly. “We’re getting quite accustomed to +the sound. It rather reduces our stock of china, and we sometimes are +obliged to send out to buy tea-things before we can have any breakfast; +but she’s a good girl, and she doesn’t steal the honey, or the jujubes, +or the tartaric acid out of the seidlitz-powders, as the other one did; +not that I minded that much,” he continued; “but she couldn’t read, and +she sometimes filled up the papers with arsenic for fear of being found +out; and that might have been inconvenient, if we’d ever happened to +sell them.” + +“Now, Gus,” said Richard, as he drew his chair up to the fireplace +and lit his pipe--permission being awarded by Bell, who lived in one +perpetual atmosphere of tobacco-smoke--“now, Gus, I want Peters to tell +you all about this affair; how it was he thought me innocent; how he +hit upon the plan he formed for saving my neck; how he tried to cast +about and find a clue to the real murderer; how he thought he had found +a clue, and how he lost it.” + +“Shall my sister stop while he tells the story?” asked Gus. + +“She _is_ your sister, Gus,” answered Richard. “She cannot be so +unlike you as not to be a true and pitying friend to me. Miss Darley,” +he continued, turning towards her as he spoke, “you do not think me +quite so bad a fellow as the world has made me out; you would like to +see me righted, and my name freed from the stain of a vile crime?” + +“Mr. Marwood,” the girl answered, in an earnest voice, “I have heard +your sad story again and again from my brother’s lips. Had you too been +my brother, I could not, believe me, have felt a deeper interest in +your fate, or a truer sorrow for your misfortunes. It needs but to look +into your face, or hear your voice, to know how little you deserve the +imputation that has been cast upon you.” + +Richard rises and gives her his hand. No languid and lady-like +pressure, such as would not brush the down off a butterfly’s wing, but +an honest hearty grasp, that comes straight from the heart. + +“And now for Mr. Peters’s story,” said Gus, “while I brew a jugful of +whisky-punch.” + +“You can follow his hands, Gus?” asks Richard. + +“Every twist and turn of them. He and I had many a confab about you, +old fellow, before we went out fishing,” said Gus, looking up from the +pleasing occupation of peeling a lemon. + +“Now for it, then,” said Richard; and Mr. Peters accordingly began. + +Perhaps, considering his retiring from the Slopperton police force +a great event, not to say a crisis, in his life, Mr. Peters had +celebrated it by another event; and, taking the tide of his affairs at +the flood, had availed himself of the water to wash his hands with. +At any rate, the digital alphabet was a great deal cleaner than when, +eight years ago, he spelt out the two words, “Not guilty,” in the +railway carriage. + +There was something very strange to a looker-on in the little party, +Gus, Richard, and Bell, all with earnest eyes fixed on the active +fingers of the detective--the silence only broken by some exclamation +at intervals from one of the three. + +“When first I see this young gent,” say the fingers, as Mr. Peters +designates Richard with a jerk of his elbow, “I was a-standin’ on the +other side of the way, a-waitin’ till my superior, Jinks, as was as +much up to his business as a kitting,”--(Mr. Peters has rather what we +may call a fancy style of orthography, and takes the final _g_ off +some words to clap it on to others, as his taste dictates)--“a-waitin,’ +I say, till Jinks should want my assistance. Well, gents all--beggin’ +the lady’s parding, as sits up so manly, with none of yer faintin’ nor +’steriky games, as I a’most forgot she was a lady--no sooner did I +clap eyes upon Mr. Marwood here, a-smokin’ his pipe, in Jinks’s face, +and a-answerin’ him sharp, and a-behavin’ what you may call altogether +cocky, than I says to myself, ‘They’ve got the wrong un’. My fust words +and my last about this ’ere gent, was, ‘They’ve got the wrong un.’” + +Mr. Peters looked round at the attentive party with a glance of +triumph, rubbed his hands by way of a full-stop, and went on with his +manual recital. + +“For why?” said the fingers, interrogatively, “for why did I think as +this ’ere gent was no good for this ’ere murder; for why did I think +them chaps at Slopperton had got on the wrong scent? Because he was +cheeky? Lor’ bless your precious eyes, miss” (by way of gallantry he +addresses himself here to Isabel), “not a bit of it! When a cove goes +and cuts another cove’s throat off-hand, it ain’t likely he ain’t +prepared to cheek a police-officer. But when I reckoned up this young +gent’s face, what was it I see? Why, as plain as I see his nose and +his moustachios--and he ain’t bad off for neither of them,” said the +fingers, parenthetically--“I see that he hadn’t done it. Now, a cove +what’s screwed up to face a judge and jury, maybe can face ’em, and +never change a line of his mug; but there isn’t a cove an lives as +can stand that first tap of a detective’s hand upon his shoulder as +tells him, plain as words, ‘The game is up.’ The best of ’em, and +the pluckiest of ’em, drops under that. If they keeps the colour in +their face--which some of ’em has got the power to do, and none as +never tried it on can guess the pain--if they can do that ’ere, the +perspiration breaks out wet and cold upon their for’eds, and that +blows ’em. But this young gent--he was took aback, he was surprised, +and he was riled, and used bad language; but his colour never changed, +and he wasn’t once knocked over till Jinks, unbusiness-like, told him +of his uncle’s murder, when he turned as white as that ’ere ’ed of +Bon-er-part.” Mr. Peters, for want of a better comparison, glanced in +the direction of a bust of the victor of Marengo, which, what with +tobacco-smoke and a ferocious pair of burnt cork moustachios, was by no +means the whitest object in creation. + +“Now, what a detective officer’s good at, if he’s worth his salt, is +this ’ere: when he sees two here and another two there, he can put ’em +together, though they might be a mile apart to anybody not up to the +trade, and make ’em into four. So, thinks I, the gent isn’t took aback +at bein’ arrested; but he _is_ took aback when he hears as how +his uncle’s murdered. Now, if he’d committed the murder, he’d know of +it; and he might sham surprise, but he wouldn’t be surprised; and this +young gent was knocked all of a heap as genuine as----” Mr. Peters’s +ideas still revert to the bust of Napoleon--“as ever that ’ere forring +cove was, when he sees his old guard scrunched up small at the battle +of Waterloo.” + +“Heaven knows, Peters,” said Richard, taking his pipe out of his mouth, +and looking up from his stooping position over the fire, “Heaven knows +you were right; I did feel my heart turn cold when I heard of that good +man’s death.” + +“Well, that they’d got the wrong un I saw was as clear as daylight--but +where was the right un? That was the question! Who ever committed +the murder did it for the money in that ’ere cabinet: and sold agen +they was, whoever they was, and didn’t get the money. Who was in the +house? This young gent’s mother and the servant. I was nobody in the +Gardenford force, and I was less than nobody at Slopperton; so get into +that house at the Black Mill I couldn’t. This young gent was walked +off to jail and I was sent about my business--my orders bein’ to be +back in Gardenford that evenin’, leavin’ Slopperton by the three-thirty +train. Well, I was a little cut up about this young gent; for I seed +that the case was dead agen him; the money in his pocket--the blood on +his sleeve--a cock-and-a-bull story of a letter of introduction, and a +very evident attempt at a bolt--only enough to hang him, that’s all; +and, for all that, I had a inward conwiction that he was as hinnercent +of the murder as that ’ere plaster-of-Paris stattur.” Mr. Peters goes +regularly to the bust for comparisons, by way of saving time and +trouble in casting about for fresh ones. + +“But my orders,” continued the fingers, “was positive, so I goes down +to the station to start by the three-thirty; and as I walks into the +station-yard, I hears the whistle, and sees the train go. I was too +late; and as the next train didn’t start for near upon three hours, I +thought I’d take a stroll and ’av a look at the beauties of Slopperton. +Well, I strolls on, promiscuous like, till I comes to the side of a +jolly dirty-looking river; and as by this time I feels a little dry, I +walks on, lookin’ about for a public; but ne’er a one do I see, till +I almost tumbles into a dingy little place, as looked as if it did +about half-a-pint a day reg’lar, when business was brisk. But in I +walks, past the bar; and straight afore me I sees a door as leads into +the parlour. The passage was jolly dark; and this ’ere door was ajar; +and inside I hears voices. Well, you see, business is business, and +pleasure is pleasure; but when a cove takes a pleasure in his business, +he gets a way of lettin’ his business habits come out unbeknownst when +he’s takin’ his pleasure: so I listens. Now, the voice I heerd fust was +a man’s voice; and, though the place was a sort of crib such as nobody +but navvies or such-like would be in the habit of going to, this ’ere +was the voice of a gentleman. I can’t say as I ever paid much attention +to grammar myself, though I daresay it’s very pleasant and amusin’ when +you enter into it; but, for all that, I’d knocked about in the world +long enough to know a gent’s way of speakin’ from a navvy’s, as well as +I know’d one tune on the accordion from another tune. It was a nice, +soft-spoken voice too, and quite melodious and pleasant to listen to; +but it was a-sayin’ some of the cruelest and hardest words as ever was +spoke to a woman yet by any creature with the cheek to call hisself a +man. You’re not much good, my friend, says I, with your lardy-dardy +ways and your cold-blooded words, whoever you are. You’re a thin chap, +with light hair and white hands, I know, though I’ve never seen you; +and there’s very little in the way of wickedness that you wouldn’t be +up to on a push. Now, just as I was a-thinkin’ this, he said somethin’ +that sent the blood up into my face as hot as fire--‘I expected a +sum of money, and I’ve been disappointed of it,’ he said; and before +the girl he was a-talkin’ to could open her lips, he caught her up +sudden--‘Never you mind how,’ he says, ‘never you mind how.’” + +“He expected a sum of money, and he’d been disappointed of it! So had +the man who had murdered this young gent’s uncle. + +“Not much in this, perhaps. But why was he so frightened at the +thoughts of her asking him how he expected the money, and how he’d bin +disappointed? There it got fishy. At any rate, says I to myself, I’ll +have a look at you, my friend; so in I walks, very quiet and quite +unbeknownst. He was a-sittin’ with his back to the door, and the young +woman he was a-talkin’ to was standin’ lookin’ out of the winder; so +neither of ’em saw me. He was buildin’ up some cards into a ’ouse, and +had got ’em up very high, when I laid my hand upon his shoulder sudden. +He turned round and looked at me.” Mr. Peters’ hero paused, and looked +round at the little group, who sat watching his fingers with breathless +attention. He had evidently come to a point in his narrative. + +“Now, what did I see in his face when he looked at me? Why, the very +same look that I _missed_ in the face of this young gent when +Jinks took him in the mornin’. The very same look that I’d seen in a +many faces, and never know’d it differ, whether it came one way or +another, always bein’ the same look at bottom--the look of a man as is +guilty of what will hang him and thinks that he’s found out. But as you +can’t give looks in as evidence, this wasn’t no good in a practical +way; but I says to myself, if ever there was anything certain in this +world since it was begun, I’ve come across the right un: so I sits down +and takes up a newspaper. I signified to him that I was dumb, and he +took it for granted that I was deaf as well--which was one of those +stupid mistakes your clever chaps sometimes fall into--so he went on +a-talking to the girl. + +“Well, it was a old story enough, what him and the girl was talkin’ of; +but every word he said made him out a more cold-blooded villain than +the last. + +“Presently he offered her some money--four sovereigns. She served +him as he ought to have been served, and threw them every one slap +in his face. One cut him over the eye; and I was glad of it. ‘You’re +marked, my man,’ thinks I, ‘and nothin’ could be handier agen I want +you.’ He picked up three of the sovereigns, but for all he could do he +couldn’t find the fourth. So he had the cut (which was a jolly deep +un) plastered up, and he went away. She stared at the river uncommon +hard, and then she went away. Now I didn’t much like the look she gave +the river, so as I had about half an hour to spare before the train +started, I followed her. I think she knew it; for presently she turned +short off into a little street, and when I turned into it after her she +wasn’t to be seen right or left. + +“Well, I had but half an hour, so I thought it was no use chasin’ this +unfortunate young creature through all the twistings and turnings of +the back slums of Slopperton; so after a few minutes’ consideration, I +walked straight to the station. Hang me if I wasn’t too late for the +train again. I don’t know how it was but I couldn’t keep my mind off +the young woman, nor keep myself from wonderin’ what she was a-goin’ to +do with herself, and what she was a-goin’ to do with that ’ere baby. So +I walks back agen down by the water, and as I’d a good hour and a half +to spare, I walks a good way, thinking of the young man, and the cut on +his forehead. It was nigh upon dark by this time, and foggy into the +bargain. Maybe I’d gone a mile or more, when I comes up to a barge what +lay at anchor quite solitary. It was a collier, and there was a chap on +board, sittin’ in the stern, smokin’, and lookin’ at the water. There +was no one else in sight but him and me; and no sooner does he spy me +comin’ along the bank than he sings out-- + +“‘Hulloa! Have you met a young woman down that way?’ + +“His words struck me all of a heap somehow, comin’ so near upon what I +was a-thinkin’ of myself. I shook my head; and he said-- + +“‘There’s been some unfort’nate young girl down here tryin’ to dround +her baby. I see the little chap in the water, and fished him out with +my boat-hook. I’d seen the girl hangin’ about here, just as it was +a-gettin’ dark, and then I heard the splash when she threw the child +in; but the fog was too thick for me to see anything ashore by that +time.’ + +“The barge was just alongside the bank, and I stepped on board. Not +bein’ so fortunate as to have a voice, you know, it comes awkward with +strangers, and I was rather put to it to get on with the young man. +And didn’t he sing out loud when he came to understand I was dumb; he +couldn’t have spoke in a higher key if I’d been a forriner. + +“He told me he should take the baby round to the Union; all he hoped +he said, was, that the mother wasn’t a-goin’ to do anything bad with +herself. + +“I hoped not too; but I remembered that look of hers when she stood at +the window staring out at the river, and I didn’t feel very easy in my +mind about her. + +“I took the poor little wet thing up in my arms. The young man had +wrapped it in an old jacket, and it was a-cryin’ piteous, and lookin’, +oh, so scared and miserable. + +“Well, it may seem a queer whim, but I’m rather soft-hearted on the +subject of babies, and often had a thought that I should like to try +the power of cultivation in the way of business, and bring a child +up from the very cradle to the police detective line, to see whether +I couldn’t make that ’ere child a ornament to the force. I wasn’t a +marryin’ man, and by no means likely ever to ’av a family of my own; so +when I took up that ’ere baby in my arms, somehow or other the thought +came into my ’ed of adoptin’ him, and bringin’ of him up. So I rolled +him up in my greatcoat, and took him with me to Gardenford.” + +“And a wonderful boy he is,” said Richard; “we’ll educate him, Peters, +and make a gentleman of him.” + +“Wait a bit,” said the fingers very quickly; “thank you kindly, sir; +but if the police force of this ’ere country was robbed of that ’ere +boy, it would be robbed of a gem as it couldn’t afford to lose.” + +“Go on, Peters; tell them the rest of your story.” + +“Well, though I felt in my own mind that by one of those strange +chances which does happen in life, maybe as often as they happen in +story-books, I had fallen across the man who had committed the murder, +yet for all that I hadn’t evidence enough to get a hearin’. I got +transferred from Gardenford to Slopperton, and every leisure minute +I had I tried to come across the man I’d marked; but nowhere could I +see him, or hear of any one answering his description. I went to the +churches; for I thought him capable of anything, even to shammin’ +pious. I went to the theayter, and I see a young woman accused of +poisonin’ a fam’ly, and proved innocent by a police cove as didn’t +know his business any more than a fly. I went anywhere and everywhere, +but I never see that man; and it was gettin’ uncommon near the trial +of this young gent, and nothin’ done. How was he to be saved? I +thought of it by night and thought of it by day; but work it out I +couldn’t nohow. One day I hears of an old friend of the pris’ner’s +being sup-boned-aed as witness for the crown. This friend I determined +to see; for two ’eds”--Mr. Peters looked round, as though he defied +contradiction--“shall be better than one.” + +“And this friend,” said Gus, “was your humble servant; who was only too +glad to find that poor Dick had one sincere friend in the world who +believed in his innocence, besides myself.” + +“Well, Mr. Darley and me,” resumed Mr. Peters, “put our ’eds together, +and we came to this conclusion, that if this young gent was mad when +he committed the murder, they couldn’t hang him, but would shut him in +a asylum for the rest of his nat’ral life--which mayn’t be pleasant in +the habstract, but which is better than hangin’, any day.” + +“So you determined on proving me mad,” said Richard. + +“We hadn’t such very bad grounds to go upon, perhaps, old fellow,” +replied Mr. Darley; “that brain-fever, which we thought such a +misfortune when it laid you up for three dreary weeks stood us in +good stead; we had something to go upon, for we knew we could get +you off by no other means. But to get you off this way we wanted your +assistance, and we didn’t hit upon the plan till it was too late to +get at you and tell you our scheme; we didn’t hit upon it till twelve +o’clock on the night before your trial. We tried to see your counsel; +but he had that morning left the town, and wasn’t to return till +the trial came on. Peters hung about the court all the morning, but +couldn’t see him; and nothing was done when the judge and jury took +their seats. You know the rest; how Peters caught your eye----” + +“Yes,” said Dick, “and how seven letters upon his fingers told me the +whole scheme, and gave me my cue; those letters formed these two words, +‘Sham mad.’” + +“And very well you did it at the short notice, Dick,” said Gus; “upon +my word, for the moment I was almost staggered, and thought, suppose +in getting up this dodge we are only hitting upon the truth, and the +poor fellow really has been driven out of his wits by this frightful +accusation?” + +“A scrap of paper,” said Mr. Peters, on his active fingers, “gave the +hint to your counsel--a sharp chap enough, though a young un.” + +“I can afford to reward him now for his exertions,” said Richard, “and +I must find him for that purpose. But Peters, for heaven’s sake tell us +about this young man whom you suspect to be the murderer. If I go to +the end of the world in search of him, I’ll find him, and drag him and +his villainy to light, that my name may be cleared from the foul stain +it wears.” + +Mr. Peters looked very grave. “You must go a little further than the +end of this world to find him, I’m afraid, sir,” said the fingers. +“What do you say to looking for him in the next? for that’s the station +he’d started for when I last saw him; and I believe that on that line, +with the exception of now and then a cock-and-a-bull-lane ghost, they +don’t give no return tickets.” + +“Dead?” said Richard. “Dead, and escaped from justice?” + +“That’s about the size of it, sir,” replied Mr. Peters. “Whether he +thought as how something was up, and he was blown, or whether he was +riled past bearin’ at findin’ no money in that ’ere cabinet, I can’t +take upon myself to say; but I found him six months after the murder +out upon a heath, dead, with a laudanum-bottle a-lying by his side.” + +“And did you ever find out who he was?” asked Gus. + +“He was a usher, sir, at a ’cademy for young gents, and a very pious +young man he was too, I’ve heard; but for all that he murdered this +young gent’s uncle, or my name isn’t Peters.” + +“Beyond the reach of justice,” said Richard; “then the truth can never +be brought to light, and to the end of my days I must bear the stigma +of a crime of which I am innocent.” + + + + + =Book the Fifth.= + + THE DUMB DETECTIVE. + + + CHAPTER I. + + THE COUNT DE MAROLLES AT HOME. + + +THE denizens of Friar Street and such localities, being in the habit +of waking in the morning to the odour of melted tallow and boiling +soap, and of going to sleep at night with the smell of burning bones +under their noses, can of course have nothing of an external nature +in common with the inhabitants of Park Lane and its vicinity; for +the gratification of whose olfactory nerves exotics live short and +unnatural lives, on staircases, in boudoirs, and in conservatories of +rich plate-glass and fairy architecture, where perfumed waters play in +gilded fountains through the long summer days. + +It might be imagined, then, that the common griefs and vulgar +sorrows--such as hopeless love and torturing jealousy, sickness, +or death, or madness, or despair--would be also banished from the +regions of Park Lane, and entirely confined to the purlieus of Friar +Street. Any person with a proper sense of the fitness of things would +of course conclude this to be the case, and would as soon picture my +lady the Duchess of Mayfair dining on red herrings and potatoes at the +absurd hour of one o’clock p.m., or blackleading her own grate with +her own alabaster fingers, as weeping over the death of her child, or +breaking her heart for her faithless husband, just like Mrs. Stiggins, +potato and coal merchant on a small scale, or Mrs. Higgins, whose sole +revenues come from “Mangling done here.” + +And it does seem hard, oh my brethren, that there should be any limit +to the magic power of gold! It may exclude bad airs, foul scents, ugly +sights, and jarring sounds; it may surround its possessors with beauty, +grace, art, luxury, and so-called pleasure; but it cannot shut out +death or care; for to these stern visitors Mayfair and St. Giles’s must +alike open their reluctant doors whenever the dreaded guests may be +pleased to call. + +You do not send cards for your morning concerts, or fêtes champêtres, +or thés dansantes, to Sorrow or Sadness, oh noble duchesses and +countesses; but have you never seen their face in the crowd when you +least looked to meet them? + +Through the foliage and rich blossoms in the conservatory, and through +the white damask curtains of the long French window, the autumn +sunshine comes with subdued light into a boudoir on the second floor +of a large house in Park Lane. The velvet-pile carpets in this room +and the bedchamber and dressing room adjoining, are made in imitation +of a mossy ground on which autumn leaves have fallen; so exquisite, +indeed, is the design, that it is difficult to think that the light +breeze which enters at the open window cannot sweep away the fragile +leaf, which seems to flutter in the sun. The walls are of the palest +cream-colour, embellished with enamelled portraits of Louis the +Sixteenth, Marie Antoinette, Madame Elizabeth, and the unfortunate +boy prisoner of the Temple, let into the oval panels on the four +sides of the room. Everything in this apartment, though perfect in +form and colour, is subdued and simple; there are none of the Buhl +and marqueterie cabinets, the artificial flowers, ormolu clocks, +French prints, and musical boxes which might adorn the boudoir of an +opera-dancer or the wife of a parvenu. The easy-chairs and luxurious +sofas are made of a polished white wood, and are covered with white +damask. On the marble mantelpiece there are two or three vases of the +purest and most classical forms; and these, with Canova’s bust of +Napoleon, are the only ornaments in the room. Near the fireplace, in +which burns a small fire, there is a table loaded with books, French, +English, and German, the newest publications of the day; but they +are tossed in a great heap, as if they had one by one been looked at +and cast aside unread. By this table there is a lady seated, whose +beautiful face is rendered still more striking by the simplicity of her +black dress. + +This lady is Valerie de Lancy, now Countess de Marolles; for Monsieur +Marolles has expended some part of his wife’s fortune upon certain +estates in the south of France which give him the title of Count de +Marolles. + +A lucky man, this Raymond Marolles. A beautiful wife, a title, and an +immense fortune are no such poor prizes in the lottery of life. But +this Raymond is a man who likes to extend his possessions; and in South +America he has established himself as a banker on a large scale, and he +has lately come over to England with his wife and son, for the purpose +of establishing a branch of this bank in London. Of course, a man with +his aristocratic connections and enormous fortune is respected and +trusted throughout the continent of South America. + +Eight years have taken nothing from the beauty of Valerie de Marolles. +The dark eyes have the same fire, the proud head the same haughty +grace; but alone and in repose the face has a shadow of deep and +settled sadness that is painful to look upon, for it is the gloomy +sadness of despair. The world in which this woman lives, which knows +her only as the brilliant, witty, vivacious, and sparkling Parisian, +little dreams that she talks because she dare not think; that she is +restless and vivacious because she dare not be still; that she hurries +from place to place in pursuit of pleasure and excitement because +only in excitement, and in a life which is as false and hollow as +the mirth she assumes, can she fly from the phantom which pursues +her. O shadow that will not be driven away! O pale and pensive ghost, +that rises before us in every hour and in every scene, to mock the +noisy and tumultuous revelry which, by the rule of opposites, we call +Pleasure!--which of us is free from your haunting presence, O phantom, +whose name is The Past? + +Valerie is not alone; a little boy, between seven and eight years of +age, is standing at her knee, reading aloud to her from a book of +fables. + +“A frog beheld an ox----” he began. But as he read the first words the +door of the boudoir opened, and a gentleman entered, whose pale fair +face, blue eyes, light eyelashes, and dark hair and eyebrows proclaimed +him to be the husband of Valerie. + +“Ah,” he said, glancing with a sneer at the boy, who lifted his +dark eyes for a moment, and then dropped them on his book with an +indifference that bespoke little love for the new-comer, “you are +teaching your child, madame. Teaching him to read? Is not that an +innovation? The boy has a fine voice, and the ear of a maestro. Let him +learn the solfeggi, and very likely one of these days he will be as +great a man as----” + +Valerie looks at him with the old contempt, the old icy coldness in her +face. “Do you want anything of me this morning, monsieur?” she asked. + +“No, madame. Having the entire command of your fortune, what can I ask? +A smile? Nay, madame; you keep your smiles for your son; and again, +they are so cheap in London, the smiles of beauty.” + +“Then, monsieur, since you require nothing at my hands, may I ask why +you insult me with your presence?” + +“You teach your son to respect--his father, madame,” said Raymond with +a sneer, throwing himself into an easy-chair opposite Valerie. “You +set the future Count de Marolles a good example. He will be a model of +filial piety, as you are of----” + +“Do not fear, Monsieur de Marolles, but that one day I shall teach my +son to respect his father; fear rather lest I teach him to avenge----” + +“Nay, madame, it is for you to fear that.” + +During the whole of this brief dialogue, the little boy has held his +mother’s hand, looking with his serious eyes anxiously in her face. +Young as he is, there is a courage in his glance and a look of firmness +in his determined under-lip that promises well for the future. Valerie +turns from the cynical face of her husband, and lays a caressing hand +on the boy’s dark ringlets. Do those ringlets remind her of any other +dark hair? Do any other eyes look out in the light of those she gazes +at now? + +“You were good enough to ask me just now, madame, the purport of my +visit; your discrimination naturally suggesting to you that there is +nothing so remarkably attractive in the society to be found in these +apartments, infantine lectures in words of one syllable included”--he +glances towards the boy as he speaks, and the cruel blue eyes are never +so cruel as when they look that way--“as to induce me to enter them +without some purpose or other.” + +“Perhaps monsieur will be so good as to be brief in stating that +purpose? He may imagine, that being entirely devoted to my son, I do +not choose to have his studies, or even his amusements, interrupted.” + +“You bring up young Count Almaviva like a prince, madame. It is +something to have good blood in one’s veins, even on one side----” + +If she could have killed him with a look of those bright dark eyes, he +would have fallen dead as he spoke the words that struck one by one at +her broken heart. He knew his power; he knew wherein it lay, and how to +use it--and he loved to wound her; because, though he had won wealth +and rank from her, he had never conquered her, and he felt that even in +her despair she defied him. + +“You are irrelevant, monsieur. Pray be so kind as to say what brought +you here, where I would not insult your good sense by saying you are a +welcome visitor.” + +“Briefly then, madame. Our domestic arrangements do not please me. +We are never known to quarrel, it is true; but we are rarely seen to +address each other, and we are not often seen in public together. +Very well this in South America, where we were king and queen of our +circle--here it will not do. To say the least, it is mysterious. The +fashionable world is scandalous. People draw inferences--monsieur does +not love madame, and he married her for her money; or, on the other +hand, madame does not love monsieur, but married him because she had +some powerful _motive_ for so doing. This will not do, countess. +A banker must be respectable, or people may be afraid to trust him. +I must be, what I am now called, ‘the eminent banker;’ and I must be +universally trusted.” + +“That you may the better betray, monsieur; that is the motive for +winning people’s confidence, in your code of moral economy, is it not?” + +“Madame is becoming a logician; her argument by induction does her +credit.” + +“But, your business, monsieur?” + +“Was to signify my wish, madame, that we should be seen oftener +together in public. The Italian Opera, now, madame, though you have +so great a distaste for it--a distaste which, by the bye, you did not +possess during the early period of your life--is a very popular resort. +All the world will be there to-night, to witness the _début_ of a +singer of continental celebrity. Perhaps you will do me the honour to +accompany me there?” + +“I do not take any interest, monsieur----” + +“In the fortunes of tenor singers. Ah, how completely we outlive the +foolish fancies of our youth! But you will occupy the box on the grand +tier of her Majesty’s Theatre, which I have taken for the season. It +is to your son’s--to Cherubino’s interest, for you to comply with my +request.” He glances towards the boy once more, with a sneer on his +thin lips, and then turns and bows to Valerie, as he says-- + +“_Au revoir_, madame. I shall order the carriage for eight +o’clock.” + +A horse, which at a sale at Tattersall’s had attracted the attention of +all the votaries of the Corner, for the perfection of his points and +the enormous price which he realized, caracoles before the door, under +the skilful horsemanship of a well-trained and exquisitely-appointed +groom. Another horse, equally high-bred, waits for his rider, the +Count de Marolles. The groom dismounts, and holds the bridle, as +the gentleman emerges from the door and springs into the saddle. A +consummate horseman the Count de Marolles; a handsome man too, in spite +of the restless and shifting blue eyes and the thin nervous lips. His +dress is perfect, just keeping pace with the fashion sufficiently to +denote high ton in the wearer, without outstripping it, so as to stamp +him a parvenu. It has that elegant and studious grace which, to a +casual observer, looks like carelessness, but which is in reality the +perfection of the highest art of all--the art of concealing art. + +It is only twelve o’clock, and there are not many people of any +standing in Piccadilly this September morning; but of the few +gentlemen on horseback who pass Monsieur de Marolles, the most +aristocratic-looking bow to him. He is well-known in the great world +as the eminent banker, the owner of a superb house in Park Lane. He +possesses a man cook of Parisian renown, who wears the cross of the +Legion of Honour, given him by the first Napoleon on the occasion +of a dinner at Talleyrand’s. He has estates in South America and in +France; a fortune, said to be boundless, and a lovely wife. For the +rest, if his own patent of nobility is of rather fresh date, and if, as +impertinent people say, he never had a grandfather, or indeed anything +in the way of a father to speak of, it must be remembered that great +men, since the days of mythic history, have been celebrated for being +born in rather an accidental manner. + +But why a banker? Why, possessed of an enormous fortune, try to extend +that fortune by speculation? That question lies between Raymond de +Marolles and his conscience. Perhaps there are no bounds to the +ambition of this man, who entered Paris eight years ago an obscure +adventurer, and who, according to some accounts, is now a millionaire. + + + + + CHAPTER II. + + MR. PETERS SEES A GHOST. + + +MR. PETERS, pensioned off by Richard’s mother with an income of a +hundred pounds a year, has taken and furnished for himself a small +house in a very small square not far from Mr. Darley’s establishment, +and rejoicing in the high-sounding address of Wellington Square, +Waterloo Road. Having done this, he feels that he has nothing more to +do in life than to retire upon his laurels, and enjoy the _otium cum +dignitate_ which he has earned so well. + +Of course Mr. Peters, as a single man, cannot by any possibility _do +for_ himself; and as--having started an establishment of his own--he +is no longer in a position to be taken in and done for, the best thing +he can do is to send for Kuppins; accordingly he does send for Kuppins. + +Kuppins is to be cook, housekeeper, laundress, and parlourmaid all in +one; and she is to have ten pounds per annum, and her tea, sugar, and +beer--wages only known in Slopperton in very high and aristocratic +families where footmen are kept and no followers or Sundays out allowed. + +So Kuppins comes to London, bringing the “fondling” with her; and +arriving at the Euston Square station at eight o’clock in the evening, +is launched into the dazzlingly bewildering gaiety of the New Road. + +Well, it is not paved with gold certainly, this marvellous city; and it +is, maybe, on the whole, just a little muddy. But oh, the shops--what +emporiums of splendour! What delightful excitement in being nearly run +over every minute!--to say nothing of that delicious chance of being +knocked down by the crowd which is collected round a drunken woman +expostulating with a policeman. Of course there must be a general +election, or a great fire, or a man hanging, or a mad ox at large, or a +murder just committed in the next street, or something wonderful going +on, or there never could be such crowds of excited pedestrians, and +such tearing and rushing, and smashing of cabs, carts, omnibuses, and +parcel-delivery vans, all of them driven by charioteers in the last +stage of insanity, and drawn by horses as wild as that time-honoured +steed employed in the artistic and poetical punishment of our old +friend Mazeppa. Tottenham Court Road! What a magnificent promenade! +Occupied, of course, by the houses of the nobility! And is that +magnificent establishment with the iron shutters Buckingham Palace or +the Tower of London? Kuppins inclines to thinking it must be the Tower +of London, because the iron shutters look so warlike, and are evidently +intended as a means of defence in case of an attack from the French. + +Kuppins is told by her escort, Mr. Peters, that this is the emporium of +Messrs. Shoolbred, haberdashers and linendrapers. She thinks she must +be dreaming, and wants to be pinched and awakened before she proceeds +any further. It is rather a trying journey for Mr. Peters; for Kuppins +wants to stop the cab every twenty yards or so, to get out and look at +something in this wonderful Tottenham Court Road. + +But the worst of Kuppins, perhaps, is, that she has almost an insane +desire to see that Tottenham Court whence Tottenham Court Road derives +its name; and when told that there is no such place, and never +was--leastways, never as Mr. Peters heard of--she begins to think +London, in spite of all its glories, rather a take-in. Then, again, +Kuppins is very much disappointed at not passing either Westminster +Abbey or the Bank of England, which she had made up her mind were both +situated at Charing Cross; and it was a little trying for Mr. Peters +to be asked whether every moderate-sized church they passed was St. +Paul’s Cathedral, or every little bit of dead wall Newgate. To go over +a bridge, and for it not to be London Bridge, but Waterloo Bridge, +was in itself a mystery; but to be told that the Shot Tower on the +Surrey side was not the Monument was too bewildering for endurance. +As to the Victoria Theatre, which was illuminated to such a degree +that the box-entrance seemed as a pathway to fairyland, Kuppins was so +thoroughly assured in her own mind of its being Drury Lane and nothing +else, unless, perhaps, the Houses of Parliament or Covent Garden--that +no protestations on Mr. Peters’s fingers could root out the fallacy. + +But the journey came to an end at last; and Kuppins, safe with bag +and baggage at No. 17, Wellington Square, partook of real London +saveloys and real London porter with Mr. Peters and the “fondling,” in +an elegant front parlour, furnished with a brilliantly polished but +rather rickety Pembroke table, that was covered with a Royal Stuart +plaid woollen cloth; half-a-dozen cane-seated chairs, so new and highly +polished as to be apt to adhere to the garments of the person who so +little understood their nature or properties as to attempt to sit upon +them; a Kidderminster carpet, the pattern of which was of the size +adapted to the requirements of a town hall, but which looked a little +disproportionate to Mr. Peters’s apartment, two patterns and a quarter +stretching the entire length of the room; and a mantelpiece ornamented +with a looking-glass divided into three compartments by gilded +Corinthian pillars, and further adorned with two black velvet kittens, +one at each corner, and a parti-coloured velvet boy on a brown velvet +donkey in the centre. + +The next morning Mr. Peters announced his intention of taking the +“fondling” into the city of London, for the purpose of showing him +the outside of St. Paul’s, the Monument, Punch and Judy, and other +intellectual exhibitions adapted to his tender years. Kuppins was for +starting then and there on a visit to the pig-faced lady, than which +magnificent creature she could not picture any greater wonder in the +whole metropolis; but Kuppins had to stay at home in her post of +housekeeper, and to inspect and arrange the domestic machinery of No. +17, Wellington Square. So the “fondling,” being magnificently arrayed +in a clean collar and a pair of boots that were too small for him, took +hold of his protector’s hand, and they sallied forth. + +If anything, Punch and Judy bore off the palm in this young gentleman’s +judgment of the miracles of the big village. + +It was not so sublime a sight, perhaps, as the outside of St. Paul’s; +but, on the other hand, it was a great deal cleaner; and the “fondling” +would have liked to have seen Sir Christopher Wren’s masterpiece picked +out with a little fresh paint before he was called upon to admire it. +The Monument, no doubt, was very charming in the abstract; but unless +he could have been perpetually on the top of it, and perpetually within +a hair’s breadth of precipitating himself on to the pavement below, it +wasn’t very much in his way. But Punch, with his delightfully original +style of elocution, his overpoweringly comic domestic passages with +Judy, and the dolefully funny dog with a frill round his neck and an +evident dislike for his profession--this, indeed, was an exhibition to +be seen continually, and to be more admired the more continually seen, +as no doubt the “fondling” would have said had he been familiar with +Dr. Johnson, which, it is to be hoped, for his own peace of mind, he +wasn’t. + +It is rather a trying day for Mr. Peters, and he is not sorry when, +at about four o’clock in the afternoon, he has taken the “fondling” +all round the Bank of England--(that young gentleman insisting on +peering in at the great massive windows, in the fond hope of seeing +the money)--and has shown him the broad back of the Old Lady of +Threadneedle Street, and the Clearing-house, and they are going out of +Lombard Street, on their way to an omnibus which will take them home. +But just as they are leaving the street the “fondling” makes a dead +stop, and constrains Mr. Peters to do the same. + +Standing before the glass doors of a handsome building, which a brass +plate announces to be the “Anglo-Spanish-American Bank,” are two +horses, and a groom in faultless buckskins and tops. He is evidently +waiting for some one within the bank, and the “fondling” vehemently +insists upon waiting too, to see the gentleman get on horseback. The +good-natured detective consents; and they loiter about the pavement for +some time before the glass doors are flung open by a white-neckclothed +clerk, and a gentleman of rather foreign appearance emerges therefrom. + +There is nothing particularly remarkable in this gentleman. The fit of +his pale lavender gloves is certainly exquisite; the style of his dress +is a recommendation to his tailor; but what there is in his appearance +to occasion Mr. Peters’s holding on to a lamp-post it is difficult to +say. But Mr. Peters did certainly cling to the nearest lamp-post, and +did certainly turn as white as the whitest sheet of paper that ever +came out of a stationer’s shop. The elegant-looking gentleman, who +was no other than the Count de Marolles, had better occupation for +his bright blue eyes than the observation of such small deer as Mr. +Peters and the “fondling.” He mounted his horse, and rode slowly away, +quite unconscious of the emotion his appearance had occasioned in the +breast of the detective. No sooner had he done so, than Mr. Peters, +relinquishing the lamp-post and clutching the astonished “fondling,” +darted after him. In a moment he was in the crowded thoroughfare before +Guildhall. An empty cab passed close to them. He hailed it with frantic +gesticulations, and sprang in, still holding the “fondling.” The Count +de Marolles had to rein-in his horse for a moment from the press of +cabs and omnibuses; and at Mr. Peters’s direction the “fondling” +pointed him out to the cabman, with the emphatic injunction to “follow +that gent, and not to lose sight of him nohow.” The charioteer gives a +nod, cracks his whip, and drives slowly after the equestrian, who has +some difficulty in making his way through Cheapside. The detective, +whose complexion still wears a most striking affinity to writing-paper, +looks out of the window, as if he thought the horseman they are +following would melt into thin air, or go down a trap in St. Paul’s +Churchyard. The “fondling” follows his protector’s eyes with his eyes, +then looks back at Mr. Peters, and evidently does not know what to make +of the business. At last his patron draws his head in at the window, +and expresses himself upon his fingers thus-- + +“How can it be him, when he’s dead?” + +This is beyond the “fondling’s” comprehension, who evidently doesn’t +understand the drift of the query, and as evidently doesn’t altogether +like it, for he says-- + +“Don’t! Come, I say, don’t, now.” + +“How can it be him,” continues Mr. Peters, enlarging upon the question, +“when I found him dead myself out upon that there heath, and took him +back to the station, and afterwards see him buried, which would have +been between four cross roads with a stake druv’ through him if he’d +poisoned himself fifty years ago?” + +This rather obscure speech is no more to the “fondling’s” liking than +the last, for he cries out more energetically than before-- + +“I say, now, I tell you I don’t like it, father. Don’t you try it on +now, please. What does it mean? Who’s been dead fifty years ago, with a +stake druv’ through ’em, and four cross roads on a heath? Who?” + +Mr. Peters puts his head out of the window, and directing the attention +of the “fondling” to the elegant equestrian they are following, says, +emphatically, upon his fingers-- + +“Him!” + +“Dead, is he?” said the “fondling,” clinging very close to his adopted +parent. “Dead! and very well he looks, considerin’; but,” he continued, +in an awful and anxious whisper, “where’s the stake and the four cross +roads as was druv’ through him? Does he wear that ’ere loose coat to +hide ’em?” + +Mr. Peters didn’t answer this inquiry, but seemed to be ruminating, +and, if one may be allowed the expression, thought aloud upon his +fingers, as it was his habit to do at times. + +“There couldn’t be two men so much alike, surely. That one I found +dead was the one I saw at the public talkin’ to the young woman; and +if so, this is another one, for that one was dead as sure as eggs +is eggs. When eggs ceases to be eggs, which,” continued Mr. Peters, +discursively, “considerin’ they’re sellin’ at twenty for a shilling, +French, and dangerous, if you’re not partial to young parboiled +chickens, is not likely yet awhile, why, _then_, that one I found +on the heath will come to life again.” + +The “fondling” was too busy stretching his neck out of the window of +the cab, in his eagerness to keep his eye upon the Count de Marolles, +to pay any attention to Mr. Peters’s fingers. The outside of St. +Paul’s, and the performance of Punch and Judy, were very well in their +way, but they were mild dissipations indeed, compared to the delight of +following a ghost which had had a stake driven through his phantasmal +form and wore lavender kid gloves. + +“There was one thing,” continued the musing detective, “which struck +me as curious, when I found the body of that young gent. Where was +the scar from the sovering as that young woman throwed at him? +Why nowheres! Not a trace of it to be seen, which I looked for it +particular; and yet that cut wasn’t one to leave a scar that would +wear out in six months, nor yet in six years either. I’ve had my face +scratched myself, though I’m a single man, and I know what that is to +last, and the awkwardness one has to go through in saying one’s been +playing with spiteful kittens, and such-like. But what’s that to a cut +half a inch deep from the sharp edge of a sovering? If I could but get +to see his forehead. The cut was just over his eyebrow, and I could see +the mark of it with his hat on.” + +While Mr. Peters abandons himself to such reflections as these, the cab +drives on and follows the Count de Marolles down Ludgate Hill, through +Fleet Street and the Strand, Charing Cross and Pall Mall, St. James’s +Street and Piccadilly, till it comes up with him at the corner of Park +Lane. + +“This,” says Mr. Peters, “is where the swells live. Very likely he +hangs out here; he’s a-ridin’ as if he was goin’ to stop presently, so +we’ll get out.” Whereupon the “fondling” interprets to the cabman Mr. +Peters’s wish to that effect, and they alight from the vehicle. + +The detective’s surmise is correct. The Count stops, gets off his +horse, and throws the reins to the groom. It happens at this very +moment that an open carriage, in which two ladies are seated, passes +on its way to the Grosvenor Gate. One of the ladies bows to the +South-American banker, and as he lifts his hat in returning her salute, +Mr. Peters, who is looking at nothing particular, sees very distinctly +the scar which is the sole memorial of that public-house encounter on +the banks of the Sloshy. + +As Raymond throws the reins to the groom he says, “I shall not ride +again to-day, Curtis. Tell Morgan to have the Countess’s carriage at +the door at eight for the opera.” + +Mr. Peters, who doesn’t seem to be a person blest with the faculty of +hearing, but who is, to all appearance, busily engaged in drawing the +attention of the “fondling” to the architectural beauties of Grosvenor +Gate, may nevertheless take due note of this remark. + +The elegant banker ascends the steps of his house, at the hall-door of +which stand gorgeous and obsequious flunkeys, whose liveries and legs +alike fill with admiration the juvenile mind of the “fondling.” + +Mr. Peters is very grave for some time, as they walk away; but at last, +when they have got half-way down Piccadilly, he has recourse once more +to his fingers, and addresses his young friend thus: + +“What did you think of him, Slosh?” + +“Which,” says the “fondling;” “the cove in the red velvet breeches as +opened the door, or the swell ghost?” + +“The swell.” + +“Well, I think he’s uncommon handsome, and very easy in his manners, +all things taken into consideration,” said that elderly juvenile with +deliberation. + +“Oh, you do, do you, Slosh?” + +Slosh repeats that he does. + +Mr. Peters’s gravity increases every moment. “Oh, you do, do you, +Slosh?” he asks again, and again the boy answers. At last, to the +considerable inconvenience of the passers-by, the detective makes a +dead stop, and says, “I’m glad you think him han’some, Slosh; and +I’m glad you thinks him easy, which, all things considered, he is, +uncommon. In fact, I’m glad he meets your views as far as personal +appearance goes, because, between you and me, Slosh, that man’s your +father.” + +It is the boy’s turn to hold on to the lamp-post now. To have a ghost +for a father, and, as Slosh afterwards remarked, “a ghost as wears +polishy boots, and lives in Park Lane, too,” was enough to take the +breath out of any boy, however preternaturally elderly and superhumanly +sharp his police-office experiences may have made him. On the whole, +the “fondling” bears the shock very well, shakes off the effect of the +information, and is ready for more in a minute. + +“I wouldn’t have you mention it just now, you know, Slosh,” continues +Mr. Peters, “because we don’t know what he may turn out, and whether +he may quite answer our purpose in the parental line. There’s a little +outstanding matter between me and him that I shall have to look him up +for. I may want your help; and if I do, you’ll give it faithful, won’t +you, Slosh?” + +“Of course I will,” said that young gentleman. “Is there any reward +out for him, father?” He always called Mr. Peters father, and wasn’t +prepared to change his habit in deference to any ghostly phenomenon +in the way of a parent suddenly turning up in Lombard Street. “Is +there any reward out for him?” he asks, eagerly; “bankers is good for +something in the levanting line, I know, nowadays.” + +The detective looked at the boy’s sharp thin features with a +scrutinising glance common to men of his profession. + +“Then you’ll serve me faithful, if I want you, Slosh? I thought perhaps +you might let family interests interfere with business, you know.” + +“Not a bit of it,” said the youthful enthusiast. “I’d hang my +grandmother for a sovering, and the pride of catching her, she was a +downy one.” + +“Chips of old blocks is of the same wood, and it’s only reasonable +there should be a similarity in the grain,” mused Mr. Peters, as he +and the “fondling” rode home in an omnibus. “I thought I’d make him +a genius, but I didn’t know there was such a under-current of his +father. It’ll make him the glory of his profession. Soft-heartedness +has been the ruin of many a detective as has had the brains to work out +a deep-laid game, but not the heart to carry it through.” + + + + + CHAPTER III. + + THE CHEROKEES MARK THEIR MAN. + + +HER Majesty’s Theatre is peculiarly brilliant this evening. Diamonds +and beauty, in tier above tier, look out from the amber-curtained +boxes. The stalls are full, and the pit is crammed. In fop’s alley +there is scarcely standing room; indeed, one gentleman remarks to +another, that if Pandemonium is equally hot and crowded, he will turn +Methodist parson in his old age, and give his mind to drinking at +tea-meetings. + +The gentleman who makes this remark is neither more nor less than a +distinguished member of the “Cheerfuls,” the domino-player alluded to +some chapters back. + +He is standing talking to Richard; and to see him now, with an +opera-glass in his hand, his hair worn in a manner conforming with +the usages of society, and only in a modified degree suggesting that +celebrated hero of the Newgate calendar and modern romance, Mr. John +Sheppard, a dress-coat, patent leather boots, and the regulation white +waistcoat, you would think he had never been tipsy or riotous in his +life. + +This gentleman is Mr. Percy Cordonner. All the Cherokees are more or +less literary, and all the Cherokees have, more or less, admission +to every place of entertainment, from Her Majesty’s Theatre to the +meetings of the members of the “P.R.” But what brings Richard to +the Opera to-night? and who is that not very musical-looking little +gentleman at his elbow? + +“Will they all be here?” asked Dick of Mr. Cordonner. + +“Every one of them; unless Splitters is unable to tear himself away +from his nightly feast of blood and blue fire at the Vic. His piece has +been performed fourteen times, and it’s my belief he’s been at every +representation; and that he tears his hair when the actors leave out +the gems of the dialogue and drop their h’s. They _do_ drop their +h’s over the water,” he continues, lapsing into a reverie; “when our +compositors are short of type, they go over and sweep them up.” + +“You’re sure they’ll be here, then, Percy?” + +“Every one of them, I tell you. I’m whipper-in. They’re to meet at +the oyster shop in the Haymarket; you know the place, where there’s a +pretty girl and fresh Colchesters, don’t charge you anything extra for +the lemon, and you can squeeze her hand when she gives you the change. +They’re sure to come in here two at a time, and put their mark upon the +gentleman in question. Is he in the house yet, old fellow?” + +Richard turns to the quiet little man at his elbow, who is our old +friend Mr. Peters, and asks him a question: he only shakes his head in +reply. + +“No, he’s not here yet,” says Dick; “let’s have a look at the stage, +and see what sort of stuff this Signor Mosquetti is made of.” + +“I shall cut him up, on principle,” says Percy; “and the better he is, +the more I shall cut him up, on another principle.” + +There is a great deal of curiosity about this new tenor of continental +celebrity. The opera is the _Lucia_, and the appearance of +Edgardo is looked forward to with anxiety. Presently the hero of the +square-cut coat and jack-boots enters. He is a handsome fellow, with a +dark southern face, and an easy insouciant manner. His voice is melody +itself; the rich notes roll out in a flood of sweetness, without the +faintest indication of effort. Though Richard pretends to look at the +stage, though perhaps he does try to direct his attention that way, +his pale face, his wandering glance, and his restless under-lip, show +him to be greatly agitated. He is waiting for that moment when the +detective shall say to him, “There is the murderer of your uncle. There +is the man for whose guilt you have suffered, and must suffer, till he +is brought to justice.” The first act of the opera seemed endless to +Daredevil Dick; while his philosophical friend, Mr. Cordonner, looked +on as coolly as he would have done at an earthquake, or the end of the +world, or any other trifling event of that nature. + +The curtain has fallen upon the first act, when Mr. Peters lays his +hand on Richard’s arm and points to a box on the grand tier. + +A gentleman and lady, and a little boy, have just taken their seats. +The gentleman, as becomes him, sits with his back to the stage and +faces the house. He lifts his opera-glass to take a leisurely survey +of the audience. Percy puts his glass into Richard’s hand, and with a +hearty “Courage, old boy!” watches him as he looks for the first time +at his deadliest enemy. + +And is that calm, aristocratic, and serene face the face of a murderer? +The shifting blue eyes and the thin arched lips are not discernible +from this distance; but through the glass the general effect of the +face is very plainly seen, and there is no fear that Richard will fail +to know its owner again, whenever and wherever he may meet him. + +Mr. Cordonner, after a deliberate inspection of the personal +attractions of the Count de Marolles, remarks, with less respect than +indifference. + +“Well, the beggar is by no means bad-looking, but he looks a +determined scoundrel. He’d make a first-rate light-comedy villain for +a Porte-St.-Martin drama. I can imagine him in Hessian boots poisoning +all his relations, and laughing at the police when they come to arrest +him.” + +“Shall you know him again, Percy?” asks Richard. + +“Among an army of soldiers, every one of them dressed in the same +uniform,” replies his friend. “There’s something unmistakable about +that pale thin face. I’ll go and bring the other fellows in, that they +may all be able to swear to him when they see him.” + +In groups of two and three the Cherokees strolled into the pit, and +were conducted by Mr. Cordonner--who, to serve a friend, could, on a +push, be almost active--to the spot where Richard and the detective +stood. One after another they took a long look, through the most +powerful glass they could select, at the tranquil features of Victor de +Marolles. + +Little did that gentleman dream of this amateur band of police, formed +for the special purpose of the detection of the crime he was supposed +to have committed. + +One by one the “Cheerfuls” register the Count’s handsome face upon +their memories, and with a hearty shake of the hand each man declares +his willingness to serve Richard whenever and wherever he may see a +chance, however faint or distant, of so doing. + +And all this time the Count is utterly unmoved. Not quite so unmoved +though, when, in the second act, he recognizes in the Edgardo--the new +tenor, the hero of the night--his old acquaintance of the Parisian +Italian Opera, the chorus-singer and mimic, Monsieur Paul Moucée. This +skilful workman does not care about meeting with a tool which, once +used, were better thrown aside and for ever done away with. But this +Signor Paolo Mosquetti is neither more nor less than the slovenly, +petit-verre-drinking, domino-playing chorus-singer, at a salary of +thirty francs a week. His genius, which enabled him to sing an aria +in perfect imitation of the fashionable tenor of the day, has also +enabled him, with a little industry, and a little less wine-drinking +and gambling, to become a fashionable tenor himself, and Milan, Naples, +Vienna, and Paris testify to his triumphs. + +And all this time Valerie de Marolles looks on a stage such as that +on which, years ago, she so often saw the form she loved. That faint +resemblance, that likeness in his walk, voice, and manner, which Moucée +has to Gaston de Lancy strikes her very forcibly. It is no great +likeness, except when the mimic is bent on representing the man he +resembles; then, indeed, as we know, it is remarkable. But at any time +it is enough to strike a bitter pang to this bereaved and remorseful +heart, which in every dream and every shadow is only too apt to recall +that unforgotten past. + +The Cherokees meanwhile express their sentiments pretty freely about +Monsieur Raymond de Marolles, and discuss divers schemes for the +bringing of him to justice. Splitters, whose experiences as a dramatic +writer suggested to him every possible kind of mode but a natural one, +proposed that Richard should wait upon the Count, when convenient, at +the hour of midnight, disguised as his uncle’s ghost, and confound +the villain in the stronghold of his crime--meaning Park Lane. This +sentence was verbatim from a playbill, as well as the whole very +available idea; Mr. Splitters’s notions of justice being entirely +confined to the retributive or poetical, in the person of a gentleman +with a very long speech and two pistols. + +“The Smasher’s outside,” said Percy Cordonner. “He wants to have a look +at our friend as he goes out, that he may reckon him up. You’d better +let him go into the Count’s peepers with his left, Dick, and damage his +beauty; it’s the best chance you’ll get.” + +“No, no; I tell you, Percy, that man shall stand where I stood. That +man shall drink to the dregs the cup I drank, when I stood in the +criminal dock at Slopperton and saw every eye turned towards me with +execration and horror, and knew that my innocence was of no avail to +sustain me in the good opinion of one creature who had known me from my +very boyhood.” + +“Except the ‘Cheerfuls,’” said Percy. “Don’t forget the ‘Cheerfuls.’” + +“When I do, I shall have forgotten all on this side of the grave, you +may depend, Percy. No; I have some firm friends on earth, and here is +one;” and he laid his hand on the shoulder of Mr. Peters, who still +stood at his elbow. + +The opera was concluded, and the Count de Marolles and his lovely wife +rose to leave their box. Richard, Percy, Splitters, two or three more +of the Cherokees, and Mr. Peters left the pit at the same time, and +contrived to be at the box-entrance before Raymond’s party came out. + +At last the Count de Marolles’ carriage was called; and as it drew up, +Raymond descended the steps with his wife on his arm, her little boy +clinging to her left hand. + +“She’s a splendid creature,” said Percy; “but there’s a spice of +devilry in those glorious dark eyes. I wouldn’t be her husband for a +trifle, if I happened to offend her.” + +As the Count and Countess crossed from the doors of the opera-house +to their carriage, a drunken man came reeling past, and before the +servants or policemen standing by could interfere, stumbled against +Raymond de Marolles, and in so doing knocked his hat off. He picked it +up immediately, and, muttering some unintelligible apology, returned it +to Raymond, looking, as he did so, very steadily in the face of M. de +Marolles. The occurrence did not occupy a moment, and the Count was too +finished a gentleman to make any disturbance. This man was the Smasher. + +As the carriage drove off, he joined the group under the colonnade, +perfectly sober by this time. + +“I’ve had a jolly good look at him, Mr. Marwood,” he said, “and I’d +swear to him after forty rounds in the ring, which is apt sometimes to +take a little of the Cupid out of a gent. He’s not a bad-looking cove +on the whole, and looks game. He’s rather slight built, but he might +make that up in science, and dance a pretty tidy quadrille round the +chap he was put up agin, bein’ active and lissom. I see the cut upon +his forehead, Mr. Peters, as you told me to take notice of,” he said, +addressing the detective. “He didn’t get that in a fair stand-up fight. +leastways not from an Englishman. When you cross the water for your +antagonist, you don’t know what you may get.” + +“He got it from an Englishwoman, though,” said Richard. + +“Did he, now? Ah, that’s the worst of the softer sect; you see, sir, +you never know where they’ll have you. They’re awful deficient in +science, to be sure; but, Lord bless you, they make it up with the +will,” and the Left-handed one rubbed his nose. He had been married +during his early career, and was in the habit of saying that ten +rounds inside the ropes was a trifle compared with one round in your +own back-parlour, when your missus had got your knowledge-box in +chancery against the corner of the mantelpiece, and was marking a dozen +different editions of the ten commandments on your complexion with her +bunch of fives. + +“Come, gentlemen,” said the hospitable Smasher, “what do you say to +a Welsh rarebit and a bottle of bitter at my place? We’re as full as +we can hold down stairs, for the Finsbury Fizzer’s trainer has come +up from Newmarket; and his backers is hearin’ anecdotes of his doings +for the last interesting week. They talk of dropping down the river on +Tuesday for the great event between him and the Atlantic Alligator, +and the excitement’s tremendous; our barmaid’s hands is blistered with +working at the engines. So come round and see the game, gentlemen; and +if you’ve any loose cash you’d like to put upon the Fizzer I can get +you decent odds, considerin’ he’s the favourite.” + +Richard shook his head. He would go home to his mother, he said; he +wanted to talk to Peters about the day’s work. He shook hands heartily +with his friends, and as they strolled off to the Smasher’s, walked +with them as far as Charing Cross, and left them at the corner that led +into quiet Spring Gardens. + +In the club-room of the Cherokees that night the members renewed the +oath they had taken on the night of Richard’s arrival, and formally +inaugurated themselves as “Daredevil Dick’s secret police.” + + + + + CHAPTER IV. + + THE CAPTAIN, THE CHEMIST, AND THE LASCAR. + + +IN the drawing-room of a house in a small street leading out of Regent +Street are assembled, the morning after this opera-house rencontre, +three people. It is almost difficult to imagine three persons more +dissimilar than those who compose this little group. On a sofa near the +open window, at which the autumn breeze comes blowing in over boxes of +dusty London flowers, reclines a gentleman, whose bronzed and bearded +face, and the military style even of the loose morning undress which +he wears, proclaim him to be a soldier. A very handsome face it is, +this soldier’s, although darkened not a little by a tropical sun, and a +good deal shrouded by the thick black moustache and beard which conceal +the expression of the mouth, and detract from the individuality of the +face. He is smoking a long cherry-stemmed pipe, the bowl of which rests +on the floor. A short distance from the sofa on which he is lying, an +Indian servant is seated on the carpet, who watches the bowl of the +pipe, ready to replenish it the moment it fails, and every now and +then glances upward to the grave face of the officer with a look of +unmistakable affection in his soft black eyes. + +The third occupant of the little drawing-room is a pale, thin, +studious-looking man, who is seated at a cabinet in a corner away from +the window, amongst papers and books, which are heaped in a chaotic +pile on the floor about him. Strange books and papers these are. +Mathematical charts, inscribed with figures such as perhaps neither +Newton or Leplace ever dreamed of. Volumes in old worm-eaten bindings, +and written in strange languages long since dead and forgotten upon +this earth; but they all seem familiar to this pale student, whose blue +spectacles bend over pages of crabbed Arabic as intently as the eyes +of a boarding-school miss who devours the last volume of the last new +novel. Now and then he scratches a few figures, or a sign in algebra, +or a sentence in Arabic, on the paper before him, and then goes back +to the book again, never looking up towards the smoker or his Hindoo +attendant. Presently the soldier, as he relinquishes his pipe to the +Indian to be replenished breaks the silence. + +“So the great people of London, as well as of Paris, are beginning to +believe in you, Laurent?” he says. + +The student lifts his head from his work, and turning the blue +spectacles towards the smoker, says in his old unimpassioned manner-- + +“How can they do otherwise, when I tell them the truth? These,” he +points to the pile of books and papers at his side, “do not err: +they only want to be interpreted rightly. I may have been sometimes +mistaken--I have never been deceived.” + +“You draw nice distinctions, Blurosset.” + +“Not at all. If I have made mistakes in the course of my career, it has +been from my own ignorance, my own powerlessness to read these aright; +not from any shortcoming in the things themselves. I tell you, they do +not deceive.” + +“But will you ever read them aright? Will you ever fathom to the very +bottom this dark gulf of forgotten science?” + +“Yes, I am on the right road. I only pray to live long enough to reach +the end.” + +“And then----?” + +“Then it will be within the compass of my own will to live forever.” + +“Pshaw! The old story--the old delusion. How strange that the wisest on +this earth should have been fooled by it!” + +“Make sure that it is a delusion, before you say they were fooled by +it, Captain.” + +“Well, my dear Blurosset, Heaven forbid that I should dispute with one +so learned as you upon so obscure a subject. I am more at home holding +a fort against the Indians than holding an argument against Albertus +Magnus. You still, however, persist that this faithful Mujeebez here is +in some manner or other linked with my destiny?” + +“I do” + +“And yet it is very singular! What can connect two men whose +experiences in every way are so dissimilar?” + +“I tell you again that he will be instrumental in confounding your +enemies.” + +“You know who they are--or rather, who he is. I have but one.” + +“Not two, Captain?” + +“Not two. No, Blurosset. There is but one on whom I would wreak a deep +and deadly vengeance.” + +“And for the other?” + +“Pity and forgiveness. Do not speak of that. There are some things +which even now I am not strong enough to hear spoken of. That is one of +them.” + +“The history of your faithful Mujeebez there is a singular one, is it +not?” asks the student, rising from his books, and advancing to the +window. + +“A very singular one. His master, an Englishman, with whom he came from +Calcutta, and to whom he was devotedly attached----” + +“I was indeed, sahib,” said the Indian, in very good English, but with +a strong foreign accent. + +“This master, a rich nabob, was murdered, in the house of his sister, +by his own nephew.” + +“Very horrible, and very unnatural! Was the nephew hung?” + +“No. The jury brought in a verdict of insanity: he was sent to a +madhouse, where no doubt he still remains confined. Mujeebez was not +present at the trial; he had escaped by a miracle with his own life; +for the murderer, coming into the little room in which he slept, and +finding him stirring, gave him a blow on the head, which placed him for +some time in a very precarious state.” + +“And did you see the murderer’s face, Mujeebez?” asks Monsieur +Blurosset. + +“No, sahib. It was dark, I could see nothing. The blow stunned me: when +I recovered my senses, I was in the hospital, where I lay for months. +The shock had brought on what the doctors called a nervous fever. For +a long time I was utterly incapable of work; when I left the hospital +I had not a friend in the world; but the good lady, the sister of my +poor murdered master, gave me money to return to India, where I was +kitmutghar for some time to an English colonel, in whose household +I learned the language, and whom I did not leave till I entered the +service of the good Captain.” + +The “good Captain” laid his hand affectionately on his follower’s +white-turbaned head, something with the protecting gesture with which +he might caress a favourite and faithful dog. + +“After you had saved my life, Mujeebez,” he said. + +“I would have died to save it, sahib,” answered the Hindoo. “A kind +word sinks deep in the heart of the Indian.” + +“And there was no doubt of the guilt of this nephew?” asks Blurosset. + +“I cannot say, sahib. I did not know the English language then; I could +understand nothing told me, except my poor master’s nephew was not +hung, but put in a madhouse.” + +“Did you see him--this nephew?” + +“Yes, sahib, the night before the murder. He came into the room with my +master when he retired to rest. I saw him only for a minute, for I left +the room as they entered.” + +“Should you know him again?” inquired the student. + +“Anywhere, sahib. He was a handsome young man, with dark hazel eyes and +a bright smile. He did not look like a murderer.” + +“That is scarcely a sure rule to go by, is it, Laurent?” asks the +Captain, with a bitter smile. + +“I don’t know. A black heart will make strange lines in the handsomest +face, which are translatable to the close observer.” + +“Now,” says the officer, rising, and surrendering his pipe to the hands +of his watchful attendant--“now for my morning’s ride, and you will +have the place to yourself for your scientific visitors, Laurent.” + +“You will not go where you are likely to meet----” + +“Anyone I know? No, Blurosset. The lonelier the road the better I like +it. I miss the deep jungle and the tiger-hunt, eh, Mujeebez?--we miss +them, do we not?” + +The Hindoo’s eyes brightened, as he answered eagerly, “Yes, indeed, +sahib.” + +Captain Lansdown (that is the name of the officer) is of French +extraction; he speaks English perfectly, but still with a slightly +foreign accent. He has distinguished himself by his marvellous courage +and military genius in the Punjab, and is over in England on leave +of absence. It is singular that so great a friendship should exist +between this impetuous, danger-loving soldier, and the studious French +chemist and pseudo-magician, Laurent Blurosset; but that a very firm +friendship does exist between them is evident. They live in the same +house; are both waited upon by Egerton Lansdown’s Indian servant, and +are constantly together. + +Laurent Blurosset, after becoming the fashion in Paris, is now the rage +in London. But he rarely stirs beyond the threshold of his own door, +though his presence is eagerly sought for in scientific coteries, where +opinion is still, however, divided as to whether he is a charlatan +or a great man. The materialists sneer--the spiritualists believe. +His disinterestedness, at any rate, speaks in favour of his truth. He +will receive no money from any of his numerous visitors. He will serve +them, he says, if he can, but he will not sell the wisdom of the mighty +dead; for that is something too grand and solemn to be made a thing of +barter. His discoveries in chemistry have made him sufficiently rich; +and he can afford to devote himself to science, in the hope of finding +truth for his reward. He asks no better recompense than the glory of +the light he seeks. We leave him, then, to his eager and inquisitive +visitors, while the Captain rides slowly through Oxford Street, on his +way to the Edgware Road, through which he emerges into the country. + + + + + CHAPTER V. + + THE NEW MILKMAN IN PARK LANE. + + +THE post of kitchenmaid in the household of the Count de Marolles +is no unimportant one, and Mrs. Moper is accounted a person of some +consequence in the servants’ hall. The French _chef_, who has +his private sitting-room, wherein he works elaborate and scientific +culinary combinations, which, when he condescends to talk English, he +designates “plates,” has of course very little communication with the +household. Mrs. Moper is his prime minister; he gives his orders to her +for execution, and throws himself back in his easy-chair to _think +out_ a dish, while his handmaiden collects for him the vulgar +elements of his noble art. Mrs. Moper is a very good cook herself; and +when she leaves the Count de Marolles she will go into a family where +there is no foreigner kept, and will have forty pounds per annum and +a still-room of her own. She is in the caterpillar stage now, Mrs. +Sarah Moper, and is content to write herself down kitchenmaid _ad +interim_. + +The servants’-hall dinner and the housekeeper’s repast are both over; +but the preparations for _the_ dinner have not yet begun, and Mrs. +Moper and Liza, the scullerymaid, snatch half an hour’s calm before the +coming storm, and sit down to darn stockings,-- + +“Which,” Mrs. Moper says, “my toes is through and my heels is out, and +never can I get the time to set a stitch. For time there isn’t any in +this house for a under-servant, which under-servant I will be no more +than one year longer; or say my name’s not Sarah Moper.” + +Liza, who is mending a black stocking with white thread (and a very +fanciful effect it has too), evidently has no wish to dispute such a +proposition. + +“Indeed, Mrs. Moper,” she said, “that’s the truest word as ever you’ve +spoke. It’s well for them as takes their wages for wearin’ silk +gowns, and oilin’ of their hair, and lookin’ out of winder to watch +the carriages go in at Grosvenor Gate; which, don’t tell me as Life +Guardsmen would look up imperdent, if they hadn’t been looked down to +likewise.” Eliza gets rather obscure here. “This ’ouse, Mrs. M., for +upper-servants may be ’eaven, but for unders it’s more like the place +as is pronounced like a letter of the alphabet, and isn’t to be named +by me.” + +There is no knowing how far this rather revolutionary style of +conversation might have gone, for at this moment there came that +familiar sound of the clink of milk-pails on the pavement above, and +the London cry of milk. + +“It’s Bugden with the milk, Liza; there was a pint of cream wrong +in the last bill, Mrs. Moper says. Ask him to come down and +correctify it, will you, Liza?” + +Liza ascends the area steps and parleys with the milkman; presently he +comes jingling down, with his pails swinging against the railings; he +is rather awkward with his pails, this milkman, and I’m afraid he must +spill more milk than he sells, as the Park Lane pavements testify. + +“It isn’t Bugden,” says Liza, explanatory, as she ushers him into the +kitchen. “Bugden ’as ’urt his leg, a-milkin’ a cow wot kicks when the +flies worrits, and ’as sent this young man, as is rather new to the +business, but is anxious to do his best.” + +The new milkman enters the kitchen as she concludes her speech, and +releasing himself from the pails, expresses his readiness to settle any +mistake in the weekly bill. + +He is rather a good-looking fellow, this milkman, and he has a very +curly head of flaxen hair, preposterously light eyebrows, and dark +hazel eyes, which form rather a piquant contrast. I don’t suppose Mrs. +Moper and Liza think him bad-looking, for they beg him to sit down, +and the scullerymaid thrusts the black stocking, on which she was +heretofore engaged, into a table-drawer, and gives her hair a rapid +extemporary smoothing with the palms of her hands. Mr. Bugden’s man +seems by no means disinclined for a little friendly chat: he tells them +how new he is to the business; how he thinks he should scarcely have +chosen cowkeeping for his way of life, if he’d known as much about it +as he does now; how there’s many things in the milk business, such as +horses’ brains, warm water and treacle, and such-like, as goes against +his conscience; how he’s quite new to London and London ways, having +come up only lately from the country. + +“Whereabouts in the country?” Mrs. Moper asks. + +“Berkshire,” the young man replies. + +“Lor’,” Mrs. Moper says, “never was any thing so remarkable. Poor Moper +come from Berkshire, and knowed every inch of the country, and so I +think do I, pretty well. What part of Berkshire, Mr.--Mr.----?” + +“Volpes,” suggested the young man. + +“What part of Berkshire, Mr. Volpes?” + +Mr. Volpes looks, strange to say, rather at a loss to answer this very +natural and simple inquiry. He looks at Mrs. Moper, then at Liza, and +lastly at the pails. The pails seem to assist his memory, for he says, +very distinctly, “Burley Scuffers.” + +It is Mrs. Moper’s turn to look puzzled now, and she exclaims +“Burley----” + +“Scuffers,” replies the young man. “Burley Scuffers, market town, +fourteen miles on this side of Reading. The ‘Chicories,’ Sir Yorrick +Tristram’s place, is a mile and a half out of the town.” + +There’s no disputing such an accurate and detailed description as this. +Mrs. Moper says it’s odd, all the times she’s been to Reading--“which I +wish I had as many sovereigns,” she mutters in parenthesis--never did +she remember passing through “Burley Scuffers.” + +“It’s a pretty little town, too,” says the milkman; “there’s a +lime-tree avenue just out of the High Street, called Pork-butchers’ +Walk, as is crowded with young people of a Sunday evening after church.” + +Mrs. Moper is quite taken with this description; and says, the very +next time she goes to Reading to see poor Moper’s old mother, she will +make a point of going to Burley Scuffers during her stay. + +Mr. Volpes says, he would if he were she, and that she couldn’t employ +her leisure time better. + +They talk a good deal about Berkshire; and then Mrs. Moper relates +some very interesting facts relative to the late Mr. Moper, and her +determination, “which upon his dying bed it was his comfort so to +think,” never to marry again; at which the milkman looks grieved, and +says the gentlemen will be very blind indeed to their own interests +if they don’t make her change her mind some day; and somehow or +other (I don’t suppose servants often do such things), they get to +talking about their master and their mistress. The milkman seems quite +interested in this subject, and, forgetting in how many houses the +innocent liquid he dispenses may be required, he sits with his elbows +on the kitchen-table, listening to Mrs. Moper’s remarks, and now and +then, when she wanders from her subject, drawing her back to it with +an adroit question. She didn’t know much about the Count, she said, +for the servants was most all of ’em new; they only brought two people +with them from South America, which was Monsieur St. Mirotaine, the +_chef_, and the Countess’s French maid, Mademoiselle Finette. But +she thought Monsieur de Marolles very ’aughty, and as proud as he was +’igh, and that madame was very unhappy, “though it’s hard to know with +them furriners, Mr. Volpes, what is what,” she continues; “and madame’s +gloomy ways may be French for happiness, for all I knows.” + +“He’s an Englishman, the Count, isn’t he?” asks Mr. Volpes. + +“A Englishman! Lor’ bless your heart, no. They’re both French; she’s +of Spanish igstraction, I believe, and they lived since their marriage +mostly in Spanish America. But they always speaks to each other in +French, when they do speak; which them as waits upon them says isn’t +often.” + +“He’s very rich, I suppose,” says the milkman. + +“Rich!” cries Mrs. Moper, “the money as that man has got they say is +fabellous; and he’s a regular business man too, down at his bank every +day, rides off to the City as punctual as the clock strikes ten. Lor’, +by the bye, Mr. Volpes,” says Mrs. Moper suddenly, “you don’t happen to +know of a tempory tiger, do you?” + +“A temporary tiger!” Mr. Volpes looks considerably puzzled. + +“Why, you see, the Count’s tiger, as wasn’t higher than the kitchen +table I do believe, broke his arm the other day. He was a-hangin’ on +to the strap behind the cab, a-standin’ upon nothing, as them boys +will, when the vehicle was knocked agen an omnibus, and his arm bein’ +wrenched sudden out of the strap, snapped like a bit of sealing-wax; +and they’ve took him to the hospital, and he’s to come back as soon as +ever he’s well; for he’s a deal thought on, bein’ a’most the smallest +tiger at the West-end. So, if you happen to know of a boy as would come +temporary, we should be obliged by your sending him round.” + +“Did he know of a boy as would come temporary?” Mr. Budgen’s young +man appeared so much impressed by this question, that for a minute or +two he was quite incapable of answering it. He leaned his elbows on +the kitchen table, with his face buried in his hands and his fingers +twisted in his flaxen hair, and when he looked up there was, strange +to say, a warm flush over his pale complexion, and something like a +triumphant sparkle in his dark brown eyes. + +“Nothing could fall out better,” he said; “nothing, nothing!” + +“What, the poor lad breaking his arm?” asked Mrs. Moper, in a tone of +surprise. + +“No, no, not that,” said Mr. Budgen’s young man, just a little +confused; “what I mean is, that I know the very boy to suit you--the +very boy, the very boy of all others to undertake the business. Ah,” +he continued in a lower voice, “and to go through with it, too, to the +end.” + +“Why, as to the business,” replied Mrs. Moper, “it ain’t overmuch, +hangin’ on behind, and lookin’ knowin’, and givin’ other tigers as +good as they bring, when waitin’ outside the _Calting_ or the +_Anthinium_; which tigers as is used to the highest names in the +peerage familiar as their meat and drink, will go on contemptuous about +our fambly, callin’ the bank ‘the shop,’ and a-askin’, till they got +our lad’s blood up (which he had had his guinea lessons from the May +Fair Mawler, and were better left alone), when the smash was a-comin’, +or whether we meant to give out three-and-sixpence in the pound like +a honest house, or do the shabby thing and clear ourselves by a +compensation with our creditors of fourpence-farthing? Ah,” continued +Mrs. Moper, gravely, “many’s the time that child have come home with +his nose as big as the ’ead of a six-week old baby, and no eyes at all +as any one could discover, which he’d been that knocked about in a +stand-up fight with a lad three times his weight and size.” + +“Then I can send the boy, and you’ll get him the situation?” said Mr. +Budgen’s young man, who did not seem particularly interested in the +rather elaborate recital of the exploits of the invalid tiger. + +“He can have a character, I suppose?” inquired the lady. + +“Oh, ah, to be sure. Budgen will give him a character.” + +“You will impress upon the youth,” said Mrs. Moper, with great dignity, +“that he will not be able to make this his permanence ’ome. The pay is +good, and the meals is reg’lar, but the situation is tempory.” + +“All right,” said Mr. Budgen’s assistant; “he doesn’t want a situation +for long. I’ll bring him round myself this evening--good afternoon;” +with which very brief farewell, the flaxen-haired, dark-eyed milkman +strode out of the kitchen. + +“Hum!” muttered the cook, “his manners has not the London polish: I +meant to have ast him to tea.” + +“Why, I’m blest,” exclaimed the scullerymaid suddenly, “if he haven’t +been and gone and left his yoke and pails behind him! Well, of all the +strange milkmen I ever come a-nigh, if he ain’t the strangest!” + +She might have thought him stranger still, perhaps, this light-haired +milkman, had she seen him hail a stray cab in Brook Street, spring +into it, snatch off his flaxen locks, whose hyacinthine waves were in +the convenient form known by that most disagreeable of words, a wig; +snatch off also the holland blouse common to the purveyors of milk, +and rolling the two into a bundle, stuff them into the pocket of his +shooting-jacket, before throwing himself back into the corner of the +vehicle, to enjoy a meditative cigar, as his charioteer drives his +best pace in the direction of that transpontine temple of Esculapius, +Mr. Darley’s surgery. Daredevil Dick has made the first move in that +fearful game of chess which is to be played between him and the Count +de Marolles. + + + + + CHAPTER VI. + + SIGNOR MOSQUETTI RELATES AN ADVENTURE. + + +ON the evening which follows the very afternoon during which Richard +Marwood made his first and only essay in the milk-trade, the Count and +Countess de Marolles attend a musical party--I beg pardon, I should, +gentle reader, as you know, have said a _soirée musicale_--at the +house of a lady of high rank in Belgrave Square. London was almost +empty, and this was one of the last parties of the season; but it is a +goodly and an impressive sight to see--even when London is, according +to every fashionable authority, a perfect Sahara--how many splendid +carriages will draw up to the awning my Lady erects over the pavement +before her door, when she announces herself “at home;” how many +gorgeously dressed and lovely women will descend therefrom, scenting +the night air of Belgravia with the fragrance wafted from their waving +tresses and point-d’Alençon-bordered handkerchiefs; lending a perfume +to the autumn violets struggling out a fading existence in Dresden +boxes on the drawing-room balconies; lending the light of their +diamonds to the gas-lamps before the door, and the light of their +eyes to help out the aforesaid diamonds; sweeping the autumn dust and +evening dews with the borders of costly silks, and marvels of Lyons and +Spitalfields, and altogether glorifying the ground over which they walk. + +On this evening one range of windows, at least, in Belgrave Square is +brilliantly illuminated. Lady Londersdon’s Musical Wednesday, the last +of the season, has been inaugurated with _éclat_ by a scena from +Signora Scorici, of Her Majesty’s Theatre and the Nobility’s Concerts; +and Mr. Argyle Fitz-Bertram, the great English basso-baritono, and the +handsomest man in England, has just shaken the square with the buffo +duet from the Cenerentola--in which performance he, Argyle, has so +entirely swamped that amiable tenor Signor Maretti, that the latter +gentleman has serious thoughts of calling him out to-morrow morning; +which idea he would carry into execution if Argyle Fitz-Bertram were +not a crack shot, and a pet pupil of Mr. Angelo’s into the bargain. + +But even the great Argyle finds himself--with the exception of being up +to his eyes in a slough of despond, in the way of platonic flirtation +with a fat duchess of fifty--comparatively nowhere. The star of the +evening is the new tenor, Signor Mosquetti, who has condescended to +attend Lady Londersdon’s Wednesday. Argyle, who is the best-natured +fellow as well as the most generous, and whose great rich voice wells +up from a heart as sound as his lungs, throws himself back into a +low easy-chair--it creaks a little under his weight, by the bye--and +allows the duchess to flirt with him, while a buzz goes round the room; +Mosquetti is going to sing. Argyle looks lazily out of his half-closed +dark eyes, with that peculiar expression which seems to say--“Sing +your best, old fellow! My _g_ in the bass clef would crush your +half-octave or so of falsetto before you knew where you were, or your +‘Pretty Jane’ either. Sing away, my boy! we’ll have ‘Scots wha hae’ +by-and-by. I’ve some friends down in Essex who want to hear it, and the +wind’s in the right quarter for the voice to travel. They won’t hear +_you_ five doors off. Sing your best.” + +Just as Signor Mosquetti is about to take his place at the piano, the +Count and Countess de Marolles advance through the crowd about the +doorway. + +Valerie, beautiful, pale, calm as ever, is received with considerable +_empressement_ by her hostess. She is the heiress of one of the +most ancient and aristocratic families in France, and is moreover the +wife of one of the richest men in London, so is sure of a welcome +throughout Belgravia. + +“Mosquetti is going to sing,” murmurs Lady Londersdon; “you were +charmed with him in the Lucia, of course? You have lost Fitz-Bertram’s +duet. It was charming; all the chandeliers were shaken by his lower +notes; charming, I assure you. He’ll sing again after Mosquetti: +the Duchess of C. is _éprise_, as you see. I believe she is +perpetually sending him diamond rings and studs; and the Duke, they do +say, has refused to be responsible for her account at Storr’s.” + +Valerie’s interest in Mr. Fitz-Bertram’s conduct is not very intense; +she bends her haughty head, just slightly elevating her arched eyebrows +with the faintest indication of well-bred surprise; but she _is_ +interested in Signor Mosquetti, and avails herself of the seat her +hostess offers to her near Erard’s grand piano. The song concludes very +soon after she is seated; but Mosquetti remains near the piano, talking +to an elderly gentleman, who is evidently a connoisseur. + +“I have never heard but one man, Signor Mosquetti,” says this +gentleman, “whose voice resembled yours.” + +There is nothing very particular in the words, but Valerie’s attention +is apparently arrested by them, for she fixes her eyes intently on +Signor Mosquetti, as though awaiting his reply. + +“And he, my lord?” says Mosquetti, interrogatively. + +“He, poor fellow, is dead.” Now indeed Valerie, pale with a pallor +greater than usual, listens as though her whole soul hung on the words +she heard. + +“He is dead,” continued the gentleman. “He died young, in the zenith of +his reputation. His name was--let me see--I heard him in Paris last; +his name was----” + +“De Lancy, perhaps, my lord?” says Mosquetti. + +“It was De Lancy; yes. He had some most peculiar and at the same time +most beautiful tones in his voice, and you appear to me to have the +very same.” + +Mosquetti bowed at the compliment. “It is singular, my lord,” he said; +“but I doubt if those tones are quite natural to me. I am a little of +a mimic, and at one period of my life I was in the habit of imitating +poor De Lancy, whose singing I very much admired.” + +Valerie grasps the delicate fan in her nervous hand so tightly that the +group of courtiers and fair ladies, of the time of Louis Quatorze, +dancing nothing particular on a blue cloud, are crushed out of all +symmetry as she listens to this conversation. + +“I was, at the time I knew De Lancy, merely a chorus-singer at the +Italian Opera, Paris.” + +The listeners draw nearer, and form quite a circle round Mosquetti, who +is the lion of the night; even Argyle Fitz-Bertram pricks up his ears, +and deserts the Duchess in order to hear this conversation. + +“A low chorus-singer,” he mutters to himself. “So help me, Jupiter, I +knew he was a nobody.” + +“This passion for mimicry,” said Mosquetti, “was so great that I +acquired a sort of celebrity throughout the Opera House, and even +beyond its walls. I could imitate De Lancy better, perhaps, than any +one else; for in height, figure, and general appearance I was said to +resemble him.” + +“You do,” said the gentleman; “you do very much resemble the poor +fellow.” + +“This resemblance one day gave rise to quite an adventure, which, if I +shall not bore you----” he glanced round. + +There is a general murmur. “Bore us! No! Delighted, enraptured, charmed +above all things!” Fitz-Bertram is quite energetic in this _omnes_ +business, and says, “No, no!”--muttering to himself afterwards, “So +help me, Jupiter, I knew the fellow was a nuisance!” + +“But the adventure! Pray let us hear it!” cried eager voices. + +“Well, ladies and gentlemen, I was a careless reckless fellow; quite +content to put on a pair of russet boots which half swallowed me, and +a green cotton-velvet tunic short in the sleeves and tight across +the chest, and to go on the stage and sing in a chorus with fifty +others, as idle as myself, in other russet boots and cotton-velvet +tunics, which, as you know, is the court costume of a chorus-singer +from the time of Charlemagne to the reign of Louis XV. I was quite +happy, I say, to lounge on to the stage, unknown, unnoticed, badly +paid and worse dressed, provided when the chorus was finished I had +my cigarette, dominoes, and my glass of cognac in a third-rate café. +I was playing one morning at those eternal dominoes--(and never, I +think,” said Mosquetti, parenthetically, “had a poor fellow so many +double-sixes in his hand)--when I was told a gentleman wanted to see +me. This seemed too good a joke--a gentleman for me! It couldn’t be +a limb of the law, as I didn’t owe a farthing--no Parisian tradesman +being quite so demented as to give me credit. It was a gentleman--a +very aristocratic-looking fellow; handsome--but I didn’t like his face; +affable--and yet I didn’t like his manner.” + +Ah, Valerie! you may well listen now! + +“He wanted me, he said,” continued Mosquetti, “to decide a little +wager. Some foolish girl, who had seen De Lancy on the stage, and who +believed him the ideal hero of romance, and was only in too much danger +of throwing her heart and fortune at his feet, was to be disenchanted +by any stratagem that could be devised. Her parents had intrusted the +management of the affair to him, a relation of the lady’s. Would I +assist him? Would I represent De Lancy, and play a little scene in +the Bois de Boulogne, to open the eyes of this silly boarding-school +miss--would I, for a consideration? It was only to act a little stage +play off the stage, and was for a good cause. I consented; and that +evening, at half-past ten o’clock, under the shadow of the winter night +and the leafless trees, I----” + +“Stop, stop! Signor Mosquetti!” cry the bystanders. “Madame! Madame de +Marolles! Water! Smelling-salts! Your _flacon_, Lady Emily: she +has fainted!” + +No; she has not fainted; this is something worse than fainting, this +convulsive agony, in which the proud form writhes, while the white and +livid lips murmur strange and dreadful words. + +“Murdered, murdered and innocent! while I, vile dupe, pitiful fool, was +only a puppet in the hands of a demon!” + +At this very moment Monsieur de Marolles, who has been summoned from +the adjoining apartment, where he has been discussing a financial +measure with some members of the lower House, enters hurriedly. + +“Valerie, Valerie, what is the matter?” he says, approaching his wife. + +She rises--rises with a terrible effort, and looks him full in the face. + +“I thought, monsieur, that I knew the hideous abyss of your black soul +to its lowest depths. I was wrong; I never knew you till to-night.” + +Imagine such strong language as this in a Belgravian drawing-room, and +then you can imagine the astonishment of the bystanders. + +“Good heavens!” exclaimed Signor Mosquetti hurriedly. + +“What?” cried they eagerly. + +“That is the very man I have been speaking of.” + +“That? The Count de Marolles?” + +“The man bending over the lady who has fainted.” + +Petrified Belgravians experience a new sensation--surprise--and rather +like it. + +Argyle Fitz-Bertram twists his black moustachios reflectively, and +mutters-- + +“So help me, Jupiter. I knew there’d be a row! I shan’t have to sing +‘Scots wha hae,’ and shall be just in time for that little supper at +the Café de l’Europe.” + + + + + CHAPTER VII. + + THE GOLDEN SECRET IS TOLD, AND THE GOLDEN BOWL IS BROKEN. + + +THE new tiger, or, as he is called in the kitchen, the “tempory tiger,” +takes his place, on the morning after Lady Londersdon’s Wednesday, +behind the Count de Marolles’ cab, as that gentleman drives into the +City. + +There is little augury to be drawn from the pale smooth face of Raymond +de Marolles, though Signor Mosquetti’s revelation has made his position +rather a critical one. Till now he has ruled Valerie with a high hand; +and though never conquering the indomitable spirit of the proud Spanish +woman, he has at least forced that spirit to do the will of his. But +_now_, now that she knows the trick put upon her--now that she +knows that the man she so deeply adored did not betray her, but died +the victim of another’s treachery--that the blood in which she has +steeped her soul was the blood of the innocent,--what if now, in her +desperation and despair, she dares all, and reveals all; what then? + +“Why, then,” says Raymond de Marolles, cutting his horse over the ears +with a delicate touch of the whip, which stings home, though, for all +its delicacy; “why then, never shall it be said that Raymond Marolles +found himself in a dilemma, without finding within himself the power to +extricate himself. We are not conquered yet, and we have seen a good +deal of life in thirty years--and not a little danger. Play your best +card, Valerie; I’ve a trump in my own hand to play when the time comes. +Till then, keep dark. I tell you, my good woman, I have hothouses of my +own, and don’t want your Covent Garden exotics at twopence a bunch!” + +This last sentence is addressed to a woman, who pleads earnestly for +the purchase of a wretched bunch of violets, which she holds up to +tempt the man of fashion as she runs by the wheels of his cab, driving +very slowly through the Strand. + +“Fresh violets, sir. Do, sir, please. Only twopence, just twopence, +sir, for the love of charity. I’ve a poor old woman at home, not +related to me, sir, but I keep her. She’s dying-starving, sir, and +dying of old age.” + +“Bah! I tell you, my good woman, I’m not Lawrence Sterne on a +sentimental journey, but a practical man of business. I don’t give +macaroons to donkeys, or save mythic old women from starvation. You’d +better keep out of the way of the wheels--they’ll be over your feet +presently, and if you suffer from corns they may probably hurt you,” +says the philanthropic banker, in his politest tones. + +“Stop, stop!” suddenly exclaims the woman, with an energy that almost +startles even Raymond. “It’s you, is it--Jim? No, not Jim; he’s dead +and gone, I know; but you, you, the fine gentleman, the other brother. +Stop, stop, I tell you, if you want to know a secret that’s in the +keeping of one who may die while I am talking here! Stop, if you want +to know who you are and what you are! Stop!” + +Raymond does pull up at this last sentence. + +“My good woman, do not be so energetic. Every eye in the Strand is on +us; we shall have a crowd presently. Stay, wait for me in Essex Street; +I’ll get out at the corner; that’s a quiet street, and we shall not be +observed. Anything you have to tell me you can tell me there.” + +The woman obeys him, and draws back to the pavement, where she keeps +pace with the cab. + +“A pretty time this for discoveries!” mutters the Count. “Who I am, and +what I am! It’s the secret, I suppose, that the twaddling old maniac +in Blind Peter made such a row about. Who I am, and what I am! Oh, I +dare say I shall turn out to be somebody great, as the hero does in +a lady’s novel. It’s a pity I haven’t the mark of a coronet behind +my ear, or a bloody hand on my wrist. Who I am, and what I am! The +son of a journeyman tailor perhaps, or a chemist’s apprentice, whose +aristocratic connections prevented his acknowledging my mother.” + +He is at the corner of Essex Street by this time, and springs out of +the cab, throwing the reins to the temporary tiger, whose sharp face we +need scarcely inform the reader discloses the features of the boy Slosh. + +The woman is waiting for him; and after a few moments’ earnest +conversation, Raymond emerges from the street, and orders the boy to +drive the cab home immediately: he is not going to the City, but is +going on particular business elsewhere. + +Whether the “temporary tiger” proves himself worthy of the responsible +situation he holds, and does drive the cab home, I cannot say; but I +only know that a very small boy, in a ragged coat a great deal too +large for him, and a battered hat so slouched over his eyes as quite +to conceal his face from the casual observer, creeps cautiously, now a +few paces behind, now a hundred yards on the other side of the way, now +disappearing in the shadow of a doorway, now reappearing at the corner +of the street, but never losing sight of the Count de Marolles and the +purveyor of violets, as they bend their steps in the direction of Seven +Dials. + +Heaven forbid that we should follow them through all the turnings and +twistings of that odoriferous neighbourhood, where foul scents, foul +sights, and fouler language abound; whence May Fair and Belgravia +shrink shuddering, as from an ill it is well for them to let alone, +and a wrong that he may mend who will: not they who have been born +for better things than to set disjointed times aright, or play the +revolutionist to the dethronement of the legitimate monarchy of Queen +Starvation and King Fever, to say nothing of the princes of the +blood--Dirt, Drunkenness, Theft, and Murder. When John Jones, tired of +the monotonous pastime of beating his wife’s skull with a poker, comes +to Lambeth and murders an Archbishop of Canterbury for the sake of +the spoons, it will be time, in the eyes of Belgravia, to reform John +Jones. In the meanwhile we of the upper ten thousand have Tattersall’s +and Her Majesty’s Theatre, and John Jones (who, low republican, says he +must have his amusements too) has such little diversions as wife-murder +and cholera to break the monotony of his existence. + +The Count and the violet-seller at last come to a pause. They had +walked very quickly through the pestiferous streets, Raymond holding +his aristocratic breath and shutting his patrician ears to the scents +and the sounds around him. They come to a stand at last, in a dark +court, before a tall lopsided house, with irresolute chimneypots, +which looked as if the only thing that kept them erect was the want of +unanimity as to which way they should fall. + +Raymond, when invited by the woman to enter, looks suspiciously at the +dingy staircase, as if wondering whether it would last his time, but at +the request of his companion ascends it. + +The boy in the large coat and slouched hat is playing marbles with +another boy on the second-floor landing, and has evidently lived there +all his life, and yet I’m puzzled as to who drove that cab home to the +stables at the back of Park Lane. I fear it was not the “temporary +tiger.” + +The Count de Marolles and his guide pass the youthful gamester, who +has just lost his second half-penny, and ascend to the very top of the +rickety house, the garrets of which are afflicted with intermittent +ague whenever there is a high wind. + +Into one of these garrets the woman conducts Raymond, and on a bed--or +its apology, a thing of shreds and patches, straw and dirt, which goes +by the name of a bed at this end of the town--lies the old woman we +last saw in Blind Peter. + +Eight years, more or less, have not certainly had the effect of +enhancing the charms of this lady; and there is something in her face +to-day more terrible even than wicked old age or feminine drunkenness. +It is death that lends those livid hues to her complexion, which all +the cosmetics from Atkinson’s or the Burlington Arcade, were she +minded to use them, would never serve to conceal. Raymond has not +come too soon if he is to hear any secret from those ghastly lips. It +is some time before the woman, whom she still calls Sillikens, can +make the dying hag understand who this fine gentleman is, and what +it is he wants with her, and even when she does succeed in making +her comprehend all this, the old woman’s speech is very obscure, and +calculated to try the patience of a more amiable man than the Count de +Marolles. + +“Yes, it was a golden secret--a golden secret, eh, my dear? It was +something to have a marquis for a son-in-law, wasn’t it, my dear, eh?” +mumbled the dying old hag. + +“A marquis for a son-in-law! What does the jibbering old idiot mean?” +muttered Raymond, whose reverence for his grandmother was not one of +the strongest points in his composition. “A marquis! I dare say my +respected progenitor kept a public-house, or something of that sort. A +marquis! The ‘Marquis of Granby,’ most likely!” + +“Yes, a marquis,” continued the old woman, “eh, dear! And he married +your mother--married her at the parish church, one cold dark November +morning; and I’ve got the c’tificate. Yes,” she mumbled, in answer +to Raymond’s eager gesture, “I’ve got it; but I’m not going to tell +you where;--no, not till I’m paid. I must be paid for that secret in +gold--yes, in gold. They say that we don’t rest any easier in our +coffins for the money that’s buried with us; but I should like to lie +up to neck in golden sovereigns new from the Mint, and not one light +one amongst ’em.” + +“Well,” said Raymond, impatiently, “your secret! I’m rich, and can pay +for it. Your secret--quick!” + +“Well, he hadn’t been married to her long before a change came, in his +native country, over the sea yonder,” said the old woman, pointing +in the direction of St. Martin’s Lane, as if she thought the British +Channel flowed somewhere behind that thoroughfare. “A change came, and +he got his rights again. One king was put down and another king was +set up, and everybody else was massacred in the streets; it was--a--I +don’t know what they call it; but they’re always a-doin’ it. So he got +his rights, and he was a rich man again, and a great man; and then his +first thought was to keep his marriage with my girl a secret. All very +well, you know, my girl for a wife while he was giving lessons at a +shilling a piece, in _Parlez-vous Français_, and all that; but now +he was a marquis, and it was quite another thing.” + +Raymond by this time gets quite interested; so does the boy in the +big coat and the slouched hat, who has transferred the field of his +gambling operations in the marble line to the landing outside the +garret door. + +“He wanted the secret kept, and I kept it for gold. I kept it even from +her, your mother, my own ill-used girl, for gold. She never knew who he +was; she thought he’d deserted her, and she took to drinking; she and +I threw you into the river when we were mad drunk, and couldn’t stand +your squalling. She died--don’t you ask me how. I told you before not +to ask me how my girl died--I’m mad enough without that question; she +died, and I kept the secret. For a long time it was gold to me, and +he used to send me money regular to keep it dark; but by-and-by the +money stopped from coming. I got savage, but still I kept the secret; +because, you see, it was nothing when it was told, and there was no +one rich enough to pay me to tell it. I didn’t know where to find the +marquis; I only knew he was somewhere in France.” + +“France?” exclaims Raymond. + +“Yes; didn’t I tell you France? He was a French marquis--a refugee they +called him when he first made acquaintance with my girl--a teacher of +French and mathematics.” + +“And his name--his name?” asks Raymond, eagerly. “His name, woman, if +you don’t want to drive me mad.” + +“He called himself Smith, when he was a-teachin’, my dear,” said the +old woman with a ghastly leer; “what are you going to pay me for the +secret?” + +“Whatever you like, only tell me--tell me before you----” + +“Die. Yes, deary; there ain’t any time to waste, is there? I don’t want +to make a hard bargain. Will you bury me up to my neck in gold?” + +“Yes, yes; speak!” He is almost beside himself, and raises a +threatening hand. The old woman grins. + +“I told you before _that_ wasn’t the way, deary. Wait a bit. +Sillikens, give me that ’ere old shoe, will you? Look you here! It’s a +double sole, and the marriage certificate is between the two leathers. +I’ve walked on it this thirty years and more.” + +“And the name--the name?” + +“The name of the Marquis was De--de----” + +“She’s dying! Give me some water!” cried Raymond. + +“De Ce--Ce----” the syllables come in fitful gasps. Raymond throws some +water over her face. + +“De Cevennes, my deary!--and the golden secret is told.” + +And the golden bowl is broken! + +Lay the ragged sheet over the ghastly face, Sillikens, and kneel down +and pray for help in your utter loneliness; for the guilty being whose +soul has gone forth to meet its Maker was your only companion and stay, +however frail that stay might be. + +Go out into the sunshine, Monsieur de Marolles; that which you leave +behind in the tottering garret, shaken by an ague-paroxysm with the +fitful autumn wind, is nothing so terrible to your eyes. + +You have accustomed yourself to the face of Death before now; you have +met that grim potentate on his own ground, and done with him what it is +your policy to do with everything on earth--you have made him useful to +you. + + + + + CHAPTER VIII. + + ONE STEP FURTHER ON THE RIGHT TRACK. + + +IT is not a very romantic locality to which we must now conduct the +reader, being neither more nor less than the shop and surgery of +Mr. Augustus Darley; which temple of the healing god is scented, +this autumn afternoon, with the mingled perfumes of Cavendish and +bird’s-eye tobacco, Turkey rhubarb, whiskey-punch, otto of roses, and +muffins; conflicting odours, which form, or rather object to form, an +amalgamation, each particular effluvium asserting its individuality. + +In the surgery Gus is seated, playing the intellectual and intensely +exciting game of dominoes with our acquaintance of the Cheerful +Cherokee Society, Mr. Percy Cordonner. A small jug, without either +of those earthenware conventionalities, spout or handle, and with +Mr. Cordonner’s bandanna stuffed into the top to imprison the subtle +essences of the mixture within, stands between the two gentlemen; while +Percy, as a guest, is accommodated with a real tumbler, having only +three triangular bits chipped out of the edge. Gus imbibes the exciting +fluid from a cracked custard-cup, with paper wafered round it to keep +the parts from separating, two of which cups are supposed to be equal +(by just measurement) to Mr. P. C.’s tumbler. Before the small fire +kneels the juvenile domestic of the young surgeon, toasting muffins, +and presenting to the two gentlemen a pleasing study in anatomical +perspective and the mysteries of foreshortening; to which, however, +they are singularly inattentive, devoting their entire energies to +the pieces of spotted ivory in their hands, and the consumption, by +equitable division, of the whiskey-punch. + +“I say, Gus,” said Mr. Cordonner, stopping in the middle of a gulp of +his favourite liquid, at the risk of strangulation, with as much alarm +in his face as his placid features were capable of exhibiting--“I say, +this isn’t the professional tumbler, is it?” + +“Why, of course it is,” said his friend. “We have only had that one +since midsummer. The patients don’t like it because it’s chipped; but +I always tell them, that after having gone through having a tooth +out--particularly,” he added parenthetically, “as I take ’em out +(plenty of lancet, forceps, and key, for their eighteenpence)--they +needn’t grumble about having to rinse their mouths out of a cracked +tumbler.” + +Mr. Cordonner turned pale. + +“Do they do that?” he said, and deliberately shot his last sip of the +delicious beverage over the head of the kneeling damsel, with so good +an aim that it in a manner grazed her curl-papers. “It isn’t friendly +of you, Gus,” he said, with mild reproachfulness, “to treat a fellow +like this.” + +“It’s all right, old boy,” said Gus, laughing. “Sarah Jane washes it, +you know. You wash the tumbler and things, don’t you, Sarah Jane?” + +“Wash ’em?” answered the youthful domestic; “I should think so, sir, +indeed. Why, I wipes ’em round reg’lar with my apron, and breathes on +’em to make ’em bright.” + +“Oh, that’ll do!” said Mr. Cordonner, piteously. “Don’t investigate, +Gus; you’ll only make matters worse. Oh, why, why did I ask that +question? Why didn’t I remember ‘it’s folly to be otherwise?’ That +punch was delicious--and now----” He leant his head upon his hand, +buried his face in his pocket-handkerchief, pondered in his heart, and +was still. + +In the mean time the shop is not empty. Isabella is standing behind +the counter, very busy with several bottles, a glass measure, and a +pestle and mortar, making up a prescription, a cough mixture, from her +brother’s Latin. Rather a puzzling document, this prescription, to +any one but Bell; for there are calculations about next year’s Derby +scribbled on the margin, and rough sketches of the Smasher, and a more +youthful votary of the Smasher’s art, surnamed “Whooping William,” +pencilled on the back thereof; but to Bell it seems straightforward +enough. At any rate, she dashes away with the bottles, the measure, and +the pestle and mortar, as if she knew perfectly well what she was about. + +She is not alone in the shop. A gentleman is leaning on the counter, +watching the busy white hands very intently, and apparently deeply +interested in the progress of the cough-mixture. This gentleman is her +brother’s old friend, “Daredevil Dick.” + +Richard Marwood has been a great deal at the surgery since the night +on which he first set foot in his old haunts; he has brought his +mother over, and introduced that lady to Miss Darley. Mrs. Marwood was +delighted with Isabella’s frank manners and handsome face, and insisted +on carrying her back to dine in Spring Gardens. Quite a sociable little +dinner they had too, Richard being--for a man who had been condemned +for a murder, and had escaped from a lunatic asylum--very cheerful +indeed. The young man told Isabella all his adventures, till that +young lady alternately laughed and cried--thereby affording Richard’s +fond mother most convincing proof of the goodness of her heart--and +was altogether so very brilliant and amusing, that when at eleven +o’clock Gus came round from a very critical case (viz., a quarrel of +the Cheerfuls as to whether Gustavus Ponsonby, novelist and satirist, +magazine-writer and poet, deserved the trouncing he had received in +the “Friday Pillery”) to take Bell home in a cab, the little trio +simultaneously declared that the evening had gone as if by magic! As +if by magic! What if to two out of those three the evening did really +go by magic? There is a certain pink-legged little gentleman, with +wings, and a bandage round his eyes, who, some people say, is as great +a magician in his way as Albertus Magnus or Doctor Dee, and who has +done as much mischief and worked as much ruin in his own manner as all +the villanous saltpetre ever dug out of the bosom of the peaceful, +corn-growing, flower-bearing earth. That gentleman, I have no doubt, +presided on the occasion. + +Thus the acquaintance of Richard and Isabella had ripened into +something very much like friendship; and here he is, watching her +employed in the rather unromantic business of making up a cough-mixture +for an elderly washerwoman of methodistical persuasions. But it is +one of the fancies of the pink-legged gentleman aforesaid to lend +his bandage to his victims; and there is nothing that John, William, +George, Henry, James, or Alfred can do, in which Jane, Eliza, Susan, +or Sarah will not see a dignity and a charm, or _vice versâ_. +Pshaw! It is not Mokannah who wears the silver veil; it is we who are +in love with Mokannah who put on the glittering, blinding medium; +and, looking at that gentleman through the dazzle and the glitter, +insist on thinking him a very handsome man, till some one takes the +veil off our eyes, and we straightway fall to and abuse poor Mokannah, +because he is not what we chose to fancy him. It is very hard upon poor +tobacco-smoking, beer-imbibing, card-playing, latch-key-loving Tom +Jones, that Sophia will insist on elevating him into a god, and then +being angry with him because he is Tom Jones and fond of bitter ale and +bird’s-eye. But come what may, the pink-legged gentleman must have his +diversion, and no doubt his eyes twinkle merrily behind that bandage of +his, to see the fools this wise world of ours is made up of. + +“You could trust me, Isabella, then,” said Richard; “you could trust +me, in spite of all--in spite of my wasted youth and the blight upon my +name?” + +“Do we not all trust you, Mr. Marwood, with our entire hearts?” +answered the young lady, taking shelter under cover of a very wide +generality. + +“Not ‘Mr. Marwood,’ Bell; it sounds very cold from the lips of my old +friend’s sister. Every one calls me Richard, and I, without once asking +permission, have called you Bell. Call me Richard, Bell, if you trust +me.” + +She looks him in the face, and is silent for a moment; her heart beats +a great deal faster--so fast that her lips can scarcely shape the words +she speaks. + +“I do trust you, Richard; I believe your heart to be goodness and truth +itself.” + +“Is it worth having, then, Bell? I wouldn’t ask you that question if I +had not a hope now--ay, and not such a feeble one either--to see my +name cleared from the stain that rests upon it. If there is any truth +in my heart, Isabella, that truth is yours alone. Can you trust me, as +the woman who loves trusts--through life and till death, under every +shadow and through every cloud?” + +I don’t know whether essence of peppermint, tincture of myrrh, and +hair-oil, are the proper ingredients in a cough-mixture; but I know +that Isabella poured them into the glass measure very liberally. + +“You do not answer me, Isabella. Ah, you cannot trust the branded +criminal--the escaped lunatic--the man the world calls a murderer!” + +“Not trust you, Richard?” Only four words, and only one glance from the +gray eyes into the brown, and so much told! So much more than I could +tell in a dozen chapters, told in those four words and that one look! + +Gus opens the half-glass door at this very moment. “Are you coming to +tea?” he asks; “here’s Sarah Jane up to her eyes in grease and muffins.” + +“Yes, Gus, dear old friend,” said Richard, laying his hand on Darley’s +shoulder; “we’re coming in to tea immediately, _brother_!” + +Gus looked at him with a glance of considerable astonishment, shook him +heartily by the hand, and gave a long whistle; after which he walked up +to the counter and examined the cough-mixture. + +“Oh!” he said, “I suppose that’s why you’ve put enough laudanum into +this to poison a small regiment, eh, Bell? Perhaps we may as well throw +it out of the window; for if it goes out of the door I shall be hung +for wholesale murder.” + +They were a very merry party over the little tea-table; and if +nobody ate any of the muffins, which Mr. Cordonner called “embodied +indigestions,” they laughed a great deal, and talked still more--so +much so, that Percy declared his reasoning faculties to be quite +overpowered, and wanted to be distinctly informed whether it was +Richard who was going to marry Gus, or Gus about to unite himself to +the juvenile domestic, or he himself who was to be married against +his inclination--which, seeing he was of a yielding and peace-loving +disposition, was not so unlikely--or, in short, to use his own +expressive language, “what the row was all about?” + +Nobody, however, took the trouble to set Mr. P. C.’s doubts at rest, +and he drank his tea with perfect contentment, but without sugar, and +in a dense intellectual fog. “It doesn’t matter,” he murmured; “perhaps +Richard will turn again and be Lord Mayor of London town, and then my +children will read his adventures in a future Pinnock, and they may +understand it. It’s a great thing to be a child, and to understand +those sort of things. When I was six years old I knew who William Rufus +married, and how many people died in the Plague of London. I can’t +say it made me any happier or better, but I dare say it was a great +advantage.” + +At this moment the bell hung at the shop-door (a noisy preventive of +petty larceny, giving the alarm if any juvenile delinquent had a desire +to abstract a bottle of castor-oil, or a camomile-pill or so, for his +peculiar benefit) rang violently, and our old friend Mr. Peters burst +into the shop, and through the shop into the parlour, in a state of +such excitement that his very fingers seemed out of breath. + +“Back again?” cried Richard, starting up with surprise; for be it known +to the reader that Mr. Peters had only the day before started for +Slopperton-on-the-Sloshy to hunt up evidence about this man, whose very +image lay buried outside that town. + +Before the fingers of Mr. Peters, which quite shook with excitement, +could shape an answer to Richard’s exclamation of surprise, a very +dignified elderly gentleman, whose appearance was almost clerical, +followed the detective into the room, and bowed politely to the +assembled party. + +“I will take upon myself to be my own sponsor,” said that gentleman. +“If, as I believe, I am speaking to Mr. Marwood,” he added, looking at +Richard, who bowed affirmatively, “it is to the interest of both of +us--of you, sir, more especially--that we should become acquainted. I +am Dr. Tappenden, of Slopperton.” + +Mr. Cordonner, having politely withdrawn himself from the group so +as not to interfere with any confidential communication, was here +imprudent enough to attempt to select a book from the young surgeon’s +hanging-library, and, in endeavouring to take down the third volume +of _Bragelonne_, brought down, as usual, the entire literary +shower-bath on his devoted head, and sat quietly snowed up, as it were, +in loose leaves of Michel Lévy’s shilling edition, and fragments of +illustrations by Tony Johannot. + +Richard looked a little puzzled at Dr. Tappenden’s introduction; but +Mr. Peters threw in upon his fingers this piece of information,--“He +knows _him_!” and Richard was immediately interested. + +“We are all friends here, I believe?” said the schoolmaster, glancing +round interrogatively. + +“Oh, decidedly, Monsieur d’Artagnan,” replied Percy, absently looking +up from one of the loose leaves he had selected for perusal from those +scattered around him. + +“Monsieur d’Artagnan! Your friend is pleased to be facetious,” said the +Doctor, with some indignation. + +“Oh, pray excuse him, sir. He is only absent-minded,” replied +Richard. “My friend Peters informs me that you know this man--this +singular, this incomprehensible villain, whose supposed death is so +extraordinary.” + +“He--either the man who died, or this man who is now occupying a high +position in London--was for some years in my employ; but in spite of +what our worthy friend the detective says, I am inclined to think that +Jabez North, my tutor, did actually die, and that it was his body which +I saw at the police-station.” + +“Not a bit of it, sir,” said the detective on his rapid fingers, +“not a bit of it! That death was a do--a do, out and out. It was too +systematic to be anything else, and I was a fool not to see there was +something black at the bottom of it at the time. People don’t go and +lay themselves out high and dry upon a heath, with clean soles to their +shoes, on a stormy night, and the bottle in their hand--not took hold +of, neither, but lying loose, you understand; _put there_--not +clutched as a dying man clutches what his hand closes upon. I say this +ain’t how people make away with themselves when they can’t stand life +any longer. It was a do--a plant, such as very few but that man could +be capable of; and that man’s your tutor, and the death was meant to +put a stop to all suspicion; and while you was a-sighin’ and a-groanin’ +over that poor young innocent, Mr. Jabez North was a-cuttin’ a fine +figure, and a-captivatin’ a furring heiress, with your money, or your +banker’s money, as had to bear the loss of them forged cheques.” + +“But the likeness?” said Dr. Tappenden. “That dead man was the very +image of Jabez North.” + +“Very likely, sir. There’s mysterious goin’s on, and some coincidences +in this life, as well as in your story-books that’s lent out at three +half-pence a volume, keep ’em three days and return ’em clean.” + +“Well,” continued the schoolmaster, “the moment I see this man I shall +know whether he is indeed the person we want to find. If he should be +the man who was my usher, I can prove a circumstance which will go a +great way, Mr. Marwood, towards fixing your uncle’s murder upon him.” + +“And that is----?” asked Richard, eagerly. + +But there is no occasion for the reader to know what it is just yet; +so we will leave the little party in the Friar Street surgery to talk +this business over, which they do with such intense interest that the +small hours catch them still talking of the same subject, and Mr. +Percy Cordonner still snowed up in his corner, reading from the loose +leaves the most fascinating _olla podrida_ of literature, wherein +the writings of Charles Dickens, George Sand, Harrison Ainsworth, and +Alexandra Dumas are blended together in the most delicious and exciting +confusion. + + + + + CHAPTER IX. + +CAPTAIN LANSDOWN OVERHEARS A CONVERSATION WHICH APPEARS TO INTEREST HIM. + + +LAURENT BLUROSSET was a sort of rage at the West-end of London. What +did they seek, these weary denizens of the West-end, but excitement? +Excitement! No matter how obtained. If Laurent Blurosset were a +magician, so much the better; if he had sold himself to the devil, +so much the better again, and so much the more exciting. There was +something almost approaching to a sensation in making a morning +call upon a gentleman who had possibly entered into a contract with +Sathanus, or put his name on the back of a bit of stamped paper payable +at sight to Lucifer himself. And then there was the slightest chance, +the faintest shadow of a probability, of meeting the proprietor of the +gentleman they called upon; and what could be more delightful than +that? How did he visit Marlborough Street--the proprietor? Had he a +pass-key to the hall-door? or did he leave his card with the servant, +like any other of the gentlemen his pupils and allies? Or did he rise +through a trap in the Brussels carpet in the drawing-room? or slide +through one of the sham Wouvermanns that adorned the walls? At any +rate, a visit to the mysterious chemist of Marlborough Street was about +the best thing to do at this fag-end of the worn-out London season; and +Monsieur Laurent Blurosset was considered a great deal better than the +Opera. + +It was growing dusk on the evening on which there was so much +excitement in the little surgery in Friar Street, when a plain close +carriage stopped at Monsieur Blurosset’s door, and a lady alighted +thickly veiled. The graceful but haughty head is one we know. It is +Valerie, who, in the depth of her misery, comes to this man, who is in +part the author of that misery. + +She is ushered into a small apartment at the back of the house, half +study, half laboratory, littered with books, manuscripts, crucibles, +and mathematical instruments. On a little table, near a fire that burns +low in the grate, are thrown in a careless heap the well-remembered +cards--the cards which eight years ago foretold the death of the king +of spades. + +The room is empty when she enters it, and she seats herself in the +depth of the shadow; for there is no light but the flickering flame of +the low fire. + +What does she think of, as she sits in the gloom of that silent +apartment? Who shall say? What forest deep, what lonely ocean strand, +what desert island, is more dismal than the backroom of a London +house, at the window of which looks in a high black wall, or a dreary, +smoke-dried, weird, vegetable phenomenon which nobody on earth but the +landlord ever called a tree? + +What does she think of in this dreary room? What _can_ she think +of? What has she ever thought for eight years past but of the man +she loved and murdered? And he was innocent! As long as she had been +convinced of his guilt, of his cruel and bitter treachery, it had been +a sacrifice, that ordeal of the November night. Now it took another +colour; it was a murder--and she a pitiful puppet in the hands of a +master-fiend! + +Monsieur Blurosset enters the room, and finds her alone with these +thoughts. + +“Madame,” he says, “I have perhaps the honour of knowing you?” He has +so many fair visitors that he thinks this one, whose face he cannot +see, may be one of his old clients. + +“It is eight years since you have seen me, monsieur,” she replies. “You +have most likely forgotten me?” + +“Forgotten you, madame, perhaps, but not your voice. That is not to be +forgotten.” + +“Indeed, monsieur--and why not?” + +“Because, madame, it has a peculiarity of its own, which, as a +physiologist, I cannot mistake. It is the voice of one who has +suffered?” + +“It is!--it is!” + +“Of one who has suffered more than it is the common lot of woman to +suffer.” + +“You are right, monsieur.” + +“And now, madame, what can I do for you?” + +“Nothing, monsieur. You can do nothing for me but that which the +commonest apothecary in this city who will sell me an ounce of laudanum +can do as well as you.” + +“Oh, has it come to that again?” he says, with a shade of sarcasm in +his tone. “I remember, eight years ago----” + +“I asked you for the means of death. I did not say I wished to die +then, at that moment. I did not. I had a purpose in life. I have still.” + +As she said these words the fellow-lodger of Blurosset--the +Indian soldier, Captain Lansdown, who had let himself in with his +latch-key--crossed the hall, and was arrested at the half-open door of +the study by the sound of voices within. I don’t know how to account +for conduct so unworthy of an officer and a gentleman, but the captain +stopped in the shadow of the dark hall and listened--as if life and +death were on the words--to the voice of the speaker. + +“I have, I say, still a purpose in life--a solemn and a sacred one--to +protect the innocent. However guilty I may be, thank Heaven I have +still the power to protect my son.” + +“You are married, madame?” + +“I am married. You know it as well as I, Monsieur Laurent Blurosset. +The man who first brought me to your apartment must have been, if +not your accomplice, at least your colleague. He revealed to you his +scheme, no doubt, in order to secure your assistance in that scheme. I +am married to a villain--such a villain as I think Heaven never before +looked down upon.” + +“And you would protect your son, madame, from his father?” + +Captain Lansdown’s face gleams through the shadow as white as the face +of Valerie herself, as she stands looking full at Monsieur Blurosset in +the flickering firelight. + +“And you would protect your son from his father, madame?” repeats the +chemist. + +“The man to whom I am at present married is not the father of my son,” +says Valerie, in a cold calm voice. + +“How, madame?” + +“I was married before,” she continued. “The son I so dearly love is the +son of my first husband. My second marriage has been a marriage only in +name. All your worthy colleague, Monsieur Raymond Marolles, stained his +hands in innocent blood to obtain was a large fortune. He has that, and +is content; but he shall not hold it long.” + +“And your purpose in coming to me, madame----?” + +“Is to accuse you--yes, Monsieur Laurent Blurosset, to accuse you--as +an accomplice in the murder of Gaston de Lancy.” + +“An accomplice in a murder!” + +“Yes; you sold me a poison--you knew for what that poison was to be +used; you were in the plot, the vile and demoniac plot, that was to +steep my soul in guilt. You prophesied the death of the man I was +intended to murder; you put the thought into my distracted brain--the +weapon into my guilty hand; and while I suffer all the tortures which +Heaven inflicts on those who break its laws, are you to go free? No, +monsieur, you shall not go free. Either join with me in accusing this +man, and help me to drag him to justice, or by the light in the sky, +by the life-blood of my broken heart--by the life of my only child, I +swear to denounce you! Gaston de Lancy shall not go unavenged by the +woman who loved and murdered him.” + +The mention of the name of Gaston de Lancy, the man she so dearly +and devotedly loved, has a power that nothing else on earth has over +Valerie, and she breaks into a passionate torrent of tears. + +Laurent Blurosset looks on silently at this burst of anguish; perhaps +he regards it as a man of science, and can calculate to a moment how +long it will last. + +The Indian officer, in the shadow of the doorway, is more affected than +the chemist and philosopher, for he falls on his knees by the threshold +and hides his pale face in his hands. + +There is a silence of perhaps five minutes--a terrible silence it +seems, only broken by the heartrending sobs of this despairing woman. +At last Laurent Blurosset speaks--speaks in a tone in which she has +never heard him speak before--in a tone in which, probably, very few +have heard him speak--in a tone so strange to him and his ordinary +habits that it in a manner transforms him into a new man. + +“You say, madame, I was an accomplice of this man’s. How if he did not +condescend to make me an accomplice? How, if this gentleman, who, owing +all his success in life to his unassisted villainy, has considerable +confidence in his own talents, did not think me worthy of the honour of +being his accomplice?” + +“How, monsieur?” + +“No, madame; Laurent Blurosset was not a man for the brilliant Parisian +adventurer Raymond Marolles to enlist as a colleague. No, Laurent +Blurosset was merely a philosopher, a physiologist, a dreamer, a little +bit of a madman, and but a poor puppet in the hands of the man of +the world, the chevalier of fortune, the unscrupulous and designing +Englishman.” + +“An Englishman?” + +“Yes, madame; that is one of your husband’s secrets: he is an +Englishman. I was not clever enough to be the accomplice of Monsieur +Marolles; in his opinion I was not too clever to become his dupe.” + +“His dupe?” + +“Yes, madame, his dupe. His contempt for the man of science was most +supreme, I was a useful automaton--nothing more. The chemist, the +physiologist, the man whose head had grown gray in the pursuit of an +inductive science--whose nights and days had been given to the study +of the great laws of cause and effect--was a puppet in the hands of +the chevalier of fortune, and as little likely to fathom his motives +as the wooden doll is likely to guess those of the showman who pulls +the strings that make it dance. So thought Raymond Marolles, the +adventurer, the fortune-hunter, the thief, the murderer!” + +“What, monsieur, you knew him, then?” + +“To the very bottom of his black heart, madame. Science would indeed +have been a lie, wisdom would indeed have been a chimera, if I could +not have read through the low cunning of the superficial showy +adventurer, as well as I can read the words written in yonder book +through the thin veil of a foreign character. I, his dupe, as he +thought--the learned fool at whose labours he laughed, even while he +sought to avail himself of their help--I laughed at him in turn, read +every motive; but let him laugh on, lie on, till the time at which +it should be my pleasure to lift the mask, and say to him--Raymond +Marolles, charlatan! liar! fool! dupe! in the battle between Wisdom +and Cunning the gray-eyed goddess is the conqueror.” + +“What, monsieur? Then you are doubly a murderer. You knew this man, +and yet abetted him in the vilest plot by which a wretched woman was +ever made to destroy the man she loved a thousand times better than her +worthless self!” + +Laurent Blurosset smiled a most impenetrable smile. + +“I acted for a purpose, madame. I wished to test the effects of a new +poison. Yours the murder--if there was a murder; not mine. You asked me +for a weapon; I put it into your hands; I did not compel you to use it.” + +“No, monsieur; but you prompted me. If there is justice on earth, +you shall suffer for that act as well as Monsieur Marolles; if not, +there is justice in heaven! God’s punishments are more terrible than +those of men, and you have all the more cause to tremble, you and the +wretch whose accomplice you were--whose willing accomplice, by your own +admission, you were.” + +“And yourself, madame? In dragging us to justice, may you not yourself +suffer?” + +“Suffer!” She laughs a hollow bitter peal of mocking laughter, painful +to hear; very painful to the ears of the listener in the shadow, whose +face is still buried in his hands. “Suffer! No, Monsieur Blurosset, for +me on earth there is no more suffering. If in hell the wretches doomed +to eternal punishment suffer as I have suffered for the last eight +years, as I suffered on that winter’s night when the man I loved died, +then, indeed, God is an avenging Deity. Do you think the worst the law +can inflict upon me for that guilty deed is by one thousandth degree +equal to the anguish of my own mind, every day and every hour? Do you +think I fear disgrace? Disgrace! Bah! What is it? There never was but +one being on earth whose good opinion I valued, or whose bad opinion I +feared. That man I murdered. You think I fear the world? The world to +me was him; and he is dead. If you do not wish to be denounced as the +accomplice of a murderess and _her_ accomplice, do not let me quit +this room; for, by the heaven above me, so surely as I quit this room +alive I go to deliver you, Raymond Marolles, and myself into the hands +of justice!” + +“And your son, madame--what of him?” + +“I have made arrangements for his future happiness, monsieur. He will +return to France, and be placed under the care of my uncle.” + +For a few moments there is silence. Laurent Blurosset seems lost +in thought. Valerie sits with her bright hollow eyes fixed on the +flickering flame of the low fire. Blurosset is the first to speak. + +“You say, madame, that if I do not wish to be given up to justice +as the accomplice of a murderer, I shall not suffer you to leave +this room, but sacrifice you to the preservation of my own safety. +Nothing more easy, madame; I have only to raise my hand--to wave a +handkerchief, medicated in the manner of those the Borgias and Medicis +used of old, before your face; to scatter a few grains of powder into +that fire at your feet; to give you a book to read, a flower to smell; +and you do not leave this room alive. And this is how I should act, if +I were, what you say I am, the accomplice of a murderer.” + +“How, monsieur!--you had no part in the murder of my husband?--you, who +gave me the drug which killed him?” + +“You jump at conclusions, madame. How do you know that the drug which I +gave you killed Gaston de Lancy?” + +“Oh, for pity’s sake, do not juggle with me, Monsieur. Speak! What do +you mean?” + +“Simply this, madame. That the death of your husband on the evening +of the day on which you gave him the drugged wine may have been--a +coincidence.” + +“Oh, monsieur! in mercy----” + +“Nay, madame, it was a coincidence. The drug I gave you was not a +poison. You are guiltless of your husband’s death.” + +“Oh, heaven be praised! Merciful heaven be praised!” She falls on her +knees, and buries her head in her hands in a wild burst of tearful +thanksgiving. + +While her face is thus hidden, Blurosset takes from a little cabinet on +one side of the fireplace a handful of a light-coloured powder, which +he throws upon the expiring cinders in the grate. A lurid flame blazes +up, illuminating the room with a strange unnatural glare. + +“Valerie, Countess de Marolles,” he says, in a tone of solemn +earnestness, “men say I am a magician--a sorcerer--a disciple of the +angel of darkness! Nay, some more foolish than the rest have been so +blasphemous as to declare that I have power to raise the dead. Yours is +no mind to be fooled by such shallow lies as these. The dead never rise +again in answer to the will of mortal man. Lift your head, Valerie--not +Countess de Marolles. I no longer call you by that name, which is in +itself a falsehood. Valerie de Lancy, look yonder!” + +He points in the direction of the open door. She rises, looks towards +the threshold, staggers a step forward, utters one long wild shriek, +and falls senseless to the floor. + +In all the agonies she has endured, in all the horrors through which +she has passed, she has never before lost her senses. The cause must +indeed be a powerful one. + + + + + =Book the Sixth.= + + ON THE TRACK. + + + + + CHAPTER I. + + FATHER AND SON. + + +THREE days have passed since the interview of Valerie with Laurent +Blurosset, and Raymond de Marolles paces up and down his study in Park +Lane. He is not going to the bank to-day. The autumn rains beat in +against the double windows of the apartment, which is situated at the +back of the house, looking out upon a small square patch of so-called +garden. This garden is shut in by a wall, over which a weak-minded and +erratic-looking creeper sprawls and straggles; and there is a little +green door in this wall, which communicates with a mews. + +A hopelessly wet day. Twelve by the clock, and not enough blue in the +gloomy sky to make the smallest article of wearing apparel--no, not +so much as a pair of wristbands for an unhappy seaman. Well to be +the Count de Marolles, and to have no occasion to extend one’s walk +beyond the purple-and-crimson border of that Turkey carpet on such a +day as this! The London sparrows, transformed for the time being into +a species of water-fowl, flutter dismally about the small swamp of +grass-plot, flanked here and there by a superannuated clump of withered +geraniums which have evidently seen better days. The sparrows seem to +look enviously at the bright blaze reflected on the double windows of +the Count’s apartment, and would like, perhaps, to go in and sit on +the hob; and I dare say they twitter to each other, in confidence, “A +fine thing to be the Count de Marolles, with a fortune which it would +take the lifetime of an Old Parr to calculate, and a good fire in wet +weather.” + +Yet, for all this, Raymond de Marolles does not look the most enviable +object in creation on this particular rainy morning. His pale fair +face is paler than ever; there are dark circles round the blue eyes, +and a nervous and incessant twitching of the thin lower lip--signs +which never were, and never will be, indications of a peaceful mind. He +has not seen Valerie since the night on which Monsieur Paul Moucée, +_alias_ Signor Mosquetti, told his story. She has remained +secluded in her own apartments; and even Raymond de Marolles has scarce +cared to break upon the solitude of this woman, in whom grief is so +near akin to desperation. + +“What will she do, now she knows all? Will she denounce me? If she +does, I am prepared. If Blurosset, poor scientific fool, only plays +his part faithfully, I am safe. But she will hardly reveal the truth. +For her son’s sake she will be silent. Oh, strange, inexplicable, +and mysterious chance, that this fortune for which I have so deeply +schemed, for which I have hazarded so much and worked so hard, should +be my own--my own!--this woman a mere usurper, and I the rightful heir +to the wealth of the De Cevennes! What is to be done? For the first +time in my life I am at fault. Should I fly to the Marquis--tell him +I am his son?--difficult to prove, now that old hag is dead; and even +if I prove it--as I would move heaven and earth to do--what if she +denounce me to her uncle, and he refuse to acknowledge the adventurer, +the poisoner? I could soon silence her. But unfortunately she has been +behind the scenes, and I fear she would scarcely accept a drop of water +from the hands of her devoted husband. If I had any one to help me! But +I have no one; no one that I can trust--no one in my power. Oh, Laurent +Blurosset, for some of your mighty secrets, so that the very autumn +wind blowing in at her window might seal the lips of my beautiful +cousin for ever!” + +Pleasant thoughts to be busy with this rainy autumn day; but such +thoughts are by no means unfamiliar to the heart of Raymond de Marolles. + +It is from a reverie such as this that he is aroused by the sound of +carriage-wheels, and a loud knocking and ringing at the hall-door. “Too +early for morning callers. Who can it be at such an hour? Some one from +the bank, perhaps?” He paces up and down the room rather anxiously, +wondering who this unexpected visitor might be, when the groom of the +chambers opens the door and announces, “The Marquis de Cevennes!” + +“So, then,” mutters Raymond, “she has played her first card--she has +sent for her uncle. We shall have need of all our brains to-day. Now +then, to meet my father face to face.” + +As he speaks, the Marquis enters. + +Face to face--father and son. Sixty years of age--fair and pale, blue +eyes, aquiline nose, and thin lips. Thirty years of age--fair and +pale, blue eyes, aquiline nose, and thin lips again; and neither of +the two faces to be trusted; not one look of truth, not one glance +of benevolence, not one noble expression in either. Truly father and +son--all the world over, father and son. + +“Monsieur le Marquis affords me an unexpected honour and pleasure,” +said Raymond Marolles, as he advanced to receive his visitor. + +“Nay, Monsieur de Marolles, scarcely, I should imagine, unexpected; +I cease in accordance with the earnest request of my niece; though +what that most erratic young lady can want with me in this abominable +country of your adoption is quite beyond my poor comprehension.” + +Raymond draws a long breath. “So,” he thinks, “he knows nothing +_yet_. Good! You are slow to play your cards, Valerie. I will take +the initiative; my leading trump shall commence the game.” + +“I repeat,” said the Marquis, throwing himself into the easy-chair +which Raymond had wheeled forward, and warming his delicate white hands +before the blazing fire; “I repeat, that the urgent request of my very +lovely but extremely erratic niece, that I should cross the Channel +in the autumn of a very stormy year--I am not a good sailor--is quite +beyond my comprehension.” He wears a very magnificent emerald ring, +which is too large for the slender third finger of his left hand, and +he amuses himself by twisting it round and round, sometimes stopping +to contemplate the effect of it with the plain gold outside, when it +looks like a lady’s wedding-ring. “It is, I positively assure you,” he +repeated, looking at the ring, and not at Raymond, “utterly beyond the +limited powers of my humble comprehension.” + +Raymond looks very grave, and takes two or three turns up and down the +room. The light blue eyes of the Marquis follow him for a turn and a +half--find the occupation monotonous, and go back to the ring and the +white hand, always interesting objects for contemplation. Presently the +Count de Marolles stops, leans on the easy-chair on the opposite side +of the fireplace to that on which the Marquis is seated, and says, in a +very serious tone of voice-- + +“Monsieur de Cevennes, I am about to allude to a subject of so truly +painful and distressing a nature, both for you to hear and for me to +speak of, that I almost fear adverting to it.” + +The Marquis has been so deeply interested in the ring, emerald +outwards, that he has evidently heard the words of Raymond without +comprehending their meaning; but he looks up reflectively for a moment, +recalls them, glances over them afresh as it were, nods, and says-- + +“Oh, ah! Distressing nature; you fear adverting to it--eh! Pray don’t +agitate yourself, my good de Marolles. I don’t think it likely you’ll +agitate me.” He leaves the ring for a minute or two, and looks over +the five nails on his left hand, evidently in search of the pinkest; +finds it on the third finger, and caresses it tenderly, while awaiting +Raymond’s very painful communication. + +“You said, Monsieur le Marquis, that you were utterly at a loss to +comprehend my wife’s motive in sending for you in this abrupt manner?” + +“Utterly. And I assure you I am a bad sailor--a very bad sailor. When +the weather’s rough, I am positively compelled to--it is really so +absurd,” he says, with a light clear laugh--“I am obliged to--to go to +the side of the vessel. Both undignified and disagreeable, I give you +my word of honour. But you were saying----” + +“I was about to say, monsieur, that it is my deep grief to have to +state that the conduct of your niece has been for the last few months +in every way inexplicable--so much so, that I have been led to fear----” + +“What, monsieur?” The Marquis folds his white hands one over the other +on his knee, leaves off the inspection of their beauties, and looks +full in the face of his niece’s husband. + +“I have been led, with what grief I need scarcely say----” + +“Oh, no, indeed; pray reserve the account of your grief--your grief +must have been so very intense. You have been led to fear----” + +“That my unhappy wife is out of her mind.” + +“Precisely. I thought that was to be the climax. My good Monsieur +Raymond, Count de Marolles--my very worthy Monsieur Raymond +Marolles--my most excellent whoever and whatever you may be--do you +think that René Théodore Auguste Philippe Le Grange Martel, Marquis de +Cevennes, is the sort of man to be twisted round your fingers, however +clever, unscrupulous, and designing a villain you may be?” + +“Monsieur le Marquis!” + +“I have not the least wish to quarrel with you, my good friend. Nay, +on the contrary, I will freely confess that I am not without a certain +amount of respect for you. You are a thorough villain. Everything +thorough is, in my mind, estimable. Virtue is said to lie in the +golden mean--virtue is not in my way; I therefore do not dispute the +question--but to me all mediums are contemptible. You are, in your way, +thorough; and, on the whole, I respect you.” + +He goes back to the contemplation of his hands and his rings, and +concentrates all his attention on a cameo head of Mark Antony, which he +wears on his little finger. + +“A villain, Monsieur le Marquis!” + +“And a clever villain, Monsieur de Marolles--a clever villain! Witness +your success. But you are not quite clever enough to hoodwink me--not +quite clever enough to hoodwink any one blest with a moderate amount of +brains!” + +“Monsieur!” + +“Because you have one fault. Yes, really,”--he flicks a grain of dust +out of Mark Antony’s eye with his little finger--“yes, you have one +fault. You are too smooth. Nobody ever _was_ so estimable as +you _appear_ to be--you over-do it. If you remember,” continues +the Marquis, addressing him in an easy, critical, and conversational +tone, “the great merit in that Venetian villain in the tragedy of the +worthy but very much over-rated person, William Shakspeare, is, that +he is _not_ smooth. Othello trusts Iago, not because he _is_ +smooth, but because he _isn’t_. ‘I know this fellow’s of exceeding +honesty,’ says the Moor; as much as to say, ‘He’s a disagreeable beast, +but I think trustworthy.’ You are a very clever fellow, Monsieur +Raymond de Marolles, but you would never have got Desdemona smothered. +Othello would have seen through you--as I did!” + +“Monsieur, I will not suffer----” + +“You will be good enough to allow me to finish what I have to say. I +dare say I am prosy, but I shall not detain you long. I repeat, that +though you are a very clever fellow, you would never have got the +bolster-and-pillow business accomplished, because Othello would have +seen through you as I did. My niece insisted on marrying you. Why? It +was not such a very difficult riddle to read, this marriage, apparently +so mysterious. You, an enterprising person, with a small capital, +plenty of brains, and white hands quite unfit for rough work, naturally +are on the look-out for some heiress whom you may entrap into marrying +you.” + +“Monsieur de Cevennes!” + +“My dear fellow, I am not quarrelling with you. In your position I +should have done the same. That is the very clue by which I unravel the +mystery. I say to myself, what should I have done if fate had been so +remarkably shabby as to throw me into the position of that young man? +Why, naturally I should have looked out for some woman foolish enough +to be deceived by that legitimate and old-established sham--so useful +to novelists and the melodramatic theatres--called ‘Love.’ Now, my +niece is not a fool; ergo, she was not in love with you. You had then +obtained some species of power over her. What that power was I did not +ask; I do not ask now. Enough that it was necessary for her, for me, +that this marriage should take place. She swore it on the crucifix. I +am a Voltairean myself, but, poor girl, she derived those sort of ideas +from her mother; so there was nothing for me but to consent to the +marriage, and accept a gentleman of doubtful pedigree.” + +“Perhaps not so doubtful.” + +“Perhaps not so doubtful! There is a triumphant curl about your upper +lip, my dear nephew-in-law. Has papa turned up lately?” + +“Perhaps. I think I shall soon be able to lay my hand upon him.” He +lays a light and delicate hand on the Marquis’s shoulder as he says the +words. + +“No doubt; but if in the meantime you would kindly refrain from laying +it on me, you would oblige--you would really oblige me. Though why,” +said the Marquis philosophically, addressing himself to Mark Antony, +as if he would like to avail himself of that Roman’s sagacity, “why +we should object to a villain simply because he is a villain, I can’t +imagine. We may object to him if he is coarse, or dirty, or puts his +knife in his mouth, or takes soup twice, or wears ill-made coats, +because those things annoy _us_; but, object to him because he +is a liar, or a hypocrite, or a coward? Perfectly absurd! I say, +therefore, I consented to the marriage, asked no unnecessary or +ill-bred questions, and resigned myself to the force of circumstances; +and for some years affairs appeared to go on very smoothly, when +suddenly I am startled by a most alarming letter from my niece. She +implores me to come to England. She is alone, without a friend, an +adviser, and she is determined to reveal all.” + +“To reveal all!” Raymond cannot repress a start. The _sang froid_ +of the Marquis had entirely deceived him whose chief weapon was that +very _sang froid_. + +“Yes. What then? You, being aware of this letter having +been written--or, say, guessing that such a letter would be +written--determine; on your course. You will throw over your wife’s +evidence by declaring her to be mad. Eh? This is what you determine +upon, isn’t it?” It appears so good a joke to the Marquis, that he +laughs and nods at Mark Antony, as if he would really like that +respectable Roman to participate in the fun. + +For the first time in his life Raymond Marolles has found his match. In +the hands of this man he is utterly powerless. + +“An excellent idea. Only, as I said before, too obvious--too +transparently obvious. It is the only thing you can do. If I were +looking for a man, and came to a part of the country where there +was but one road, I should of course know that he must--if he went +anywhere--go down that road. So with you, my dear Marolles, there was +but one resource left you--to disprove the revelations of your wife +by declaring them the hallucinations of a maniac. I take no credit +to myself for seeing through you, I assure you. There is no talent +whatever in finding out that two and two make four; the genius would +be the man who made them into five. I do not think I have anything +more to say. I have no wish to attack you, my dear nephew-in-law. I +merely wanted to prove to you that I was not your dupe. I think you +must be by this time sufficiently convinced of that fact. If you have +any good Madeira in your cellars, I should like a glass or two, and +the wing of a chicken, before I hear what my niece may have to say to +me. I made a very poor breakfast some hours ago at the Lord Warden.” +Having expressed himself thus, the Marquis throws himself back in +his easy-chair, yawns once or twice, and polishes Mark Antony with +the corner of his handkerchief; he has evidently entirely dismissed +the subject on which he has been speaking, and is ready for pleasant +conversation. + +At this moment the door is thrown open, and Valerie enters the room. + +It is the first time Raymond has seen Valerie since the night of +Mosquetti’s story, and as his eyes meet hers he starts involuntarily. + +What is it?--this change, this transformation, which has taken eight +years off the age of this woman, and restored her as she was on that +night when he first saw her at the Opera House in Paris. What is it? +So great and marvellous an alteration, he might almost doubt if this +indeed were she. And yet he can scarcely define the change. It seems a +transformation, not of the face, but of the soul. A new soul looking +out of the old beauty. A new soul? No, the old soul, which he thought +dead. It is indeed a resurrection of the dead. + +She advances to her uncle, who embraces her with a graceful and +drawing-room species of tenderness, about as like real tenderness as +ormolu is like rough Australian gold--as Lawrence Sterne’s sentiment is +like Oliver Goldsmith’s pathos. + +“My dear uncle! You received my letter, then?” + +“Yes, dear child. And what, in Heaven’s name, can you have to tell me +that would not admit of being delayed until the weather changed?--and +I am such a bad sailor,” he repeats plaintively. “What can you have to +tell me?” + +“Nothing yet, my dear uncle”--the bright dark eyes look with a steady +gaze at Raymond as she speaks--“nothing yet; the hour has not yet come.” + +“For mercy’s sake, my dear girl,” says the Marquis, in a tone +of horror, “don’t be melodramatic. If you’re going to act a +Porte-St.-Martin drama, in thirteen acts and twenty-six tableaux, I’ll +go back to Paris. If you’ve nothing to say to me, why, in the name of +all that’s feminine, did you send for me?” + +“When I wrote to you, I told you that I appealed to you because I had +no other friend upon earth to whom, in the hour of my anguish, I could +turn for help and advice.” + +“You did, you did. If you had not been my only brother’s only child, I +should have waited a change in the wind before I crossed the Channel--I +am such a wretched sailor! But life, as the religious party asserts, is +a long sacrifice--I came!” + +“Suppose that, since writing that letter, I have found a friend, an +adviser, a grading hand and a supporting arm, and no longer need the +help of any one on earth besides this new-found friend to revenge me +upon my enemies?” + +Raymond’s bewilderment increases every moment. Has she indeed gone mad, +and is this new light in her eyes the fire of insanity? + +“I am sure, my dear Valerie, if you have met with such a very +delightful person, I am extremely glad to hear it, as it relieves +me from the trouble. It is melodramatic certainly, but excessively +convenient. I have remarked, that in melodrama circumstances generally +are convenient. I never alarm myself when everything is hopelessly +wrong, and villainy deliciously triumphant; for I know that somebody +who died in the first act will come in at the centre doors, and make it +all right before the curtain falls.” + +“Since Madame de Marolles will no doubt wish to be alone with her +uncle, I may perhaps be permitted to go into the City till dinner, when +I shall have the honour of meeting Monsieur le Marquis, I trust.” + +“Certainly, my good De Marolles; your chef, I believe, understands +his profession. I shall have great pleasure in dining with you. _Au +revoir, mon enfant_; we shall go upon velvet, now we so thoroughly +understand each other.” He waves his white left hand to Raymond, as a +graceful dismissal, and turns towards his niece. + +“Adieu, madame,” says the Count, as he passes his wife; then, in a +lower tone, adds, “I do not ask you to be silent for my sake or your +own; I merely recommend you to remember that you have a son, and that +you will do well not to make me your enemy. When I strike, I strike +home, and my policy has always been to strike in the weakest place. Do +not forget poor little Cherubino!” He looks at her steadily with his +cruel blue eyes, and then turns to leave the room. + +As he opens the door, he almost knocks down an elderly gentleman +dressed in a suit of clerical-looking black and a white neckcloth, and +carrying an unpleasantly damp umbrella under his arm. + +“Not yet, Mr. Jabez North,” says the gentleman, who is neither more nor +less than that respectable preceptor and guide to the youthful mind, +Dr. Tappenden, of Slopperton--“not yet, Mr. North; I think your clerks +in Lombard Street will be compelled to do without you to-day. You are +wanted elsewhere at present.” + +Anything but this--anything but this, and he would have borne it, +like--like himself! Thank Heaven there is no comparison for such as he. +He was prepared for all but this. This early period of his life, which +he thought blotted out and forgotten--this he is unprepared for; and he +falls back with a ghastly face, and white lips that refuse to shape +even one exclamation of horror or surprise. + +“What is this?” murmurs the Marquis. “North--Jabez--Jabez North? Oh, +I see, we have come upon the pre-Parisian formation, and that,” he +glances towards Dr. Tappenden, “is one of the vestiges.” + +At last Raymond’s tremulous lips consent to form the words he struggles +to utter. + +“You are under some mistake, sir, whoever you may be. My name is +not North, and I have not the honour of your acquaintance. I am a +Frenchman; my name is De Marolles. I am not the person you seek.” + +A gentleman advances from the doorway--(there is quite a group of +people in the hall)--and says-- + +“At least, sir, you are the person who presented, eight years ago, +three forged cheques at my bank. I am ready, as well as two of my +clerks, to swear to your identity. We have people here with a warrant +to arrest you for that forgery.” + +The forgery, not the murder?--no one knows of that, then--that, at +least, is buried in oblivion. + +“There are two or three little things out against you, Mr. North,” said +the doctor; “but the forgery will serve our purpose very well for the +present. It’s the easiest charge to bring home as yet.” + +What do they mean? What other charges? Come what may, he will be firm +to the last--to the last he will be himself. After all, it is but death +they can threaten him with, and the best people have to die, as well as +the worst. + +“Only death, at most!” he mutters. “Courage, Raymond, and finish the +game as a good player should, without throwing away a trick, even +though beaten by better cards.” + +“I tell you, gentlemen, I know nothing of your forgery, or you either. +I am a Frenchman, born at Bordeaux, and never in your very eccentric +country before; and indeed, if this is the sort of thing a gentleman is +liable to in his own study, I shall certainly, when I once return to +France, never visit your shores again.” + +“_When_ you do return to France, I think it very unlikely you +will ever revisit England, as you say, sir. If, as you affirm, you are +indeed a Frenchman--(what excellent English you speak, monsieur, and +what trouble you must have taken to acquire so perfect an accent!)--you +will, of course, have no difficulty in proving the fact; also that you +were not in England eight years ago, and consequently were not for some +years assistant in the academy of this gentleman at Slopperton. All +this an enlightened British jury will have much pleasure in hearing. We +have not, however, come to try you, but to arrest you. Johnson, call +a cab for the Count de Marolles! If we are wrong, monsieur, you will +have a magnificent case of false imprisonment, and I congratulate you +on the immense damages which you will most likely obtain. Thomson, the +handcuffs! I must trouble you for your wrists, Monsieur de Marolles.” + +The police officer politely awaits the pleasure of his prisoner. +Raymond pauses for a moment; thinks deeply, with his head bent on his +breast; lifts it suddenly with a glitter in his eyes, and his thin lips +set firm as iron. He has arranged his game. + +“As you say, sir, I shall have an excellent case of false imprisonment, +and my accusers shall pay for their insolence, as well as for their +mistake. In the meantime, I am ready to follow you; but, before I do +so, I wish to have a moment’s conversation with this gentleman, the +uncle of my wife. You have, I suppose, no objection to leaving me alone +with him for a few minutes. You can watch outside in the hall; I shall +not attempt to escape. We have, unfortunately, no trap-doors in this +room, and I believe they do not build the houses in Park Lane with such +conveniences attached to them as sliding panels or secret staircases.” + +“Perhaps not, sir,” replies the inflexible police officer; “but they +do, I perceive, build them with gardens”--he walks to the window, and +looks out--“a wall eight feet high--door leading into mews. Not by any +means such a very inconvenient house, Monsieur de Marolles. Thomson, +one of the servants will be so good as to show you the way into the +garden below these windows, where you will amuse yourself till this +gentleman has done talking with his uncle.” + +“One moment--one moment,” says the Marquis, who, during the foregoing +conversation has been entirely absorbed in the endeavour to extract a +very obstinate speck of dust from Mark Antony’s nostril. “One moment, +I beg”--as the officer is about to withdraw--“why an interview? Why a +police person in the garden--if you call that dreadful stone dungeon +with the roof off a garden? I have nothing to say to this gentleman. +Positively nothing. All I ever had to say to him I said ten minutes +ago. We perfectly understand each other. He can have nothing to say to +me, or I to him; and really, I think, under the circumstances, the very +best thing you can do is to put on that unbecoming iron machinery--I +never saw a thing of the kind before, and, as a novelty, it is +actually quite interesting”--(he touches the handcuffs that are lying +on the table with the extreme tip of his taper third finger, hastily +withdrawing it as if he thought they would bite)--“and to take him +away immediately. If he has committed a forgery, you know,” he adds, +deprecatingly, “he is not the sort of thing one likes to see about one. +He really is not.” + +Raymond de Marolles never had, perhaps, too much of that absurd +weakness called love for one’s fellow-creatures; but if ever he hated +any man with the blackest and bitterest hate of his black and bitter +heart, so did he hate the man standing now before him, twisting a ring +round and round his delicate finger, and looking as entirely at his +ease as if no point were in discussion of more importance than the wet +weather and the cold autumn day. + +“Stay, Monsieur le Marquis de Cevennes,” he said, in a tone of +suppressed passion, “you are too hasty in your conclusions. You have +nothing to say to me. Granted! But I may have something to say to +you--and I have a great deal to say to you, which must be said; if +not in private, then in public--if not by word of mouth, I will print +it in the public journals, till Paris and London shall ring with the +sound of it on the lips of other men. You will scarcely care for this +alternative, Monsieur de Cevennes, when you learn _what_ it is +I have to say. Your _sang froid_ does you credit, monsieur; +especially when, just now, though you could not repress a start of +surprise at hearing that gentleman,” he indicates Dr. Tappenden with +a wave of his hand, “speak of a certain manufacturing town called +Slopperton, you, so rapidly regained your composure that only so close +an observer as myself would have perceived your momentary agitation. +You appear entirely to ignore, monsieur, the existence of a certain +aristocratic emigrant’s son, who thirty years ago taught French and +mathematics in that very town of Slopperton. Nevertheless, there was +such a person, and you knew him--although he was content to teach his +native language for a shilling a lesson, and had at that period no +cameo or emerald rings to twist round his fingers.” + +If the Marquis was ever to be admired in the whole course of his +career, he was to be admired at this moment. He smiled a gentle and +deprecating smile, and said, in his politest tone-- + +“Pardon me, he had eighteenpence a lesson--eighteenpence, I assure +you; and he was often invited to dinner at the houses where he taught. +The women adored him--they are so simple, poor things. He might have +married a manufacturer’s daughter, with an immense fortune, thick +ancles, and erratic h’s.” + +“But he did not marry any one so distinguished. Monsieur de Cevennes, I +see you understand me. I do not ask you to grant me this interview in +the name of justice or humanity, because I do not wish to address you +in a language which is a foreign one to me, and which you do not even +comprehend; but in the name of that young Frenchman of noble family, +who was so very weak and foolish, so entirely false to himself and to +his own principles, as to marry a woman because he loved, or fancied +that he loved her, I say to you, Monsieur le Marquis, you will find it +to your interest to hear what I have to reveal.” + +The Marquis shrugs his shoulders slightly. “As you please,” he says. +“Gentlemen, be good enough to remain outside that door. My dear +Valerie, you had better retire to your own apartments. My poor child, +all this must be so extremely wearisome to you--almost as bad as +the third volume of a fashionable novel. Monsieur de Marolles, I am +prepared to hear what you may have to say--though”--he here addresses +himself generally--“I beg to protest against this affair from first to +last--I repeat, from first to last--it is so intolerably melodramatic.” + + + + + CHAPTER II. + + RAYMOND DE MAROLLES SHOWS HIMSELF BETTER THAN ALL BOW STREET. + + +“AND so, Monsieur de Marolles,” said the Marquis, as Raymond closed the +door on the group in the hall, and the two gentlemen were left entirely +alone, “and so you have--by what means I shall certainly not so far +inconvenience myself as to endeavour to guess--contrived to become +informed of some of the antecedents of your very humble servant?” + +“Of some of the antecedents--why not say of all the antecedents, +Monsieur de Cevennes?” + +“Just as you like, my dear young friend,” replies the Marquis. He +really seems to get quite affectionate to Raymond, but in a far-off, +patronizing, and superb manner something that of a gentlemanly +Mephistopheles to a promising Doctor Faustus;--“and having possessed +yourself of this information, may I ask what use you intend making +of it? In this utilitarian age everything is put to a use, sooner or +later. Do you purpose writing my biography? It will not be interesting. +Not as you would have to write it to-day. Alas! we are not so fortunate +as to live under the Regency, and there are not many interesting +biographies nowadays.” + +“My dear Marquis, I really have no time to listen to what I have +no doubt, amongst your own particular friends, is considered most +brilliant wit; I have two or three things to say to you that must be +said; and the sort of people who are now waiting outside the door are +apt to be impatient.” + +“Ah, you are experienced; you know their manners and customs! And they +are impatient,” murmured the Marquis, thoughtfully; “and they put you +in stone places as if you were coal, and behind bars as if you were +zoological; and then they hang you. They call you up at an absurd hour +in the morning, and they take you out into a high place, and drop you +down through a hole as if you were a penny put into a savings box; and +other people get up at an equally absurd hour of the morning, or stay +up all night, in order to see it done. And yet there are persons who +declare that the age of romance has passed away.” + +“Monsieur de Cevennes, that which I have to say to you relates to your +marriage.” + +“My marriage. Suppose I say that I never was married, my amiable +friend?” + +“I shall then reply, monsieur, that I not only am informed of all the +circumstances of your marriage, but what is more, I am possessed of a +proof of that marriage.” + +“Supposing there was such a marriage, which I am prepared to deny, +there could only be two proofs--the witnesses and the certificate.” + +“The witnesses, monsieur, are dead,” said Raymond. + +“Then that would reduce the possible proofs to one--the certificate.” + +“Nay, monsieur, there might be another evidence of the marriage.” + +“And that would be----?” + +“The issue of it. You had two sons by that marriage, monsieur. One of +those sons died eight years ago.” + +“And the other----?” asked the Marquis. + +“Still lives. I shall have something to say about him by-and-by.” + +“It is a subject in which I take no sort of interest,” said the +Marquis, throwing himself back into his chair, and abandoning himself +once more to Marc Antony. “I may have been married, or I may not have +been married--it is not worth my while to deny that fact to you; +because if I confess it to you, I can of course deny it the moment I +cross the threshold of that door--I may have sons, or I may not have +sons; in either case, I have no wish to hear of them, and anything you +may have to say about them is, it appears to me, quite irrelevant to +the matter in hand; which merely is your going to prison for forgery, +or your _not_ going to prison for forgery. But what I most +earnestly recommend, my very dear young friend, is, that you take the +cab and handcuffs quietly, and go! That will, at least, put an end +to fuss and discussion; and oh, what an inexpressible relief there +is in that! I always envy Noah, floundering about in that big boat +of his: no new books; no houses of parliament; no poor relations; no +_Times_ newspaper; and no taxes--‘universal as you were,’ as Mr. +Carlyle says; plenty to eat, and everything come to an end; and that +foolish Noah must needs send out the dove, and begin it all over again. +Yes, he began it all over again, that preposterous Noah. Whereby, cab, +handcuffs, forgery, long conversation, and police persons outside that +door; all of which might have been prevented if Noah had kept the dove +indoors, and had been unselfish enough to bore a hole in the bottom of +his boat.” + +“If you will listen to me, Monsieur le Marquis, and keep your +philosophical reflections for a more convenient season, there will be +some chance of our coming to an understanding. One of these twin sons +still lives.” + +“Now, really, that is the old ground again. We are not getting on----” + +“Still lives, I say. Whatever he is, Monsieur de Cevennes--whatever his +chequered life may have been, the guilt and the misery of that life +rest alike on your head.” + +The Marquis gives the head alluded to an almost imperceptible jerk, +as if he threw this moral burden off, and looks relieved by the +proceeding. “Don’t be melodramatic,” he remarks, mildly, “this is not +the Porte-St.-Martin, and there are no citizens in the gallery to +applaud.” + +“That guilt and that misery, I say, rest upon your head. When you +married the woman whom you abandoned to starvation and despair, you +loved her, I suppose?” + +“I dare say I did; I have no doubt I told her so, poor little thing!” + +“And a few months after your marriage you wearied of her, as you would +have done of any other plaything.” + +“As I should have done of any other plaything. Poor dear child, she +was dreadfully wearisome. Her relations too. Heaven and earth, what +relations! They were looked upon in the light of human beings at +Slopperton, but they were wise to keep out of Paris, for they’d have +been most decidedly put into the Jardin des Plantes; and, really,” said +the Marquis, thoughtfully, “behind bars, and aggravated by fallacious +offers of buns from small children, they would have been rather +amusing.” + +“You were quite content that this unhappy girl should share your +poverty, Monsieur le Marquis; but in the hour of your good fortune----” + +“I left her. Decidedly. Look you, Monsieur de Marolles, when I married +that young person, whom you insist on dragging out of her grave--poor +girl, she is dead, no doubt, by this time--in this remarkably +melodramatic manner, I was a young man, without a penny in the +world, and with very slight expectations of ever becoming possessed +of one. I am figurative, of course. I believe men of my temperament +and complexion are not very subject to that popular epidemic, called +love. But as much as it was in my power to love any one, I loved this +little factory girl. I used to meet her going backwards and forwards +to her work, as I went backwards and forwards to mine; and we became +acquainted. She was gentle, innocent, pretty. I was very young, and, +I need scarcely say, extremely stupid; and I married her. We had not +been married six months before that dreadful Corsican person took it +into his head to abdicate; and I was summoned back to France, to make +my appearance at the Tuileries as Marquis de Cevennes. Now, what I +have to say is this: if you wish to quarrel with any one, quarrel +with the Corsican person; for if he had never signed his abdication +at Fontainebleau (which he did, by the bye, in a most melodramatic +manner--I am acquainted with some weak-minded people who cannot read +the description of that event without shedding tears), I should never +have deserted my poor little English wife.” + +“The Marquis de Cevennes could not, then, ratify the marriage of the +obscure teacher of French and mathematics?” asked Raymond. + +“If the Marquis de Cevennes had been a rich man, he might have done +so; but the Restoration, which gave me back my title, and the only +château (my ancestors had three) which the Jacobins had not burned to +the ground, did not restore me the fortune which the Revolution had +devoured. I was a poor man. Only one course was open to me--a rich +marriage. The wealthy widow of a Bonapartist general beheld and admired +your humble servant, and the doom of my poor little wife was sealed. +For many years I sent money regularly to her old mother--an awful +woman, who knew my secret. She had, therefore, no occasion to starve, +Monsieur de Marolles. And now, may I be permitted to ask what interest +you have in this affair, that you should insist on recalling these very +disagreeable circumstances at this particular moment?” + +“There is one question you do not ask, Monsieur le Marquis.” + +“Indeed; and what is that?” asked the Marquis. + +“You seem to have very little curiosity about the fate of your +surviving son.” + +“I seem to have very little curiosity, my young friend; I have very +little curiosity. I dare say he is a very worthy individual; but I +have no anxiety whatever about his fate; for if he at all resembles +his father, there is very little doubt that he has taken every care of +himself. The De Cevennes have always taken care of themselves; it is a +family trait.” + +“He has proved himself worthy of that family, then. He was thrown +into a river, but he did not sink; he was put into a workhouse and +brought up as a pauper, but by the force of his own will and the help +of his own brain he extricated himself, and won his way in the world. +He became, what his father was before him, a teacher in a school. He +grew tired of that, as his father did, and left England for Paris. In +Paris, like his father before him, he married a woman he did not love +for the sake of her fortune. He became master of that fortune, and +till this very day he has surmounted every obstacle and triumphed over +every difficulty. Your only son, Monsieur de Cevennes--the son whose +mother you deserted--the son whom you abandoned to starve, steal, +drown, or hang, to beg in the streets, die in a gutter, a workhouse, or +a prison--has lived through all, to stand face to face with you this +day, and to tell you that for his own and for his mother’s wrongs, +with all the strength of a soul which those wrongs have steeped in +wickedness--_he hates you!_” + +“Don’t be violent,” said the Marquis, gently. “So, you are my son? Upon +my word I thought all along you were something of that kind, for you +are such a consummate villain.” + +For the first time in his life Raymond de Marolles feels what it is +to be beaten by his own weapons. Against the _sang froid_ of the +Marquis the torrent of his passionate words dashes, as the sea dashes +at the foot of a rock, and makes as little impression. + +“And what then?” says the Marquis. “Since it appears you are my son, +what then?” + +“You must save me, monsieur,” said Raymond, in a hoarse voice. + +“Save you? But, my worthy friend, how save you? Save you from the cab +and handcuffs? If I go out to those people and say, ‘He is my son; be +so good as to forego the cab and handcuffs,’ they will laugh at me. +They are so dreadfully matter-of-fact, that sort of people. What is to +be done?” + +“Only this, monsieur. I must make my escape from this apartment. That +window looks into the garden, from the garden to the mews, through the +mews into a retired street, and thence----” + +“Never mind that, if you get there. I really doubt the possibility of +your getting there. There is a policeman watching in that garden.” + +Raymond smiles. He is recovering his presence of mind in the necessity +for action. He opens a drawer in the library table and takes out an +air-pistol, which looks rather like some elegant toy than a deadly +weapon. + +“I must shoot that man,” he says. + +“Then I give the alarm. I will not be implicated in a murder. Good +Heavens! the Marquis de Cevennes implicated in a murder! Why, it would +be talked of in Paris for a month.” + +“There will be no murder, monsieur. I shall fire at that man from this +window and hit him in the knee. He will fall, and most likely faint +from the pain, and will not, therefore know whether I pass through the +garden or not. You will give the alarm, and tell the men without that I +have escaped through this window and the door in the wall yonder. They +will pursue me in that direction, while I----” + +“You will do what?” + +“Go out at the front door as a gentleman should. I was not unprepared +for such an event as this. Every room in this house has a secret +communication with the next room. There is only one door in this +library, as it seems, and they are carefully watching that.” + +As he speaks he softly opens the window and fires at the man in the +garden, who falls, only uttering a groan. As Raymond predicted, he +faints with the pain. + +With the rapidity of lightning he flings the window up violently, +hurls the pistol to the farthest extremity of the garden, snatches the +Marquis’s hat from the chair on which it lies, presses one finger on +the gilded back of a volume of Gibbon’s _Rome_, a narrow slip of +the bookcase opens inwards, and reveals a door leading into the next +apartment, which is the dining-room. This door is made on a peculiar +principle, and, as he pushes through, it closes behind him. + +This is the work of a second; and as the officers, alarmed by the sound +of the opening of the window, rush into the room, the Marquis gives the +alarm. “He has escaped by the window!” he said. “He has wounded your +assistant, and passed through that door. He cannot be twenty yards in +advance; you will easily know him by his having no hat on.” + +“Stop!” cries the detective officer, “this may be a trap. He may have +got round to the front door. Go and watch, Johnson.” + +A little too late this precaution. As the officers rushed into the +library, Raymond passed from the dining-room door out of the open +street-door, and jumped into the very cab which was waiting to take him +to prison. “Five pounds, if you catch the Liverpool Express,” he said +to the cabman. + +“All right, sir,” replied that worthy citizen, with a wink. “I’ve +druv a many gents like you, and very good fares they is too, and a +godsend to a hard-working man, what old ladies with hand-bags and +umbrellas grudges eightpence a mile to,” mutters the charioteer, as he +gallops down Upper Brook Street and across Hanover Square, while the +gentlemen of the police force, aided by Dr. Tappenden and the obliging +Marquis, search the mews and neighbourhood adjoining. Strange to say, +they cannot obtain any information from the coachman and stable-boys +concerning a gentleman without a hat, who must have passed through the +mews about three minutes before. + + + + + CHAPTER III. + + THE LEFT-HANDED SMASHER MAKES HIS MARK. + + +“IT is a palpable and humiliating proof of the decadence of the +glories of white-cliffed Albion and her lion-hearted children,” said +the sporting correspondent of the _Liverpool Bold Speaker and +Threepenny Aristides_--a gentleman who, by the bye, was very clever +at naming--for half-a-dozen stamps--the horses that _didn’t_ +win; and was, indeed, useful to fancy betters, as affording accurate +information what to avoid; nothing being better policy than to give the +odds against any horse named by him as a sure winner, or a safe second: +for those gallant steeds were sure to be, whatever the fluctuating +fortune of the race, ignominiously nowhere. “It is”, continued the +_Liverpool B. S._, “a sign of the downfalling of the lion and +unicorn--over which Britannia may shed tears and the inhabitants of +Liverpool and its vicinity mourn in silent despair--that the freedom of +England is no more! We repeat (_The Liverpool Aristides_ here gets +excited, and goes into small capitals)--BRITAIN is no longer +FREE! Her freedom departed from her on that day on which the +blue-coated British Sbirri of Sir Robert Peel broke simultaneously into +the liberties of the nation, the mightiest clauses of Magna Charta, +and the Prize Ring, and stopped the operations of the Lancashire Daddy +Longlegs and the celebrated Metropolitan favourite, the Left-handed +Smasher, during the eighty-ninth round, and just as the real interest +of the fight was about to begin. Under these humiliating circumstances, +a meeting has been held by the referees and backers of the men, and +it has been agreed between the latter and the stakeholder to draw the +money. But, that the valiant and admired Smasher may have no occasion +to complain of the inhospitality of the town of Liverpool, the patrons +of the fancy have determined on giving him a dinner, at which his late +opponent, our old favourite and honoured townsman, Daddy Longlegs, +will be in the chair, having a distinguished gentleman of sporting +celebrity as his vice. It is to be hoped that, as some proof that +the noble art of self-defence is not entirely extinct in Liverpool, +the friends of the Ring will muster pretty strong on this occasion. +Tickets, at half-a-guinea, to be obtained at the Gloves Tavern, where +the entertainment will take place.” + +On the very day on which the Count de Marolles left his establishment +in Park Lane in so very abrupt a manner, the tributary banquet to the +genius of the Ring, in the person of the Left-handed Smasher, came +off in excellent style at the above-mentioned Gloves Tavern--a small +hostelry, next door to one of the Liverpool minor theatres, and chiefly +supported by the members of the Thespian and pugilistic arts. The +dramatic element, perhaps, rather predominated in the small parlour +behind the bar, where Brandolph of the Burning Brand--after fighting +sixteen terrific broadsword combats, and being left for dead behind +the first grooves seven times in the course of three acts--would +take his Welsh rarebit and his pint of half-and-half in company with +the Lancashire Grinder and the Pottery Pet, and listen with due +solemnity to the discourse of these two popular characters. The little +parlour was so thickly hung with portraits of theatrical and sporting +celebrities, that Œdipus himself--distinguished as he is for having +guessed the dullest of conundrums--could never have discovered the +pattern of the paper which adorned the walls. Here, Mr. Montmorency, +the celebrated comedian, smirked--with that mild smirk only known in +portraits--over the ample shoulders of his very much better half, at +the Pet in fighting attitude. There, Mr. Marmaduke Montressor, the +great tragedian, frowned, in the character of Richard the Third, at +Pyrrhus the First, winner of the last Derby. Here, again, Mademoiselle +Pasdebasque pointed her satin slipper side by side with the youthful +Challoner of that day; and opposite Mademoiselle Pasdebasque, a +gentleman in scarlet, whose name is unknown, tumbled off a burnt-sienna +horse, in excellent condition, and a very high state of varnish, into +a Prussian-blue ditch, thereby filling the spectator with apprehension +lest he should be, not drowned, but dyed. As to Brandolph of the Brand, +there were so many pictures of him, in so many different attitudes, +and he was always looking so very handsome and doing something so +very magnanimous, that perhaps, upon the whole, it was rather a +disappointment to look from the pictures down to the original of them +in the dingy costume of private life, seated at the shiny little +mahogany table, partaking of refreshment. + +The theatrical profession mustered pretty strongly to do honour to the +sister art on this particular occasion. The theatre next door to the +Gloves happened, fortunately, to be closed, on account of the extensive +scale of preparations for a grand dramatic and spectacular performance, +entitled, “The Sikh Victories; or, The Tyrant of the Ganges,” which +was to be brought out the ensuing Monday, with even more than usual +magnificence. So the votaries of Thespis were free to testify their +admiration for the noble science of self-defence, by taking tickets +for the dinner at ten-and-sixpence a piece, the banquet being, as Mr. +Montressor, the comedian above-mentioned, remarked, with more energy +than elegance, a cheap blow-out, as the dinner would last the guests +who partook of it two days, and the indigestion attendant thereon would +carry them through the rest of the week. + +I shall not enter into the details of the pugilistic dinner, but will +introduce the reader into the banquet-hall at rather a late stage in +the proceedings; in point of fact, just as the festival is about to +break up. It is two o’clock in the morning; the table is strewn with +the _débris_ of a dessert, in which figs, almonds and raisins, +mixed biscuits, grape-stalks, and apple and orange-peel seem rather +to predominate. The table is a very field of Cressy or Waterloo, +as to dead men in the way of empty bottles; good execution having +evidently been done upon Mr. Hemmar’s well-stocked cellar. From the +tumblers and spoons before each guest, however, it is also evident that +the festive throng has followed the example of Mr. Sala’s renowned +hero, and after having tried a “variety of foreign drains,” has gone +back to gin-and-water _pur et simple_. It is rather a peculiar +and paradoxical quality of neat wines that they have, if anything, +rather an untidy effect on those who drink them: certainly there is a +looseness about the hair, a thickness and indecision in the speech, +and an erratic and irrelevant energy and emphasis in the gestures of +the friends of the Smasher, which is entirely at variance with our +ordinary idea of the word “neat.” Yet, why should we quarrel with them +on that account? They are harmless and they are happy. It is surely no +crime to see two gas burners where, to the normal eye, there is only +one; neither is it criminal to try five distinct times to enunciate +the two words, “slightest misunderstanding,” and to fail ignominiously +every time. If anything, that must be an amiable feeling which inspires +a person with a sudden wild and almost pathetic friendship for a man +he never saw before; such a friendship, in short, as pants to go to +the block for him, or to become his surety to a loan-office for five +pounds. Is it any such terrible offence against society to begin a +speech of a patriotic nature, full of allusions to John Bull, Queen +Victoria, Wooden Walls, and the Prize Ring, and to burst into tears in +the middle thereof? Is there no benevolence in the wish to see your +friend home, on account of your strong impression that he has taken +a little too much, and that he will tumble against the railings and +impale his chin upon the spikes; which, of course, _you_ are in +no danger of doing? Are these things crimes? No! We answer boldly, No! +Then, hurrah for neat wines and free trade! Open wide our harbours to +the purple grapes that flourish in the vineyards of sunny Burgundy and +Bordeaux; and welcome, thrice welcome, to the blushing tides which +Horace sang so many hundred years ago, when our beautiful Earth was +younger, and maybe fairer, and held its course, though it is hard to +believe it, very well indeed, without the genius of modern civilization +at the helm. + +There had been a silver cup, with one of the labours of Hercules--poor +Hercules, how hard they work him in the sporting world!--embossed +thereon, presented to the Smasher, as a tribute of respect for those +British qualities which had endeared him to his admirers; and the +Smasher’s health had been drunk with three-times-three, and a little +one in; and then three more three-times-three, and another little one +in; and the Smasher had returned thanks, and Brandolph of the Brand +had proposed the Daddy Longlegs, and the Daddy Longlegs had made a +very neat speech in the Lancashire dialect, which the gentlemen of +the theatrical profession had pretended to understand, but had not +understood; and a literary individual--being, in fact, the gentleman +whose spirited writing we have quoted above, Mr. Jeffrey Hallam +Jones, of the _Liverpool Aristides_, sporting and theatrical +correspondent, and constant visitor at the Gloves--had proposed the +Ring; and the Smasher had proposed the Press, for the liberties +of which, as he said in noble language afterwards quoted in the +_Aristides_, the gentlemen of the Prize Ring were prepared +to fight as long as they had a bunch of fives to rattle upon the +knowledge-box of the foe; and then the Daddy Longlegs had proposed the +Stage, and its greatest glory, Brandolph of the Brand; and ultimately +everybody had proposed everybody else--and then, some one suggesting a +quiet song, everybody sang. + +Now, as the demand for a song from each member of the festive band +was of so noisy and imperative a nature that a refusal was not only +a moral, but a physical impossibility, it would be unbecoming to +remark that the melody and harmony of the evening were, at best, +fluctuating. Annie Laurie was evidently a young lady of an undecided +mind, and wandered in a pleasing manner from C into D, and from D into +E, and then back again with laudable dexterity to C, for the finish. +The gentleman whose heart was bowed down in the key of G might have +rendered his performance more effective, had he given his statement of +that affliction entirely in one key; and another gentleman, who sang a +comic song of seventeen eight-line verses, with four lines of chorus to +every verse, would have done better if he had confined himself to his +original plan of singing superhumanly flat, instead of varying it, as +he occasionally did, by ringing preternaturally sharp. Of course it is +an understood thing, that in a chorus, every singer should choose his +own key, or where is the liberty of the subject?--so _that_ need +not be alluded to. But all this is over; and the guests of Mr. Hemmar +have risen to depart, and have found the act of rising to depart by no +means the trifle they thought it. It is very hard, of course, in such +an atmosphere of tobacco, to find the door; and that, no doubt, is the +reason why so many gentlemen seek for it in the wrong direction, and +buffet insanely with their arms against the wall, in search of that +orifice. + +Now, there are two gentlemen in whom Mr. Hemmar’s neat wines have +developed a friendship of the warmest description. Those two gentlemen +are none other than the two master-spirits of the evening, the +Left-handed Smasher and Brandolph of the Brand--who, by the bye, in +private life, is known as Augustus de Clifford. His name is not written +thus in the register of his baptism. On that malicious document he is +described as William Watson; but to his friends and the public he has +for fifteen years been admired and beloved as the great De Clifford, +although often familiarly called Brandolph, in delicate allusion to his +greatest character. + +Now, Brandolph is positively convinced that the Smasher is not in a +fit state to go home alone, and the Smasher is equally assured that +Brandolph will do himself a mischief unless he is watched; so Brandolph +is going to see the Smasher home to his hotel, which is a considerable +distance from the Gloves Tavern; and then the Smasher is coming back +again to see Brandolph to his lodgings, which are next door but two to +the Gloves Tavern. So, after having bade good night to every one else, +in some instances with tears, and always with an affectionate pathos +verging upon tears, Brandolph flings on his loose overcoat, just as +Manfred might have flung on his cloak prior to making a morning call +upon the witch of the Alps, and the Smasher twists about five yards of +parti-coloured woollen raiment, which he calls a comforter, round his +neck, and they sally forth. + +A glorious autumn night; the full moon high in the heavens, with a tiny +star following in her wake like a well-bred tuft-hunter, and all the +other stars keeping their distance, as if they had retired to their own +“grounds,” as the French say, and were at variance with their queen +on some matter connected with taxes. A glorious night; as light as +day--nay, almost lighter; for it is a light which will bear looking +at, and which does not dazzle our eyes as the sun does, when we are +presumptuous enough to elevate our absurdly infinitesimal optics to his +sublimity. Not a speck on the Liverpool pavement, not a dog asleep on +the doorstep, or a dissipated cat sneaking home down an area, but is +as visible as in the broad glare of noon. “Such a night as this” was +almost too much for Lara, and Brandolph of the Brand grows sentimental. + +“You wouldn’t think,” he murmurs, abstractedly, gazing at the moon, as +he and the Smasher meander arm-in-arm over the pavement; “you wouldn’t +think she hadn’t an atmosphere, would you? A man might build a theatre +there, and he might get his company up in balloons; but I question +if it would pay, on account of that trivial want--she hasn’t got an +atmosphere.” + +“Hasn’t she?” said the Smasher, who certainly, if anything, had, in +the matter of sobriety, the advantage of the tragedian. “You’ll have +a black eye though, if you don’t steer clear of that ’ere lamp-post +you’re makin’ for. I never did see such a cove,” he added; “with his +_h_atmospheres, and his moons, and his b’loons, one would think +he’d never had a glass or two of wine before.” + +Now, to reach the hotel which the left-handed one honoured by his +presence, it was necessary to pass the quay; and the sight of the water +and the shipping reposing in the stillness under the light of the moon, +again awakened all the poetry in the nature of the romantic Brandolph. + +“It is beautiful!” he said, taking his pet position, and waving his arm +in the orthodox circle, prior to pointing to the scene before him. “It +is peaceful: it is we who are the blots upon the beauty of the earth. +Oh, why--why are we false to the beautiful and heroic, as the author of +the Lady of Lyons would observe? Why are we false to the true? Why do +we drink too much and see double? Standing amidst the supreme silences, +with breathless creation listening to our words, we look up to the +stars that looked down upon the philosopher of the cave; and we feel +that we have retrograded.” Here the eminent tragedian gave a lurch, and +seated himself with some violence and precipitation on the kerbstone. +“We feel,” he repeated, “that we have retrograded. It is a pity!” + +“Now, who’s to pick him up?” inquired the Smasher, looking round in +silent appeal to the lamp-posts about him. “Who’s to pick him up? +I can’t; and if he sleeps here he’ll very likely get cold. Get up, +you snivelling fool, can’t you?” he said, with some asperity, to the +descendant of Thespis, who, after weeping piteously, was drying his +eyes with an announce bill of the “Tyrant of the Ganges,” and by +no means improving his personal appearance with the red and black +printer’s ink thereof. + +How mine host of the Cheerful Cherokee would ever have extricated his +companion from this degraded position, without the timely intervention +of others, is not to be said; for at this very moment the Smasher +beheld a gentleman alight from a cab at a little distance from where he +stood, ask two or three questions of the cabman, pay and dismiss him, +and then walk on in the direction of some steps that led to the water. +This gentleman wore his hat very much slouched over his face; he was +wrapped in a heavy loose coat, that entirely concealed his figure, and +evidently carried a parcel of some kind under his left arm. + +“Hi!” said the Smasher, as the pedestrian approached; “Hi, you there! +Give us a hand, will you?” + +The gentleman addressed as “you there” took not the slightest notice of +this appeal, except, indeed, that he quickened his pace considerably, +and tried to pass the left-handed one. + +“No, you don’t,” said our pugilistic friend; “the cove as refuses to +pick up the man that’s down is a blot upon the English character, +and the sooner he’s scratched out the better;” wherewith the Smasher +squared his fists and placed himself directly in the path of the +gentleman with the slouched hat. + +“I tell you what it is, my good fellow,” said this individual, “you may +pick up your drunken friend yourself, or you may wait the advent of +the next policeman, who will do the public a service by conveying you +both to the station-house, where you may finish the evening in your own +highly-intellectual manner. But perhaps you will be good enough to let +me pass, for I’m in a hurry! You see that American vessel yonder--she’s +dropped down the river to wait for the wind; the breeze is springing +up as fast as it can, and she may set sail as it is before I can reach +her; so, if you want to earn a sovereign, come and see if you can help +me in arousing a waterman and getting off to her?” + +“Oh, you are off to America, are you?” said the Smasher, thoughtfully. +“Blow that ’ere wine of Hemmar’s! I ought to know the cut of your +figure-head. I’ve seen you before--I’ve seen you somewheres before, +though where that somewheres was, spiflicate me if I can call to mind! +Come, lend a hand with this ’ere friend o’ mine, and I’ll lend you a +hand with the boatman.” + +“D--n your friend,” said the other, savagely; “let me pass, will you, +you drunken fool?” + +This was quite enough for the Smasher, who was just in that agreeable +frame of mind attendant on the consumption of strong waters, in which +the jaundiced eye is apt to behold an enemy even in a friend, and the +equally prejudiced ear is ready to hear an insult in the most civil +address. + +“Come on, then,” said he; and putting himself in a scientific attitude, +he dodged from side to side two or three times, as if setting to his +partner in a quadrille, and then, with a movement rapid as lightning, +went in with his left fist, and planted a species of postman’s knock +exactly between the eyes of the stranger, who fell to the ground as an +ox falls under the hand of an accomplished butcher. + +It is needless to say that, in falling, his hat fell off, and as he lay +senseless on the pavement, the moonlight on his face revealed every +feature as distinctly as in the broadest day. + +The Smasher knelt down by his side, looked at him attentively for a few +moments, and then gave a long, low whistle. + +“Under the circumstances,” he said, “perhaps I couldn’t have done a +better thing than this ’ere I’ve done promiscuous. He won’t go to +America by that vessel at any rate; so if I telegraph to the Cherokees, +maybe they will be glad to hear what he’s up to down here. Come along,” +continued the sobered Smasher, hauling up Mr. De Clifford by the +collar, as ruthlessly as if he had been a sack of coal; “I think I +hear the footsteps of a Bobby a-coming this way, so we’d better make +ourselves scarce before we’re asked any questions.” + +“If,” said the distinguished Brandolph, still shedding tears, “if +the town of Liverpool was conducted after the manner of the Republic +of Plato, there wouldn’t be any policemen. But, as I said before, we +have retrograded. Take care of the posts,” he added plaintively. “It +is marvellous the effect a few glasses of light wine have upon some +people’s legs; while others, on the contrary----” here he slid again to +the ground, and this time eluded all the Smasher’s endeavours to pick +him up. + +“You had better let me be,” he murmured. “It is hard, but it is clean +and comfortable. Bring me my boots and hot water at nine o’clock; I’ve +an early rehearsal of ‘The Tyrant.’ Go home quietly, my dear friend, +and don’t take anything more to drink, for your head is evidently not a +strong one. Good night.” + +“Here’s a situation!” said the Smasher. “I can’t dance attendance on +him any more, for I must run round to the telegraph office and see if +it’s open, that I may send Mr. Marwood word about this night’s work. +The Count de Marolles is safe enough for a day or two, anyhow; for I +have set a mark upon him that he won’t rub off just yet, clever as he +is.” + + + + + CHAPTER IV. + + WHAT THEY FIND IN THE ROOM IN WHICH THE MURDER WAS COMMITTED. + + +AT the time that the arrest of the Count de Marolles was taking +place, Mr. Joseph Peters was absent from London, being employed +upon some mission of a delicate and secret nature in the town of +Slopperton-on-the-Sloshy. + +Slopperton is very little changed since the murder at the Black Mill +set every tongue going upon its nine-days wonder. There may be a few +more tall factory chimneys; a few more young factory ladies in cotton +jackets and coral necklaces all the week, and in rustling silks and +artificial flowers on Sunday; the new town--that dingy hanger-on of +the old town--may have spread a little farther out towards the bright +and breezy country; and the railway passenger may perhaps see a larger +veil of black smoke hanging in the atmosphere as he approaches the +Slopperton station than he saw eight years ago. + +Mr. Peters, being no longer a householder in the town, takes up his +abode at a hostelry, and, strange to say, selects the little river-side +public-house in which he overheard that conversation between the usher +and the country girl, the particulars of which are already known to the +reader. + +He is peculiar in his choice of an hotel, for “The Bargeman’s Delight” +certainly does not offer many attractions to any one not a bargeman. +It is hard indeed to guess what the particular delight of the bargeman +may be, which the members of that guild find provided for them in the +waterside tavern alluded to. The bargeman’s delight is evidently not +cleanliness, or he would go elsewhere in search of that virtue; neither +can the bargeman affect civility in his entertainers, for the host and +that one slip-shod, young person who is barmaid, barman, ostler, cook, +chambermaid, and waiter all in one, are notoriously sulky in their +conversation with their patrons, and have an aggrieved and injured +bearing very unpleasant to the sensitive customer. But if, on the other +hand, the bargeman’s delight should happen to consist in dirt, and +damp, and bad cooking, and worse attendance, and liquors on which the +small glass brandy-balls peculiar to the publican float triumphantly, +and pertinaciously refuse to go down to the bottom--if such things as +these be the bargeman’s delight, he has them handsomely provided for +him at this establishment. + +However this may be, to “The Bargeman’s Delight” came Mr. Peters on the +very day of the Count’s arrest, with a carpet-bag in one hand and a +fishing-rod in the other, and with no less a person than Mr. Augustus +Darley for his companion. The customer, by the bye, was generally +initiated into the pleasures of this hostelry by being tripped up or +tripped down on the threshold, and saluting a species of thin soup of +sawdust and porter, which formed the upper stratum of the floor, with +his olfactory organ. The neophyte of the Rosicrucian mysteries and of +Freemasonry has, I believe, something unpleasant done to him before he +can be safely trusted with the secrets of the Temple; why, then, should +not the guest of the Delight have _his_ initiation? Mr. Darley, +with some dexterity, however, escaped this danger; and, entering the +bar safely, entreated with the slip-shod and defiant damsel aforesaid. + +“Could we have a bed?” Mr. Darley asked; “in point of fact, two beds?” + +The damsel glared at him for a few minutes without giving any answer at +all. Gus repeated the question. + +“We’ve got two beds,” muttered the defiant damsel. + +“All right, then,” said Gus. “Come in, old fellow,” he added to Mr. +Peters, whose legs and bluchers were visible at the top of the steps, +where he patiently awaited the result of his companion’s entreaty with +the priestess of the temple. + +“But I don’t know whether you can have ’em,” said the girl, with a more +injured air than usual. “We ain’t in general asked for beds.” + +“Then why do you put up that?” asked Mr. Darley, pointing to a board on +which, in letters that had once been gilt, was inscribed this legend, +“Good Beds.” + +“Oh, as for that,” said the girl, “that was wrote up before we took +the place, and we had to pay for it in the fixtures, so of course we +wasn’t a-goin’ to take it down! But I’ll ask master.” Whereon she +disappeared into the damp and darkness, as if she had been the genius +of that mixture; and presently reappeared, saying they could have +beds, but that they couldn’t have a private sitting-room because there +wasn’t one--which reason they accepted as unanswerable, and furthermore +said they would content themselves with such accommodation as the +bar-parlour afforded; whereon the slip-shod barmaid relaxed from her +defiant mood, and told them that they would find it quite cheerful, as +there was a nice look-out upon the river. + +Mr. Darley ordered a bottle of wine--a tremendous order, rarely known +to be issued in that establishment--and further remarked that he should +be glad if the landlord would bring it in, as he would like five +minutes’ conversation with him. After having given this overwhelming +order, Gus and Mr. Peters entered the parlour. + +It was empty, the parlour; the bargeman was evidently taking his +delight somewhere else that afternoon. There were the wet marks of +the bargeman’s porter-pots of the morning, and the dry marks of the +bargeman’s porter-pots of the day before, still on the table; there +were the bargeman’s broken tobacco-pipes, and the cards wherewith +he had played all-fours--which cards he had evidently chewed at the +corners in aggravation of spirit when his luck deserted him--strewn +about in every direction. There were the muddy marks of the bargeman’s +feet on the sandy floor; there was a subtle effluvium of mingled +corduroy, tobacco, onions, damp leather, and gin, which was the perfume +of the bargeman himself; but the bargeman in person was not there. + +Mr. Darley walked to the window, and looked out at the river. A +cheerful sight, did you say, slip-shod Hebe? Is it cheerful to look +at that thick dingy water, remembering how many a wretched head its +current has flowed over; how many a tired frame has lain down to find +in death the rest life could not yield; how many a lost soul has found +a road to another world in that black tide, and gone forth impenitent, +from the shore of time to the ocean of eternity; how often the golden +hair has come up in the fisherman’s net; and how many a Mary, less +happy, since less innocent than the heroine of Mr. Kingsley’s melodious +song, has gone out, never, never to return! Mr. Darley perhaps thinks +this, for he turns his back to the window, calls out to the barmaid to +come and light a fire, and proceeds to fill man’s great consoler, his +pipe. + +I very much wonder, gentle readers of the fair sex, that you have never +contrived somehow or other to pick a quarrel with the manes of good, +cloak-spoiling, guinea-finding, chivalrous, mutineer-encountering, +long-suffering, maid-of-honour-adoring Walter Raleigh--the importer of +the greatest rival woman ever had in the affections of man, the tenth +Muse, the fourth Grace, the uncanonized saint, Tobacco. You are angry +with poor Tom, whom you henpeck so cruelly, Mrs. Jones, because he came +home last night from that little business dinner at Greenwich slightly +the worse for the salmon and the cucumber--not the iced punch!--oh, +no! he scarcely touched that! You are angry with your better half, and +you wish to give him, as you elegantly put it, a bit of your mind. My +good soul, what does Tom care for you--behind his pipe? Do you think +he is listening to _you_, or thinking of _you_, as he sits +lazily watching with dreamy eyes the blue wreaths of smoke curling +upwards from that honest meerschaum bowl? He is thinking of the girl +he knew fourteen years ago, before ever he fell on his knees in the +back-parlour, and ricked his ancle in proposing to you; he is thinking +of a picnic in Epping Forest, where he first met _her_; when +coats were worn short-waisted, and Plancus was consul; when there was +scaffolding at Charing Cross, and stage-coaches between London and +Brighton; when the wandering minstrel was to be found at Beulah Spa, +and there was no Mr. Robson at the Olympic. He is looking full in your +face, poor Tom! and attending to every word you say--as you think! Ah! +my dear madam, believe me, he does not see one feature of your face, +or hear one word of your peroration. He sees _her_; he sees her +standing at the end of a green arcade, with the sunlight flickering +between the restless leaves upon her bright brown curls, and making +arabesques of light and shade on her innocent white dress; he sees +the little coquettish glance she flings back at him, as he stands in +an attitude he knows now was, if anything, spooney, all amongst the +_débris_ of the banquet--lobster-salads, veal-and-ham pies, empty +champagne-bottles, strawberry-stalks, parasols, and bonnets and shawls. +He hears the singing of the Essex birds, the rustling of the forest +leaves, her ringing laugh, the wheels of a carriage, the tinkling of a +sheep-bell, the roar of a blacksmith’s forge, and the fall of waters +in the distance. All those sweet rustic sounds, which make a music +very different to the angry tones of your voice, are in his ears; and +you, madam--you, for any impression you can make on him, might just as +well be on the culminating point of Teneriffe, and would find quite as +attentive a listener in the waste of ocean you might behold from that +eminence! + +And who is the fairy that works the spell? Her earthly name is Tobacco, +_alias_ Bird’s-eye, _alias_ Latakia, _alias_ Cavendish; +and the magician who raised her first in the British dominions was +Walter Raleigh. Are you not glad now, gentle reader, that the sailors +mutinied, that the dear son was killed in that far land, and that the +mean-spirited Stuart rewarded the noblest and wisest of his age with a +life in a dungeon and the death of a traitor? + +I don’t know whether Augustus Darley thought all this as he sat over +the struggling smoke and damp in the parlour of the “Bargeman’s +Delight,” which smoke and damp the defiant barmaid told him would soon +develop into a good fire. Gus was not a married man; and, again, he and +Mr. Peters had very particular business on their hands, and had very +little time for sentimental or philosophical reflections. + +The landlord of the “Delight” appeared presently, with what, he assured +his guests, was such a bottle of port as they wouldn’t often meet with. +There was a degree of obscurity in this commendation which savoured +of the inspired communications of the priestess of the oracle. Æacida +might conquer the Romans, or the Romans might annihilate Æacida; the +bottle of port might be unapproachable by its excellence, or so utterly +execrable in quality as to be beyond the power of wine-merchant to +imitate; and either way the landlord not forsworn. Gus looked at the +bright side of the question, and requested his host to draw the cork +and bring another glass--“that is,” he said, “if you can spare half an +hour or so for a friendly chat.” + +“Oh, as for that,” said the landlord, “I can spare time enough, it +isn’t the business as’ll keep me movin’; it’s never brisk except on wet +afternoons, when they comes in with their dirty boots, and makes more +mess than they drinks beer. A ‘found drowned’ or a inquest enlivens us +up now and then; but Lord, there’s nothing doing nowadays, and even +inquests and drownin’ seems a-goin’ out.” + +The landlord was essentially a melancholy and blighted creature; and +he seated himself at his own table, wiped away yesterday’s beer with +his own coat-sleeve, and prepared himself to drink his own port, with +a gloomy resignation sublime enough to have taken a whole band of +conspirators to the scaffold in a most creditable manner. + +“My friend,” said Mr. Darley, introducing Mr. Peters by a wave of his +hand, “is a foreigner, and hasn’t got hold of our language yet; he +finds it slippery, and hard to catch, on account of the construction of +it, so you must excuse his not being lively.” + +The landlord nodded, and remarked, in a cheering manner, that he didn’t +see what there was for the liveliest cove goin’ to be lively about +nowadays. + +After a good deal of desultory conversation, and a description of +several very interesting inquests, Gus asked the landlord whether he +remembered an affair that happened about eight or nine years ago, or +thereabouts--a girl found drowned in the fall of the year. + +“There’s always bein’ girls found drowned,” said the landlord moodily; +“it’s my belief they likes it, especially when they’ve long hair. They +takes off their bonnets, and they lets down their back hairs, and they +puts a note in their pockets, wrote large, to say as they hopes as how +he’ll be sorry, and so on. I can’t remember no girl in particular, +eight years ago, at the back end of the year. I can call to mind a many +promiscuous like, off and on, but not to say this was Jane, or that was +Sarah.” + +“Do you remember a quarrel, then, between a man and a girl in this very +room, and the man having his head cut by a sovereign she threw at him?” + +“We never have no quarrels in this room,” replied the landlord, with +dignity. “The bargemen sometimes have a few words, and tramples upon +each other with their hobnailed boots, and their iron heels and toes +will dance again when their temper’s up; but I don’t allow no quarrels +here. And yet,” he added, after a few moments’ reflection, “there was a +sort of a row, I remember, a many years ago, between a girl as drowned +herself that night down below, and a young gent, in this ’ere room; he +a-sittin’ just as you may be a-sittin’ now, and she a-standin’ over +by that window, and throwin’ four sovereigns at him spiteful, one of +them a-catchin’ him just over the eyebrow, and cuttin’ of him to the +bone--and he a-pickin’ ’em up when his head was bound, and walkin’ off +with ’em as if nothin’ had happened.” + +“Yes; but do you happen to remember,” said Gus, “that he only found +three out of the four sovereigns; and that he was obliged to give up +looking for the last, and go away without it?” + +The landlord of the “Delight” suddenly lapsed into most profound +meditation; he rubbed his chin, making a rasping noise as he did so, +as if going cautiously over a French roll, first with one hand and +then with the other; he looked with an earnest gaze into the glass of +puce-coloured liquid before him, took a sip of that liquid, smacked his +lips after the manner of a connoisseur, and then said that he couldn’t +at the present moment call to mind the last circumstance alluded to. + +“Shall I tell you,” said Gus, “my motive in asking this question?” + +The landlord said he might as well mention it as not. + +“Then I will. I want that sovereign. I’ve a particular reason, which +I don’t want to stop to explain just now, for wanting that very coin +of all others; and I don’t mind giving a five-pound note to the man +that’ll put that twenty shillings worth of gold into my hand.” + +“You don’t, don’t you?” said the landlord, repeating the operations +described above, and looking very hard at Gus all the time: after which +he sat staring silently from Gus to Peters, and from Peters to the +puce-coloured liquid, for some minutes: at last he said--“It ain’t a +trap?” + +“There’s the note,” replied Mr. Darley; “look at it, and see if it’s +a good one. I’ll lay it on this table, and when you lay down that +sovereign--_that_ one, mind, and no other--it’s yours.” + +“You think I’ve got it, then?” said the landlord, interrogatively. + +“I know you’ve got it,” said Gus, “unless you’ve spent it.” + +“Why, as to that,” said the landlord, “when you first called to mind +the circumstance of the girl, and the gent, and the inquest, and all +that, I’ve a short memory, and couldn’t quite recollect that there +sovereign; but now I _do_ remember finding of that very coin a +year and a half afterwards, for the drains was bad that year, and the +Board of Health came a-chivying of us to take up our floorings, and +lime-wash ourselves inside; and in taking up the flooring of this room +what should we come across but that very bit of gold?” + +“And you never changed it?” + +“Shall I tell you why I never changed it? Sovereigns ain’t so plentiful +in these parts that I should keep this one to look at. What do you say +to it’s not being a sovereign at all?” + +“Not a sovereign?” + +“Not; what do you say to it’s being a twopenny-halfpenny foreign coin, +with a lot of rum writin’ about it--a coin as they has the cheek to +offer me four-and-sixpence for as old gold, and as I kep’, knowin’ it +was worth more for a curiosity--eh?” + +“Why, all I can say is,” said Gus, “that you did very wisely to keep +it; and here’s five or perhaps ten times its value, and plenty of +interest for your money.” + +“Wait a bit,” muttered the landlord; and disappearing into the bar, he +rummaged in some drawer in the interior of that sanctum, and presently +reappeared with a little parcel screwed carefully in newspaper. “Here +it is,” he said, “and jolly glad I am to get rid of the useless lumber, +as wouldn’t buy a loaf of bread if one was a starving; and thank you +kindly, sir,” he continued, as he pocketed the note. “I should like to +sell you half-a-dozen more of ’em at the same price, that’s all.” + +The coin was East Indian; worth perhaps six or seven rupees; in size +and touch not at all unlike a sovereign, but about fifty years old. + +“And now,” said Gus, “my friend and I will take a stroll; you can cook +us a steak for five o’clock, and in the meantime we can amuse ourselves +about the town.” + +“The factories might be interesting to the foreigneering gent,” said +the landlord, whose spirits seemed very much improved by the possession +of the five-pound note; “there’s a factory hard by as employs a power +of hands, and there’s a wheel as killed a man only last week, and you +could see it, I’m sure, gents, and welcome, by only mentioning my name. +I serves the hands as lives round this way, which is a many.” + +Gus thanked him for his kind offer, and said they would make a point of +availing themselves of it. + +The landlord watched them as they walked along the bank in the +direction of Slopperton. “I expect,” he remarked to himself, “the +lively one’s mad, and the quiet one’s his keeper. But five pounds is +five pounds; and that’s neither here nor there.” + +Instead of seeking both amusement and instruction, as they might have +done from a careful investigation of the factory in question, Messrs. +Darley and Peters walked at a pretty brisk rate, looking neither to +the right nor to the left, choosing the most out of the way and +unfrequented streets, till they left the town of Slopperton and the +waters of the Sloshy behind them, and emerged on to the high road, not +so many hundred yards from the house in which Mr. Montague Harding met +his death--the house of the Black Mill. + +It had never been a lively-looking place at best; but now, with the +association of a hideous murder belonging to it--and so much a part +of it, that, to all who knew the dreadful story, death, like a black +shadow, seemed to brood above the gloomy pile of building and warn the +stranger from the infected spot--it was indeed a melancholy habitation. +The shutters of all the windows but one were closed; the garden-paths +were over-grown with weeds; the beds choked up; the trees had shot +forth wild erratic branches that trailed across the path of the +intruder, and entangling themselves about him, threw him down before +he was aware. The house, however, was not uninhabited--Martha, the old +servant, who had nursed Richard Marwood when a little child, had the +entire care of it; and she was further provided with a comfortable +income and a youthful domestic to attend upon her, the teaching, +admonishing, scolding, and patronizing of whom made the delight of her +quiet existence. + +The bell which Mr. Darley rang at the gate went clanging down the walk, +as if to be heard in the house were a small part of its mission, for +its sonorous power was calculated to awaken all Slopperton in case of +fire, flood, or invasion of the foreign foe. + +Perhaps Gus thought just a little--as he stood at the broad white gate, +over-grown now with damp and moss, but once so trim and bright--of the +days when Richard and he had worn little cloth frocks, all ornamented +with divers meandering braids and shining buttons, and had swung to and +fro in the evening sunshine on that very gate. + +He remembered Richard throwing him off, and hurting his nose upon +the gravel. They had made mud-pies upon that very walk; they had +set elaborate and most efficient traps for birds, and never caught +any, in those very shrubberies; they had made a swing under the +lime-trees yonder, and a fountain that would never work, but had to be +ignominiously supplied with jugs of water, and stirred with spoons like +a pudding, before the crystal shower would consent to mount. A thousand +recollections of that childish time came back, and with them came the +thought that the little boy in the braided frock was now an outcast +from society, supposed to be dead, and his name branded as that of a +madman and a murderer. + +Martha’s attendant, a rosy-cheeked country girl, came down the walk at +the sound of the clanging bell, and stared aghast at the apparition of +two gentlemen--one of them so brilliant in costume as our friend Mr. +Darley. + +Gus told the youthful domestic that he had a letter for Mrs. Jones. +Martha’s surname was Jones; the Mrs. was an honorary distinction, as +the holy state of matrimony was one of the evils the worthy woman had +escaped. Gus brought a note from Martha’s mistress, which assured +him a warm welcome. “Would the gentlemen have tea?” Martha said. +“Sararanne--(the youthful domestic’s name was Sarah Anne, pronounced, +both for euphony and convenience, Sararanne)--Sararanne should get them +anything they would please to like directly.” Poor Martha was quite +distressed, on being told that all they wanted was to look at the room +in which the murder was committed. + +“Was it in the same state as at the time of Mr. Harding’s death?” asked +Gus. + +It had never been touched, Mrs. Jones assured them, since that dreadful +time. Such was her mistress’s wish; it had been kept clean and dry; but +not a bit of furniture had been moved. + +Mrs. Jones was rheumatic, and rarely stirred from her seat of honour by +the fireside; so Sararanne was sent with a bunch of keys in her hand to +conduct the gentlemen to the room in question. + +Now there were two things self-evident in the manner of Sararanne; +first, that she was pleased at the idea of a possible flirtation +with the brilliant Mr. Darley; secondly, that she didn’t at all like +the ordeal of opening and entering the dreaded room in question; so, +between her desire to be fascinating and her uncontrollable fear of +the encounter before her, she endured a mental struggle painful to the +beholder. + +The shutters in the front of the house being, with one exception, all +closed, the hall and staircase were wrapped in a shadowy gloom, far +more alarming to the timid mind than complete darkness. In complete +darkness, for instance, the eight-day clock in the corner would have +been a clock, and not an elderly ghost with a broad white face and a +brown greatcoat, as it seemed to be in the uncertain glimmer which +crept through a distant skylight covered with ivy. Sararanne was +evidently possessed with the idea that Mr. Darley and his friend would +decoy her to the very threshold of the haunted chamber, and then fly +ignominiously, leaving her to brave the perils of it by herself. Mr. +Darley’s repeated assurances that it was all right, and that on the +whole it would be advisable to look alive, as life was short and time +was long, etcetera, had the effect at last of inducing the damsel to +ascend the stairs--looking behind her at every other step--and to +conduct the visitors along a passage, at the end of which she stopped, +selected with considerable celerity a key from the bunch, plunged it +into the keyhole of the door before her, said, “That is the room, +gentlemen, if you please,” dropped a curtsey, and turned and fled. + +The door opened with a scroop, and Mr. Peters realized at last the +darling wish of his heart, and stood in the very room in which the +murder had been committed. Gus looked round, went to the window, opened +the shutters to the widest extent, and the afternoon sunshine streamed +full into the room, lighting every crevice, revealing every speck of +dust on the moth-eaten damask bed-curtains--every crack and stain on +the worm-eaten flooring. + + +To see Mr. Darley look round the room, and to see Mr. Peters look +round it, is to see two things as utterly wide apart as it is possible +for one look to be from another. The young surgeon’s eyes wander here +and there, fix themselves nowhere, and rest two or three times upon +the same object before they seem to take in the full meaning of that +object. The eyes of Mr. Peters, on the contrary, take the circuit of +the apartment with equal precision and rapidity--go from number one to +number two, from number two to number three; and having given a careful +inspection to every article of furniture in the room, fix at last in +a gaze of concentrated intensity on the _tout ensemble_ of the +chamber. + +“Can you make out anything?” at last asks Mr. Darley. + +Mr. Peters nods his head, and in reply to this question drops on one +knee, and falls to examining the flooring. + +“Do you see anything in that?” asks Gus. + +“Yes,” replies Mr. Peters on his fingers; “look at this.” + +Gus does look at this. This is the flooring, which is in a very rotten +and dilapidated state, by the bedside. “Well, what then?” he asks. + +“What then?” said Mr. Peters, on his fingers, with an expression of +considerable contempt pervading his features; “what then? You’re a very +talented young gent, Mr. Darley, and if I wanted a prescription for the +bile, which I’m troubled with sometimes, or a tip for the Derby, which +I don’t, not being a sporting man, you’re the gent I’d come to; but for +all that you ain’t no police-officer, or you’d never ask that question. +What then? Do you remember as one of the facts so hard agen Mr. Marwood +was the blood-stains on his sleeve? You see these here cracks and +crevices in this here floorin’? Very well, then; Mr. Marwood slept in +the room under this. He was tired, I’ve heard him say, and he threw +himself down on the bed in his coat. What more natural, then, than that +there should be blood upon his sleeve, and what more easy to guess than +the way it came there?” + +“You think it dropped through, then?” asked Gus. + +“I _think_ it dropped through,” said Mr. Peters, on his fingers, +with biting irony; “I know it dropped through. His counsel was a nice +un, not to bring this into court,” he added, pointing to the boards on +which he knelt. “If I’d only seen this place before the trial----But I +was nobody, and it was like my precious impudence to ask to go over the +house, of course! Now then, for number two.” + +“And that is----?” asked Mr. Darley, who was quite in the dark as +to Mr. Peters’s views; that functionary being implicitly believed +in by Richard and his friend, and allowed, therefore, to be just as +mysterious as he pleased. + +“Number two’s this here,” answered the detective. “I wants to find +another or two of them rum Indian coins; for our young friend +Dead-and-Alive, as is here to-day and gone to-morrow, got that one as +he gave the girl from that cabinet, or my name’s not Joseph Peters;” +wherewith Mr. Peters, who had been entrusted by Mrs. Marwood with the +keys of the cabinet in question, proceeded to open the doors of it, and +to carefully inspect that old-fashioned piece of furniture. + +There were a great many drawers, and boxes, and pigeon-holes, and queer +nooks and corners in this old cabinet, all smelling equally of old age, +damp, and cedar-wood. Mr. Peters pulled out drawers and opened boxes, +found secret drawers in the inside of other drawers, and boxes hid in +ambush in other boxes, all with so little result, beyond the discovery +of old papers, bundles of letters tied with faded red tape, a simpering +and neutral-tinted miniature or two of the fashion of some fifty years +gone by, when a bright blue coat and brass buttons was the correct +thing for a dinner-party, and your man about town wore a watch in each +of his breeches-pockets, and simpered at you behind a shirt-frill wide +enough to separate him for ever from his friends and acquaintance. +Besides these things, Mr. Peters found a Johnson’s dictionary, a +ready-reckoner, and a pair of boot-hooks; but as he found nothing else, +Mr. Darley grew quite tired of watching his proceedings, and suggested +that they should adjourn; for he remarked--“Is it likely that such a +fellow as this North would leave anything behind him?” + +“Wait a bit,” said Mr. Peters, with an expressive jerk of his head. Gus +shrugged his shoulders, took out his cigar-case, lighted a cheroot, +and walked to the window, where he leaned with his elbows on the +sill, puffing blue clouds of tobacco-smoke down among the straggling +creepers that covered the walls and climbed round the casement, while +the detective resumed his search among the old bundles of papers. He +was nearly abandoning it, when, in one of the outer drawers, he took up +an object he had passed over in his first inspection. It was a small +canvas bag, such as is used to hold money, and was apparently empty; +but while pondering on his futile search, Mr. Peters twisted this +bag in a moment of absence of mind between his fingers, swinging it +backwards and forwards in the air. In so doing, he knocked it against +the side of the cabinet, and, to his surprise, it emitted a sharp +metallic sound. It was not empty, then, although it appeared so. A +moment’s examination showed the detective that he had succeeded in +obtaining the object of his search; the bag had been used for money, +and a small coin had lodged in the seam at one corner of the bottom of +it, and had stuck so firmly as not to be easily shaken out. This, in +the murderer’s hurried ransacking of the cabinet, in his blind fury at +not finding the sum he expected to obtain, had naturally escaped him. +The piece of money was a small gold coin, only half the value of the +one found by the landlord, but of the same date and style. + +Mr. Peters gave his fingers a triumphant snap, which aroused the +attention of Mr. Darley; and, with a glance expressive of the pride in +his art which is peculiar to your true genius, held up the little piece +of dingy gold. + +“By Jove!” exclaimed the admiring Gus, “you’ve got it, then! Egad, +Peters, I think you’d make evidence, if there wasn’t any.” + +“Eight years of that young man’s life, sir,” said the rapid fingers, +“has been sacrificed to the stupidity of them as should have pulled him +through.” + + + + + CHAPTER V. + + MR. PETERS DECIDES ON A STRANGE STEP, AND ARRESTS THE DEAD. + + +WHILE Mr. Peters, assisted by Richard’s sincere friend, the young +surgeon, made the visit above described, Daredevil Dick counted the +hours in London. It was essential to the success of his cause, Gus and +Peters urged, that he should not show himself, or in any way reveal +the fact of his existence, till the real murderer was arrested. Let +the truth appear to all the world, and then time enough for Richard to +come forth, with an unbranded forehead, in the sight of his fellow-men. +But when he heard that Raymond Marolles had given his pursuers the +slip, and was off, no one knew where, it was all that his mother, +his friend Percy Cordonner, Isabella Darley, and the lawyers to whom +he had intrusted his cause, could do, to prevent his starting that +instant on the track of the guilty man. It was a weary day, this day +of the failure of the arrest, for all. Neither his mother’s tender +consolation, nor his solicitor’s assurances that all was not yet lost, +could moderate the young man’s impatience. Neither Isabella’s tearful +prayers that he would leave the issue in the hands of Heaven, nor Mr. +Cordonner’s philosophical recommendation to take it quietly and let +the “beggar” go, could keep him quiet. He felt like a caged lion, +whose ignoble bonds kept him from the vile object of his rage. The day +wore out, however, and no tidings came of the fugitive. Mr. Cordonner +insisted on stopping with his friend till three o’clock in the morning, +and at that very late hour set out, with the intention of going down +to the Cherokees--it was a Cheerful night, and they would most likely +be still assembled--to ascertain, as he popularly expressed it, whether +anything had “turned up” there. The clock of St. Martin’s struck three +as he stood with Richard at the street-door in Spring Gardens, giving +friendly consolation between the puffs of his cigar to the agitated +young man. + +“In the first place, my dear boy,” he said, “if you can’t catch +the fellow, you can’t catch the fellow--that’s sound logic and a +mathematical argument; then why make yourself unhappy about it? Why +try to square the circle, only because the circle’s round, and can’t +be squared? Let it alone. If this fellow turns up, hang him! I should +glory in seeing him hung, for he’s an out-and-out scoundrel, and I +should make a point of witnessing the performance, if the officials +would do the thing at a reasonable hour, and not execute him in the +middle of the night and swindle the respectable public. If he doesn’t +turn up, why, let the matter rest; marry that little girl in there, +Darley’s pretty sister--who seems, by the bye, to be absurdly fond of +you--and let the question rest. That’s my philosophy.” + +The young man turned away with an impatient sigh; then, laying his hand +on Percy’s shoulder, he said, “My dear old fellow, if everybody in the +world were like you, Napoleon would have died a Corsican lawyer, or a +lieutenant in the French army. Robespierre would have lived a petty +barrister, with a penchant for getting up in the night to eat jam tarts +and a mania for writing bad poetry. The third state would have gone +home quietly to its farmyards and its merchants’ offices; there would +have been no Oath of the Tennis Court, and no Battle of Waterloo.” + +“And a very good thing, too,” said his philosophical friend; “nobody +would have been a loser but Astley’s--only think of that. If there had +been no Napoleon, what a loss for image boys, Gomersal the Great, and +Astley’s. Forgive me, Dick, for laughing at you. I’ll cut down to the +Cheerfuls, and see if anything’s up. The Smasher’s away, or he might +have given us his advice; the genius of the P.R. might have been of +some service in this affair. Good night!” He gave Richard a languidly +affectionate shake of the hand, and departed. + +Now, when Mr. Cordonner said he would cut down to the Cherokees, let +it not be thought by the simple-minded reader that the expression “cut +down,” from his lips, conveyed that degree of velocity which, though +perhaps a sufficiently vague phrase in itself, it is calculated to +carry to the ordinary mind. Percy Cordonner had never been seen by +mortal man in a hurry. He had been known to be too late for a train, +and had been beheld placidly lounging at a few paces from the departing +engine, and mildly but rather reproachfully regarding that object. The +prospects of his entire life may have hinged on his going by that +particular train; but he would never be so false to his principles as +to make himself unpleasantly warm, or in any way disturb the delicate +organization with which nature had gifted him. He had been seen at +the doors of the Opera-house when Jenny Lind was going to appear in +the _Figlia_, and while those around him were afflicted with a +temporary lunacy, and trampling one another wildly in the mud, he had +been observed leaning against a couple of fat men as in an easy-chair, +and standing high and dry upon somebody else’s boots, breathing +gentlemanly and polyglot execrations upon the surrounding crowd, +when, in swaying to and fro, it disturbed or attempted to disturb his +serenity. So, when he said he would cut down to the Cherokees, he of +course meant that he would cut after his manner; and he accordingly +rolled languidly along the deserted pavements of the Strand, with +something of the insouciant and purposeless manner that Rasselas may +have had in a walk through the arcades of his happy valley. He reached +the well-known tavern at last, however, and stopping under the sign +of the washed-out Indian desperately tomahawking nothing, in the +direction of Covent Garden, with an arm more distinguished for muscular +development than correct drawing, he gave the well-known signal of the +club, and was admitted by the damsel before described, who appeared +always to devote the watches of the night to the process of putting +her hair in papers, that she might wear that becoming “head” for the +admiration of the jug-and-bottle customers of the following day, and +shine in a frame of very long and very greasy curls that were apt +to sweep the heads off brown stouts, and dip gently into “goes” of +spirits upon the more brilliant company of the evening. This young +lady, popularly known as ’Liza, was well up in the sporting business +of the house, read the _Life_ during church-time on Sundays, and +was even believed to have communicated with that Rhadamanthine journal, +under the signature of L., in the answers to correspondents. She was +understood to be engaged, or, as her friends and admirers expressed it, +to be “keeping company” with that luminary of the P.R., the Middlesex +Mawler, whose head-quarters were at the Cherokee. + +Mr. Cordonner found three Cheerfuls assembled in the bar, in a state +of intense excitement and soda-water. A telegraphic message had just +arrived from the Smasher. It was worthy, in economy of construction, of +the Delphic oracle, and had the advantage of being easy to understand. +It was as follows--“Tell R. M. _he’s_ here: had no orders, so went +in with left: he won’t be able to move for a day or two.” + +Mr. Cordonner was almost surprised, and was thus very nearly false, +for once in his life, to the only art he knew. “This will be good news +in Spring Gardens,” he said; “but Peters won’t be back till to-morrow +night. Suppose,” he added, musing, “we were to telegraph to him at +Slopperton instanter? I know where he hangs out there. If anybody +could find a cab and take the message it would be doing Marwood an +inestimable service,” added Mr. Cordonner, passing through the bar, and +lazily seating himself on a green-and-gold Cream of the Valley cask, +with his hat very much on the back of his head, and his hands in his +pockets. “I’ll write the message.” + +He scribbled upon a card--“Go across to Liverpool. He’s given us the +slip, and is there;” and handed it politely towards the three Cheerfuls +who were leaning over the pewter counter. + +Splitters, the dramatic author, clutched the document eagerly; to his +poetic mind it suggested that best gift of inspiration, “a situation.” + +“I’ll take it,” he said; “what a fine line it would make in a bill! +‘The intercepted telegram,’ with a comic railway clerk, and the villain +of the piece cutting the wires!” + +“Away with you, Splitters,” said Percy Cordonner. “Don’t let the +Strand become verdant beneath your airy tread. Don’t stop to compose a +five-act drama as you go, that’s a good fellow. ’Liza, my dear girl, +a pint of your creamiest Edinburgh, and let it be as mild as the +disposition of your humble servant.” + +Three days after the above conversation, three gentlemen were assembled +at breakfast in a small room in a tavern overlooking the quay at +Liverpool. This triangular party consisted of the Smasher, in an +elegant and simple morning costume, consisting of tight trousers of +Stuart plaid, an orange-coloured necktie, a blue checked waistcoat, +and shirt-sleeves. The Smasher looked upon a coat as an essentially +outdoor garment, and would no more have invested himself in it to eat +his breakfast than he would have partaken of that refreshment with his +hat on, or an umbrella up. The two other gentlemen were Mr. Darley, +and his chief, Mr. Peters, who had a little document in his pocket +signed by a Lancashire magistrate, on which he set considerable value. +They had come across to Liverpool as directed by the telegraph, and +had there met with the Smasher, who had received letters for them +from London with the details of the escape, and orders to be on the +look-out for Peters and Gus. Since the arrival of these two, the trio +had led a sufficiently idle and apparently purposeless life. They had +engaged an apartment overlooking the quay, in the window of which they +were seated for the best part of the day, playing the intellectual +and exciting game of all-fours. There did not seem much in this to +forward the cause of Richard Marwood. It is true that Mr. Peters was +wont to vanish from the room every now and then, in order to speak to +mysterious and grave-looking gentlemen, who commanded respect wherever +they went, and before whom the most daring thief in Liverpool shrank +as before Mr. Calcraft himself. He held strange conferences with them +in corners of the hostelry in which the trio had taken up their abode; +he went out with them, and hovered about the quays and the shipping; he +prowled about in the dusk of the evening, and meeting these gentlemen +also prowling in the uncertain light, would sometimes salute them as +friends and brothers, at other times be entirely unacquainted with +them, and now and then interchange two or three hurried gestures with +them, which the close observer would have perceived to mean a great +deal. Beyond this, nothing had been done--and, in spite of all this, +no tidings could be obtained of the Count de Marolles, except that no +person answering to his description had left Liverpool either by land +or water. Still, neither Mr. Peters’s spirits nor patience failed him; +and after every interview held upon the stairs or in the passage, after +every excursion to the quays or the streets, he returned as briskly +as on the first day, and reseated himself at the little table by the +window, at which his colleagues--or rather his companions, for neither +Mr. Darley nor the Smasher were of the smallest use to him--played, and +took it in turns to ruin each other from morning till night. The real +truth of the matter was, that, if anything, the detective’s so-called +assistants were decidedly in his way; but Augustus Darley, having +distinguished himself in the escape from the asylum, considered himself +an amateur Vidocque; and the Smasher, from the moment of putting in +his left, and unconsciously advancing the cause of Richard and justice +by extinguishing the Count de Marolles, had panted to write his +name, or rather make his mark, upon the scroll of fame, by arresting +that gentleman in his own proper person, and without any extraneous +aid whatever. It was rather hard for him, then, to have to resign +the prospect of such a glorious adventure to a man of Mr. Peters’s +inches; but he was of a calm and amiable disposition, and would floor +his adversary with as much good temper as he would eat his favourite +dinner; so, with a growl of resignation, he abandoned the reins to +the steady hands so used to hold them, and seated himself down to the +consumption of innumerable clay pipes and glasses of bitter ale with +Gus, who, being one of the most ancient of the order of the Cherokees, +was an especial favourite with him. + +On this third morning, however, there is a decided tone of weariness +pervading the minds of both Gus and the Smasher. Three-handed +all-fours, though a delicious and exciting game, will pall upon the +inconstant mind, especially when your third player is perpetually +summoned from the table to take part in a mysterious dialogue +with a person or persons unknown, the result of which he declines +to communicate to you. The view from the bow-window of the blue +parlour in the White Lion, Liverpool, is no doubt as animated as it +is beautiful; but Rasselas, we know, got tired of some very pretty +scenery, and there have been readers so inconstant as to grow weary +of Dr. Johnson’s book, and to go down peacefully to their graves +unacquainted with the climax thereof. So it is scarcely perhaps to +be wondered that the volatile Augustus thirsted for the waterworks +of Blackfriars; while the Smasher, feeling himself to be blushing +unseen, and wasting his stamina, if not his sweetness, on the desert +air, pined for the familiar shades of Bow Street and Vinegar Yard, +and the home-sounds of the rumbling and jingling of the wagons, and +the unpolite language of the drivers thereof, on market mornings +in the adjacent market. Pleasures and palaces are all very well in +their way, as the song says; but there is just one little spot on +earth which, whether it be a garret in Petticoat Lane or a mansion in +Belgrave Square, is apt to be dearer to us than the best of them; and +the Smasher languishes for the friendly touch of the ebony handles of +the porter-engine, and the scent of the Welsh rarebits of his youth. +Perhaps I express myself in a more romantic manner on this subject, +however, than I should do, for the remark of the Left-handed one, as +he pours himself out a cup of tea from the top of the tea-pot--he +despises the spout of that vessel as a modern innovation on ancient +simplicity--is as simple as it is energetic. He merely observes that +he is “jolly sick of this lot,”--this lot meaning Liverpool, the Count +de Marolles, the White Lion, three-handed all-fours, and the detective +police force. + +“There was nobody ill in Friar Street when I left,” said Gus +mournfully; “but there had been a run upon Pimperneckel’s Universal +Regenerator Pills: and if that don’t make business a little brisker, +nothing will.” + +“It’s my opinion,” observed the Smasher doggedly, “that this ’ere +forrin’ cove has give us the slip out and out; and the sooner we gets +back to London the better. I never was much of a hand at chasing wild +geese, and”--he added, with rather a spiteful glance at the mild +countenance of the detective--“I don’t see neither that standin’ and +makin’ signs to parties unbeknown at street-corners and stair-heads is +the quickest way to catch them sort of birds; leastways it’s not the +opinion held by the gents belongin’ to the Ring as I’ve had the honour +to make acquaintance with.” + +“Suppose----” said Mr. Peters, on his fingers. + +“Oh!” muttered the Smasher, “blow them fingers of his. I can’t +understand ’em--there!” The left-handed Hercules knew that this was to +attack the detective on his tenderest point. “Blest if I ever knows +his _p_’s from his _b_’s, or his _w_’s from his _x_’s, let alone his +vowels, and them would puzzle a conjuror.” + +Mr. Peters glanced at the prize-fighter more in sorrow than in anger, +and taking out a greasy little pocket-book, and a greasier little +pencil, considerably the worse for having been vehemently chewed in +moments of preoccupation, he wrote upon a leaf of it thus--“Suppose we +catch him to-day?” + +“Ah, very true,” said the Smasher sulkily, after he had examined the +document in two or three different lights before he came upon its full +bearings; “very true, indeed, suppose we do--and suppose we don’t, on +the other hand; and I know which is the likeliest. Suppose, Mr. Peters, +we give up lookin’ for a needle in a bundle of hay, which after a time +gets tryin’ to a lively disposition, and go back to our businesses. If +you had a girl as didn’t know British from best French a-servin’ of +_your_ customers,” he continued in an injured tone, “_you’d_ +be anxious to get home, and let your forring counts go to the devil +their own ways.” + +“Then go,” Mr. Peters wrote, in large letters and no capitals. + +“Oh, ah; yes, to be sure,” replied the Smasher, who, I regret to say, +felt painfully, in his absence from domestic pleasures, the want of +somebody to quarrel with; “No, I thank you! Go the very day as you’re +going to catch him! Not if I’m in any manner aware of the circumstance. +I’m obliged to you,” he added, with satirical emphasis. + +“Come, I say, old boy,” interposed Gus, who had been quietly doing +execution upon a plate of devilled kidneys during this little friendly +altercation, “come, I say, no snarling, Smasher, Peters isn’t going to +contest the belt with you, you know.” + +“You needn’t be a-diggin’ at me because I ain’t champion,” said the +ornament of the P.R., who was inclined to find a malicious meaning in +every word uttered that morning; “you needn’t come any of your sneers +because I ain’t got the belt any longer.” + +The Smasher had been Champion of England in his youth, but had retired +upon his laurels for many years, and only occasionally emerged from +private life in a public-house to take a round or two with some old +opponent. + +“I tell you what it is, Smasher--it’s my opinion the air of Liverpool +don’t suit your constitution,” said Gus. “We’ve promised to stand by +Peters here, and to go by his word in everything, for the sake of the +man we want to serve; and, however trying it may be to our patience +doing nothing, which perhaps is about as much as we can do and make no +mistakes, the first that gets tired and deserts the ship will be no +friend to Richard Marwood.” + +“I’m a bad lot, Mr. Darley, and that’s the truth,” said the mollified +Smasher; “but the fact is, I’m used to a turn with the gloves every +morning before breakfast with the barman, and when I don’t get it, I +dare say I ain’t the pleasantest company goin’. I should think they’ve +got gloves in the house: would you mind taking off your coat and +having a turn--friendly like?” + +Gus assured the Smasher that nothing would please him better than that +trifling diversion; and in five minutes they had pushed Mr. Peters and +the breakfast-table into a corner, and were hard at it, Mr. Darley’s +knowledge of the art being all required to keep the slightest pace with +the scientific movements of the agile though elderly Smasher. + +Mr. Peters did not stay at the breakfast-table long, but after having +drunk a huge breakfast cupful of very opaque and substantial-looking +coffee at a draught, just as if it had been half a pint of beer, he +slid quietly out of the room. + +“It’s my opinion,” said the Smasher, as he stood, or rather lounged, +upon his guard, and warded off the most elaborate combinations of Mr. +Darley’s fists with as much ease as he would have brushed aside so many +flies--“it’s my opinion that chap ain’t up to his business.” + +“Isn’t he?” replied Gus, as he threw down the gloves in despair, after +having been half an hour in a violent perspiration, without having +succeeded in so much as rumpling the Smasher’s hair. “Isn’t he?” he +said, choosing the interrogative as the most expressive form of speech. +“That man’s got head enough to be prime minister, and carry the House +along with every twist of his fingers.” + +“He must make his p’s and b’s a little plainer afore he’ll get a bill +through the Commons though,” muttered the Left-handed one, who couldn’t +quite get over his feelings of injury against the detective for the +utter darkness in which he had been kept for the last three days as to +the other’s plans. + +The Smasher and Mr. Darley passed the morning in that remarkably +intellectual and praiseworthy manner peculiar to gentlemen who, being +thrown out of their usual occupation, are cast upon their own resources +for amusement and employment. There was the daily paper to be looked +at, to begin with; but after Gus had glanced at the leading article, +a _rifacimento_ of the _Times_ leader of the day before, +garnished with some local allusions, and highly spiced with satirical +remarks _apropos_ to our spirited contemporary the _Liverpool +Aristides_; after the Smasher had looked at the racing fixtures +for the coming week, and made rude observations on the editing of a +journal which failed to describe the coming off of the event between +Silver-polled Robert and the Chester Crusher--after, I say, the two +gentlemen had each devoured his favourite page, the paper was an utter +failure in the matter of excitement, and the window was the next best +thing. Now to the peculiarly constituted mind of the Left-handed one, +looking out of a window was in itself very slow work; and unless he was +allowed to eject missiles of a trifling but annoying character--such +as hot ashes out of his pipe, the last drop of his pint of beer, +the dirty water out of the saucers belonging to the flower-pots on +the window-sill, or lighted lucifer-matches--into the eyes of the +unoffending passers-by, he didn’t, to use his own forcible remark, +“seem to see the fun of it.” Harmless old gentlemen with umbrellas, +mild elderly ladies with hand-baskets and brass-handled green-silk +parasols, and young ladies of from ten to twelve going to school in +clean frocks, and on particularly good terms with themselves, the +Smasher looked upon as his peculiar prey. To put his head out of the +window and make tender and polite inquiries about their maternal +parents; to go further still, and express an earnest wish to be +informed of those parents’ domestic arrangements, and whether they +had been induced to part with a piece of machinery of some importance +in the getting up of linen; to insinuate alarming suggestions of +mad bulls in the next street, or a tiger just broke loose from the +Zoological Gardens; to terrify the youthful scholar by asking him +derisively whether he wouldn’t “catch it when he got to school? Oh, +no, not at all, neither!” and to draw his head away suddenly, and +altogether disappear from public view; to act, in fact, after the +manner of an accomplished clown in a Christmas pantomime, was the +weak delight of his manly mind: and when prevented by Mr. Darley’s +friendly remonstrance from doing this, the Smasher abandoned the window +altogether, and concentrated all the powers of his intellect on the +pursuit of a lively young bluebottle, which eluded his bandanna at +every turn, and bumped itself violently against the window-panes at the +very moment its pursuer was looking for it up the chimney. + +Time and the hour made very long work of this particular morning, and +several glasses of bitter had been called for, and numerous games +of cribbage had been played by the two companions, when Mr. Darley, +looking at his watch for not more than the twenty-second time in the +last hour, announced with some satisfaction that it was half-past two +o’clock, and that it was consequently very near dinner-time. + +“Peters is a long time gone,” suggested the Smasher. + +“Take my word for it,” said Gus, “something has turned up; he has laid +his hand upon De Marolles at last.” + +“I don’t think it,” replied his ally, obstinately refusing to believe +in Mr. Peters’s extra share of the divine afflatus; “and if he did +come across him, how’s he to detain him, I’d like to know? _He_ +couldn’t go in with _his_ left,” he muttered derisively, “and +split his head open upon the pavement to keep him quiet for a day or +two.” + +At this very moment there came a tap at the door, and a youthful person +in corduroy and a perspiration entered the room, with a very small +and very dirty piece of paper twisted up into a bad imitation of a +three-cornered note. + +“Please, you was to give me sixpence if I run all the way,” remarked +the youthful Mercury, “an’ I ’ave: look at my forehead;” and, in proof +of his fidelity, the messenger pointed to the water-drops which chased +each other down his open brow and ran a dead heat to the end of his +nose. + +The scrawl ran thus--“The _Washington_ sails at three for New +York: be on the quay and see the passengers embark: don’t notice me +unless I notice you. Yours truly ---- ----” + +“It was just give me by a gent in a hurry wot was dumb, and wrote upon +a piece of paper to tell me to run my legs off so as you should have it +quick--thank you kindly, sir, and good afternoon,” said the messenger, +all in one breath, as he bowed his gratitude for the shilling Gus +tossed him as he dismissed him. + +“I said so,” cried the young surgeon, as the Smasher applied himself +to the note with quite as much, nay, perhaps more earnestness and +solemnity than Chevalier Bunsen might have assumed when he deciphered +a half-erased and illegible inscription, in a language which for some +two thousand years has been unknown to mortal man. “I said so; Peters +is on the scent, and this man will be taken yet. Put on your hat, +Smasher, and let’s lose no time; it only wants a quarter to three, and +I wouldn’t be out of this for a great deal.” + +“I shouldn’t much relish being out of the fun either,” replied his +companion; “and if it comes to blows, perhaps it’s just as well I +haven’t had my dinner.” + +There were a good many people going by the _Washington_, and +the deck of the small steamer which was to convey them on board the +great ship, where she lay in graceful majesty down the noble Mersey +river, was crowded with every species of luggage it was possible +to imagine as appertaining to the widest varieties of the genus +traveller. There was the maiden lady, with a small income from the +three-per-cents, and a determination of blood to the tip of a sharp +nose, going out to join a married brother in New York, and evidently +intent upon importing a gigantic brass cage, containing a parrot in +the last stage of bald-headedness--politely called moulting; and a +limp and wandering-minded umbrella--weak in the ribs, and further +afflicted with a painfully sharp ferrule, which always appeared +where it was not expected, and evidently hankered wildly after the +bystanders’ backbones--as favourable specimens of the progress of the +fine arts in the mother country. There were several of those brilliant +birds-of-passage popularly known as “travellers,” whose heavy luggage +consisted of a carpet-bag and walking-stick, and whose light ditto +was composed of a pocket-book and a silver pencil-case of protean +construction, which was sometimes a pen, now and then a penknife, +and very often a toothpick. These gentlemen came down to the steamer +at the last moment, inspiring the minds of nervous passengers with +supernatural and convulsive cheerfulness by the light and airy way +in which they bade adieu to the comrades who had just looked round +to see them start, and who made appointments with them for Christmas +supper-parties, and booked bets with them for next year’s Newmarket +first spring--as if such things as shipwreck, peril by sea, heeling +over _Royal Georges_, lost _Presidents_, with brilliant Irish +comedians setting forth on their return to the land in which they had +been so beloved and admired, never, never to reach the shore, were +things that could not be. There were rosy-cheeked country lasses, going +over to earn fabulous wages and marry impossibly rich husbands. There +were the old people, who essayed this long journey on an element which +they knew only by sight, in answer to the kind son’s noble letter, +inviting them to come and share the pleasant home his sturdy arm had +won far away in the fertile West. There were stout Irish labourers +armed with pickaxe and spade, as with the best sword wherewith to open +the great oyster of the world in these latter degenerate days. There +was the distinguished American family, with ever so many handsomely +dressed, spoiled, affectionate children clustering round papa and +mamma, and having their own way, after the manner of transatlantic +youth. There were, in short, all the people who usually assemble when +a good ship sets sail for the land of dear brother Jonathan; but the +Count de Marolles there was not. + +No, decidedly, no Count de Marolles! There was a very quiet-looking +Irish labourer, keeping quite aloof from the rest of his kind, who were +sufficiently noisy and more than sufficiently forcible in the idiomatic +portions of their conversation. There was this very quiet Irishman, +leaning on his spade and pickaxe, and evidently bent on not going on +board till the very last moment; and there was an elderly gentleman in +a black coat, who looked rather like a Methodist parson, and who held a +very small carpet-bag in his hand; but there was no Count de Marolles; +and what’s more, there was no Mr. Peters. + +This latter circumstance made Augustus Darley very uneasy; but I regret +to say that the Smasher wore, if anything, a look of triumph as the +hands of the clocks about the quay pointed to three o’clock, and no +Peters appeared. + +“I knowed,” he said, with effusion--“I knowed that cove wasn’t up to +his business. I wouldn’t mind bettin’ the goodwill of my little crib in +London agen sixpen’orth of coppers, that he’s a-standin’ at this very +individual moment of time at a street-corner a mile off, makin’ signs +to one of the Liverpool police-officers.” + +The gentleman in the black coat standing before them turned round +on hearing this remark, and smiled--smiled very very faintly; but he +certainly did smile. The Smasher’s blood, which was something like that +of Lancaster, and distinguished for its tendency to mount, was up in a +moment. + +“I hope you find my conversation amusin’, old gent,” he said, with +considerable asperity; “I came down here on purpose to put you in +spirits, on account of bein’ grieved to see you always a-lookin’ as +if you’d just come home from your own funeral, and the undertaker was +a-dunnin’ you for the burial-fees.” + +Gus trod heavily on his companion’s foot as a friendly hint to him not +to get up a demonstration; and addressing the gentleman, who appeared +in no hurry to resent the Smasher’s contemptuous animadversions, asked +him when he thought the boat would start. + +“Not for five or ten minutes, I dare say,” he answered. “Look there; is +that a coffin they’re bringing this way? I’m rather short-sighted; be +good enough to tell me if it is a coffin?” + +The Smasher, who had the glance of an eagle, replied that it decidedly +was a coffin; adding, with a growl, that he knowed somebody as might be +in it, and no harm done to society. + +The elderly gentleman took not the slightest notice of this gratuitous +piece of information on the part of the left-handed gladiator; but +suddenly busied himself with his fingers in the neighbourhood of his +limp white cravat. + +“Why, I’m blest,” cried the Smasher, “if the old baby ain’t at Peters’s +game, a-talkin’ to nobody upon his fingers!” + +Nay, most distinguished professor of the noble art of self-defence, +is not that assertion a little premature? Talking on his fingers, +certainly--looking at nobody, certainly; but for all that, talking to +somebody, and to a somebody who is looking at him; for, from the other +side of the little crowd, the Irish labourer fixes his eyes intently on +every movement of the grave elderly gentleman’s fingers, as they run +through four or five rapid words; and Gus Darley, perceiving this look, +starts in amazement, for the eyes of the Irish labourer are the eyes of +Mr. Peters of the detective police. + +But neither the Smasher nor Gus is to notice Mr. Peters unless Mr. +Peters notices them. It is so expressed in the note, which Mr. Darley +has at that very moment in his waistcoat pocket. So Gus gives his +companion a nudge, and directs his attention to the smock-frock and +the slouched hat in which the detective has hidden himself, with a +hurried injunction to him to keep quiet. We are human at the best; ay, +even when we are celebrated for our genius in the muscular science, +and our well-known blow of the left-handed postman’s knock, or double +auctioneer: and, if the sober truth must be told, the Smasher was +sorry to recognize Mr. Peters in that borrowed garb. He didn’t want +the dumb detective to arrest the Count de Marolles. He had never read +Coriolanus, neither had he seen _the_ Roman, Mr. William Macready, +in that character; but, for all that, the Smasher wanted to go home to +the dear purlieus of Drury Lane, and say to his astonished admirers, +“Alone I did it!” And lo, here were Mr. Peters and the elderly stranger +both entered for the same event. + +While gloomy and vengeful thoughts, therefore, troubled the manly +breast of the Vinegar-Yard gladiator, four men approached, bearing +on their shoulders the coffin which had so aroused the stranger’s +attention. They bore it on board the steamer, and a few moments after +a gentlemanly and cheerful-looking man, of about forty, stepped across +the narrow platform, and occupied himself with a crowd of packages, +which stood in a heap, apart from the rest of the luggage on the +crowded deck. + +Again the elderly stranger’s fingers were busy in the region of his +cravat. The superficial observer would have merely thought him very +fidgety about the limp bit of muslin; but this time the fingers of Mr. +Peters telegraphed an answer. + +“Gentlemen,” said the stranger, addressing Mr. Darley and the Smasher +in the most matter-of-fact manner, “you will be good enough to go +on board that steamer with me? I am working with Mr. Peters in this +affair. Remember, I am going to America by that vessel yonder, and you +are my friends come with me to see me off. Now, gentlemen.” + +He has no time to say any more, for the bell rings; and the last +stragglers, the people who will enjoy the latest available moment on +_terra firma_, scramble on board; amongst them the Smasher, Gus, +and the stranger, who stick very closely together. + +The coffin has been placed in the centre of the vessel, on the top of a +pile of chests, and its gloomy black outline is sharply defined against +the clear blue autumn sky. Now there is a general feeling amongst the +passengers that the presence of this coffin is a peculiar injury to +them. + +It is unpleasant, certainly. From the very moment of its appearance +amongst them a change has come over the spirits of every one of the +travellers. They try to keep away from it, but they try in vain; +there is a dismal fascination in the defined and ghastly shape, which +all the rough wrappers that can be thrown over it will not conceal. +They find their eyes wandering to it, in preference even to watching +receding Liverpool, whose steeples and tall chimneys are dipping down +and down into the blue water, and will soon disappear altogether. They +are interested in it in spite of themselves; they ask questions of one +another; they ask questions of the engineer, and of the steward, and of +the captain of the steamer, but can elicit nothing--except that lying +in that coffin, so close to them, and yet so very very far away from +them, there is an American gentleman of some distinction, who, having +died suddenly in England, is being carried back to New York, to be +buried amongst his friends in that city. The aggrieved passengers for +the _Washington_ think it very hard upon them that the American +gentleman of distinction--they remember that he _is_ a gentleman +of distinction, and modify their tone accordingly--could not have +been buried in England like a reasonable being. The British dominions +were not good enough for _him_, they supposed. Other passengers, +pushing the question still further, ask whether he couldn’t have been +taken home by some other vessel; nay, whether indeed he ought not to +have had a ship all to himself, instead of harrowing the feelings and +preying upon the spirits of first-class passengers. They look almost +spitefully, as they make these remarks, towards the shrouded coffin, +which, to their great aggravation, is not entirely shrouded by the +wrappers about it. One corner has been left uncovered, revealing the +stout rough oak; for it is only a temporary coffin, and the gentleman +of distinction will be put into something better befitting his rank +when he arrives at his destination. It is to be observed, and it is +observed by many, that the cheerful passenger in fashionable mourning, +and with the last greatcoat which the inspiration of Saville Row has +given to the London world thrown over his arm, hovers in a protecting +manner about the coffin, and evinces a fidelity which, but for his +perfectly cheerful countenance and self-possessed manner, would be +really touching, towards the late American gentleman of distinction, +whom he has for his only travelling companion. + +Now, though a great many questions had been asked on all sides, +one question especially, namely, whether _it_--people always +dropped their voices when they pronounced that small pronoun--whether +_it_ would not be put in the hold as soon as they got on board the +_Washington_, the answer to which question was an affirmative, +and gave considerable satisfaction--except indeed to one moody old +gentleman, who asked, “How about getting any little thing one happened +to want on the journey out of the hold?” and was very properly snubbed +for the suggestion, and told that passengers had no business to want +things out of the hold on the voyage; and furthermore insulted by the +liveliest of the lively travellers, who suggested, in an audible aside, +that perhaps the old gentleman had only one clean shirt, and had put +that at the bottom of his travelling chest,--now, though, I say, so +many questions had been asked, no one had as yet presumed to address +the cheerful-looking gentleman convoying the American of distinction +home to his friends, though this very gentleman might, after all, be +naturally supposed to know more than anybody else about the subject. He +was smoking a cigar, and though he kept very close to the coffin, he +was about the only person on board who did not look at it, but kept +his gaze fixed on the fading town of Liverpool. The Smasher, Gus, and +Mr. Peters’s unknown ally stood very close to this gentleman, while the +detective himself leant over the side of the vessel, near to, though a +little apart from, the Irish labourers and rosy-cheeked country girls, +who, as steerage passengers, very properly herded together, and did not +attempt to contaminate by their presence the minds or the garments of +those superior beings who were to occupy state-cabins six feet long by +three feet wide, and to have green peas and new milk from the cow all +the way out. Presently, the elderly gentleman of rather shabby-genteel +but clerical appearance, who had so briefly introduced himself to Gus +and the Smasher, made some remarks about the town of Liverpool to the +cheerful friend of the late distinguished American. + +The cheerful friend took his cigar out of his mouth, smiled, and said, +“Yes; it’s a thriving town, a small London, really--the metropolis in +miniature.” + +“You know Liverpool very well?” asked the Smasher’s companion. + +“No, not very well; in point of fact, I know very little of England at +all. My visit has been a brief one.” + +He is evidently an American from this remark, though there is very +little of brother Jonathan in his manner. + +“Your visit has been a brief one? Indeed. And it has had a very +melancholy termination, I regret to perceive,” said the persevering +stranger, on whose every word the Smasher and Mr. Darley hung +respectfully. + +“A very melancholy termination,” replied the gentleman, with the +sweetest smile. “My poor friend had hoped to return to the bosom of +his family, and delight them many an evening round the cheerful hearth +by the recital of his adventures in, and impressions of, the mother +country. You cannot imagine,” he continued, speaking very slowly, +and as he spoke, allowing his eyes to wander from the stranger to +the Smasher, and from the Smasher to Gus, with a glance which, if +anything, had the slightest shade of anxiety in it; “you cannot imagine +the interest we on the other side of the Atlantic take in everything +that occurs in the mother country. We may be great over there--we +may be rich over there--we may be universally beloved and respected +over there,--but I doubt--I really, after all, doubt,” he said +sentimentally, “whether we are truly happy. We sigh for the wings of a +dove, or to speak practically, for our travelling expenses, that we may +come over here and be at rest.” + +“And yet I conclude it was the especial wish of your late friend to be +buried over there?” asked the stranger. + +“It was--his dying wish.” + +“And the melancholy duty of complying with that wish devolved on you?” +said the stranger, with a degree of puerile curiosity and frivolous +interest in an affair entirely irrelevant to the matter in hand which +bewildered Gus, and at which the Smasher palpably turned up his nose; +muttering to himself at the same time that the forrin swell would have +time to get to America while they was a-palaverin’ and a-jawin’ this +’ere humbug. + +“Yes, it devolved on me,” replied the cheerful gentleman, offering his +cigar-case to the three friends, who declined the proffered weeds. +“We were connections; his mother’s half-sister married my second +cousin--not very nearly connected certainly, but extremely attached to +each other. It will be a melancholy satisfaction to his poor widow to +see his ashes entombed upon his native shore, and the thought of that +repays me threefold for anything I may suffer.” + +He looked altogether far too airy and charming a creature to suffer +very much; but the stranger bowed gravely, and Gus, looking towards +the prow of the vessel, perceived the earnest eyes of Mr. Peters +attentively fixed on the little group. + +As to the Smasher, he was so utterly disgusted with the stranger’s +manner of doing business, that he abandoned himself to his own thoughts +and hummed a tune--the tune appertaining to what is generally called +a comic song, being the last passages in the life of a humble and +unfortunate member of the working classes as related by himself. + +While talking to the cheerful gentleman on this very melancholy +subject, the stranger from Liverpool happened to get quite close to the +coffin, and, with an admirable freedom from prejudice which astonished +the other passengers standing near, rested his hand carelessly on the +stout oaken lid, just at that corner where the canvas left it exposed. +It was a most speaking proof of the almost overstrained feeling of +devotion possessed by the cheerful gentleman towards his late friend +that this trifling action seemed to disturb him; his eyes wandered +uneasily towards the stranger’s black-gloved hand, and at last, when, +in absence of mind, the stranger actually drew the heavy covering +completely over this corner of the coffin, his uneasiness reached a +climax, and drawing the dingy drapery hurriedly back, he rearranged it +in its old fashion. + +“Don’t you wish the coffin to be entirely covered?” asked the stranger +quietly. + +“Yes--no; that is,” said the cheerful gentleman, with some +embarrassment in his tone, “that is--I--you see there is something of +profanity in a stranger’s hand approaching the remains of those we +love.” + +“Suppose, then,” said his interlocutor, “we take a turn about the deck? +This neighbourhood must be very painful to you.” + +“On the contrary,” replied the cheerful gentleman, “you will think me, +I dare say, a very singular person, but I prefer remaining by him to +the last. The coffin will be put in the hold as soon as we get on board +the _Washington_; then my duty will have been accomplished and my +mind will be at rest. You go to New York with us?” he asked. + +“I shall have that pleasure,” replied the stranger. + +“And your friend--your sporting friend?” asked the gentleman, with +a rather supercilious glance at the many-coloured raiment and +mottled-soap complexion of the Smasher, who was still singing _sotto +voce_ the above-mentioned melody, with his arms folded on the rail +of the bench on which he was seated, and his chin resting moodily on +his coat-sleeves. + +“No,” replied the stranger; “my friends, I regret to say, leave me as +soon as we get on board.” + +In a few minutes more they reached the side of the brave ship, which, +from the Liverpool quay, had looked a whitewinged speck not a bit too +big for Queen Mab; but which was, oh, such a Leviathan of a vessel +when you stood just under her, and had to go up her side by means of a +ladder--which ladder seemed to be subject to shivering fits, and struck +terror into the nervous lady and the bald-headed parrot. + +All the passengers, except the cheerful gentleman with the coffin and +the stranger--with Gus and the Smasher and Mr. Peters loitering in +the background--seemed bent on getting up each before the other, and +considerably increased the confusion by evincing this wish in a candid +but not conciliating manner, showing a degree of ill-feeling which was +much increased by the passengers that had not got on board looking +daggers at the passengers that had got on board, and seemed settled +quite comfortably high and dry upon the stately deck. At last, however, +every one but the aforesaid group had ascended the ladder. Some stout +sailors were preparing great ropes wherewith to haul up the coffin, +and the cheerful gentleman was busily directing them, when the captain +of the steamer said to the stranger from Liverpool, as he loitered at +the bottom of the ladder, with Mr. Peters at his elbow,--“Now then, +sir, if you’re for the _Washington_, quick’s the word. We’re off +as soon as ever they’ve got that job over,” pointing to the coffin. +The stranger from Liverpool, instead of complying with this very +natural request, whispered a few words into the ear of the captain, who +looked very grave on hearing them, and then, advancing to the cheerful +gentleman, who was very anxious and very uneasy about the manner in +which the coffin was to be hauled up the side of the vessel, he laid a +heavy hand upon his shoulder, and said,--“I want the lid of that coffin +taken off before those men haul it up.” + +Such a change came over the face of the cheerful gentleman as only +comes over the face of a man who knows that he is playing a desperate +game, and knows as surely that he has lost it. “My good sir,” he said, +“you’re mad. Not for the Queen of England would I see that coffin-lid +unscrewed.” + +“I don’t think it will give us so much trouble as that,” said the other +quietly. “I very much doubt it’s being screwed down at all. You were +greatly alarmed just now, lest the person within should be smothered. +You were terribly frightened when I drew the heavy canvas over those +incisions in the oak,” he added, pointing to the lid, in the corner of +which two or three cracks were apparent to the close observer. + +“Good Heavens! the man is mad!” cried the gentleman, whose manner had +entirely lost its airiness. “The man is evidently a maniac! This is too +dreadful! Is the sanctity of death to be profaned in this manner? Are +we to cross the Atlantic in the company of a madman?” + +“You are not to cross the Atlantic at all just yet,” said the Liverpool +stranger. “The man is not mad, I assure you, but he is one of the +principal members of the Liverpool detective police force, and is +empowered to arrest a person who is supposed to be on board this boat. +There is only one place in which that person can be concealed. Here +is my warrant to arrest Jabez North, _alias_ Raymond Marolles, +_alias_ the Count de Marolles. I know as certainly as that I +myself stand here that he lies hidden in that coffin, and I desire +that the lid may be removed. If I am mistaken, it can be immediately +replaced, and I shall be ready to render you my most fervent apologies +for having profaned the repose of the dead. Now, Peters!” + +The dumb detective went to one end of the coffin, while his colleague +stood at the other. The Liverpool officer was correct in his +supposition. The lid was only secured by two or three long stout +nails, and gave way in three minutes. The two detectives lifted it off +the coffin--and there, hot, flushed, and panting, half-suffocated, +with desperation in his wicked blue eyes, his teeth locked in furious +rage at his utter powerlessness to escape from the grasp of his +pursuers--there, run to earth at last, lay the accomplished Raymond, +Count de Marolles! + +They put the handcuffs on him before they lifted him out of the coffin, +the Smasher assisting. Years after, when the Smasher grew to be an +older and graver man, he used to tell to admiring and awe-stricken +customers the story of this arrest. But it is to be observed that his +memory on these occasions was wont to play him false, for he omitted to +mention either the Liverpool detective or our good friend Mr. Peters +as taking any part in the capture; but described the whole affair as +conducted by himself alone, with an incalculable number of “I says,” +and “so then I thinks,” and “well, what do I do next?” and other +phrases of the same description. + +The Count de Marolles, with tumbled hair, and a white face and blue +lips, sitting handcuffed upon the bench of the steamer between the +Liverpool detective and Mr. Peters, steaming back to Liverpool, was +a sight not good to look upon. The cheerful gentleman sat with the +Smasher and Mr. Darley, who had been told to keep an eye upon him, and +who--the Smasher especially--kept both eyes upon him with a will. + +Throughout the little voyage there were no words spoken but these +from the Liverpool detective, as he first put the fetters on the +white and slender wrists of his prisoner: “Monsieur de Marolles,” he +said, “you’ve tried this little game once before. This is the second +occasion, I understand, on which you’ve done a sham die. I’d have you +beware of the third time. According to superstitious people, it’s +generally fatal.” + + + + + CHAPTER VI. + + THE END OF THE DARK ROAD. + + +ONCE more Slopperton-on-the-Sloshy rang with a subject dismissed from +the public mind eight years ago, and now revived with a great deal +more excitement and discussion than ever. That subject was, the murder +of Mr. Montague Harding. All Slopperton made itself into one voice, +and spoke but upon one theme--the pending trial of another man for +that very crime of which Richard Marwood had been found guilty years +ago--Richard, who, according to report, had died in an attempt to +escape from the county asylum. + +Very little was known of the criminal, but a great deal was +conjectured; a great deal more was invented; and ultimately, most +conflicting reports were spread abroad by the citizens of Slopperton, +every one of whom had his particular account of the seizure of De +Marolles, and every one of whom stood to his view of the case with a +pertinacity and fortitude worthy of a better cause. Thus, if you went +into High Street, entering that thoroughfare from the Market-place, +you would hear how this De Marolles was a French nobleman, who had +crossed the Channel in an open boat on the night of the murder, walked +from Dover to Slopperton--(not above two hundred miles by the shortest +cut)--and gone back to Calais in the same manner. If, staggered by +the slight discrepancies of time and place in this account of the +transaction, you pursued your inquiries a little further down the +same street, you would very likely be told that De Marolles was no +Frenchman at all, but the son of a clergyman in the next county, whose +unfortunate mother was at that moment on her knees in the throne-room +at Buckingham Palace, soliciting his pardon on account of his +connection with the clerical interest. If this story struck you as more +romantic than probable, you had only to turn the corner into Little +Market Street--(rather a low neighbourhood, and chiefly inhabited by +butchers and the tripe and cow-heel trade)--and you might sup full +of horrors, the denizens of this locality labouring under the fixed +conviction that the prisoner then lying in Slopperton gaol was neither +more nor less than a distinguished burglar, long the scourge of the +united kingdoms of Great Britain and Ireland, and guilty of outrages +and murders innumerable. + +There were others who confined themselves to animated and detailed +descriptions of the attempted escape and capture of the accused. These +congregated at street-corners, and disputed and gesticulated in little +groups, one man often dropping back from his companions, and taking a +wide berth on the pavement, to give his particular story the benefit +of illustrative action. Some stories told how the prisoner had got +half-way to America concealed in the paddle wheel of a screw steamer; +others gave an animated account of his having been found hidden in the +corner of the engine-room, where he had lain concealed for fourteen +days without either bite or sup. Others told you he had been furled up +in the foretopsail of an American man-of-war; others related how he had +made the passage in the maintop of the same vessel, only descending +in the dead of the night for his meals, and paying the captain of the +ship a quarter of a million of money for the accommodation. As to the +sums of money he had embezzled in his capacity of banker, they grew +with every hour; till at last Slopperton turned up its nose at anything +under a billion for the sum total of his plunder. + +The assizes were looked forward to with such eager expectation and +interest as never had been felt about any other assizes within the +memory of living Slopperton; and the judges and barristers on this +circuit were the envy of judges and barristers on other circuits, who +said bitterly, that no such case ever came across their way, and that +it was like Prius Q.C.’s luck to be counsel for the prosecution in such +a trial; and that if Nisi, whom the Count de Marolles had intrusted +with his defence, didn’t get him off, he, Nisi, deserved to be hung in +lieu of his client. + +It seemed a strange and awful instance of retributive justice that +Raymond Marolles, having been taken in his endeavour to escape in the +autumn of the year, had to await the spring assizes of the following +year for his trial, and had, therefore, to drag out even a longer +period in his solitary cell than Richard Marwood, the innocent victim +of circumstantial evidence, had done years before. + +Who shall dare to enter this man’s cell? Who shall dare to look +into this hardened heart? Who shall follow the dark and terrible +speculations of this perverted intellect? + +At last the time, so welcome to the free citizens of Slopperton, and +so very unwelcome to some of the denizens in the gaol, who preferred +awaiting their trial in that retreat to crossing the briny ocean for +an unlimited period as the issue of that trial--at last, the assize +time came round once more. Once more the tip-top Slopperton hotels were +bewilderingly gay with elegant young barristers and grave grey-headed +judges. Once more the criminal court was one vast sea of human heads, +rising wave on wave to the very roof; and once more every eager eye was +turned towards the dock in which stood the elegant and accomplished +Raymond, Count de Marolles, _alias_ Jabez North, sometime pauper +of the Slopperton-on-the-Sloshy Union, afterwards usher in the academy +of Dr. Tappenden, charged with the wilful murder of Montague Harding, +also of Slopperton, eight years before. + +The first point the counsel for the prosecution endeavoured to prove +to the minds of the jury was the identity of Raymond de Marolles, the +Parisian, with Jabez North, the pauper schoolboy. This hinged chiefly +upon his power to disprove the supposed death of Jabez North, in which +all Slopperton had hitherto firmly believed. Dr. Tappenden had stood +by his usher’s corpse. How, then, could that usher be alive and before +the Slopperton jury to-day? But there were plenty to certify that +here he was in the flesh--this very Jabez North, whom so many people +remembered, and had been in the habit of seeing, eight years ago. They +were ready to identify him, in spite of his dark hair and eyebrows. On +the other hand, there were some who had seen the body of the suicide, +found by Peters the detective, on the heath outside Slopperton; and +these were as ready to declare that the afore-mentioned body was the +body of Jabez North, the usher to Dr. Tappenden, and none other. But +when a rough-looking man, with a mangy fur cap in his hand, and two +greasy locks of hair carefully twisted into limp curls on either side +of his swarthy face, which curls were known to his poetically and +figuratively-disposed friends as Newgate knockers--when this man, who +gave his name to the jury as Slithery Bill--or, seeing the jury didn’t +approve of this cognomen, Bill Withers, if they liked it better--was +called into the witness-box, his evidence, sulkily and rather +despondingly given, as from one who says, “It may be my turn next,” +threw quite a new light upon the subject. + +Bill Withers was politely asked if he remembered the summer of 18--. +Yes; Mr. Withers could remember the summer of 18--; was out of work +that summer, and made the marginal remark that “them as couldn’t live +might starve or steal, for all Slopperton folks cared.” + +Was again politely asked if he remembered doing one particular job of +work that summer. + +Did remember it--made the marginal remark, “and it was a jolly queer +dodge as ever a cove had a hand in.” + +Was asked to be good enough to state what the particular job was. + +Assented to the request with a polite nod of the head, and proceeded +to smooth his Newgate knockers, and fold his arms on the ledge of the +witness-box prior to stating his case; then cleared his throat, and +commenced discursively, thus,-- + +“Vy, it vas as this ’ere--I vas out of work. I does up small gent’s +gardens in the spring, and tidies and veeds and rakes and hoes ’em a +bit, back and front, vhen I can get it to do, vich ain’t often; and +bein’ out of vork, and old Mother Thingamy, down Blind Peter, she ses +to me, vich she vas a vicked old ’ag, she ses to me, ‘I’ve got a job +for them as asks no questions, and don’t vant to be told no lies;’ by +vich remark, and the vay of her altogether, I knowed she veren’t up to +no good; so I ses, ‘You looks here, mother; if it’s a job a respectable +young man, vot’s out o’ vork, and ain’t had a bite or sup since the +day afore yesterday, can do vith a clear conscience, I’ll do it--if it +ain’t, vy I von’t. There!’” Having recorded which heroic declaration, +Mr. William Withers wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and +looked round the court, as much as to say, “Let Slopperton be proud of +such a citizen.” + +“‘Don’t you go to flurry your tender constitution and do yourself a +unrecoverable injury,’ the old cat made reply; ‘it’s a job as the +parson of the parish might do, if he’d got a truck.’ ‘A truck?’ I ses; +‘is it movin’ boxes you’re making this ’ere palaver about?’ ‘Never you +mind vether it’s boxes or vether it ain’t; vill you do it?’ she ses; +‘vill you do it, and put a sovering in your pocket, and never go for +to split, unless you vant that precious throat of yours slit some fine +evenin’?’” + +“And you consented to do what she required of you?” suggested the +counsel. + +“Vell, I don’t know about that,” replied Mr. Withers, “but I undertook +the job. ‘So,’ ses she, that’s the old ’un, she ses, ‘you bring a truck +down by that there broken buildin’ ground at the back of Blind Peter +at ten o’clock to-night, and you keep yourself quiet till you hears a +vhistle; ven you hears a vhistle,’ she ses, ‘bring your truck around +agin our front door. This here’s all _you’ve_ got to do,’ she ses, +‘besides keepin’ your tongue between your teeth.’ ‘All right,’ I ses, +and off I goes to see if there was any cove as would trust me with a +truck agen the evenin’. Vell, I finds the cove, vich, seein’ I wanted +it bad, he stood out for a bob and a tanner for the loan of it.” + +“Perhaps the jury would wish to be told what sum of money--I conclude +it is money--a bob and a tanner represent?” said the counsel. + +“They must be a jolly ignorant lot, then, anyways,” replied Mr. +Withers, with more candour than circumlocution. “Any infant knows +eighteenpence ven it’s showed him.” + +“Oh, a bob and a tanner are eighteenpence? Very good,” said the +counsel, encouragingly; “pray go on, Mr. Withers.” + +“Vell, ten o’clock come, and veren’t it a precious stormy night, that’s +all; and there I was a-vaitin’ a-sittin’ on this blessed truck at the +back of Blind Peter, vich vos my directions. At last the vhistle come, +and a precious cautious vhistle it vas too, as soft as a niteingel +vot’s payin’ its addresses to another niteingel; and round I goes to +the front, as vos my directions. There, agen’ her door, stands the old +’ag, and agen her stands a young man in an old ragged pair of trousis +an’ a shirt. Lookin’ him hard in the face, who does I see but Jim, the +old un’s grandson; so I ses, ‘Jim!’ friendly like, but he makes no +reply; and then the old un ses, ‘Lend this young gent a ‘and ’ere, vill +yer?’ So in I goes, and there on the bed I sees something rolled up +very careful in a old counterpane. It giv’ me a turn like, and I didn’t +much like the looks of it; but I ses nothink; and then the young man, +Jim, as I thinks, ses, ‘Lend us a hand with this ’ere, vill yer?’ and +it giv’d me another turn like, for though it’s Jim’s face, somehow it +ain’t quite Jim’s voice--more genteel and fine like; but I goes up to +the bed, and I takes hold of von end of vot lays there; and then I gets +turn number three--for I find my suspicions was correct--it was a dead +body!” + +“A dead body?” + +“Yes; but who’s it vos there vos no knowin’, it vos wrapped up in that +manner. But I feels myself turn dreadful vhite, and I ses, ‘If this +ere’s anythink wrong, I vashes my hands ov it, and you may do your +dirty vork yourself.’ I hadn’t got the vords out afore this ’ere young +man, as I thought at first vos Jim, caught me by the throat sudden, +and threw me down on my knee. I ain’t a baby; but, lor’, I vos nothink +in his grasp, though his hand vos as vite and as deliket as a young +lady’s. ‘Now, you just look ’ere,’ he says; and I looked, as vell as I +could, vith my eyes a-startin’ out ov of my head in cosekence of bein’ +just upon the choke, ‘you see vot this is,’ and vith his left hand he +takes a pistol out ov his pocket; ‘you refuse to do vot ve vant done, +or you go for to be noisy or in any vay ill-conwenient, and it’s the +last time as ever you’ll have the chance ov so doing. Get up,’ he says, +as if I vos a dog; and I gets up, and I agrees to do vot he vants, for +there vas that there devil in that young man’s hye, that I began to +think it vos best not to go agen him.” + +Here Mr. Withers paused for refreshment after his exertions, and +blew his nose very deliberately on a handkerchief which, from its +dilapidated condition, resembled a red cotton cabbagenet. Silence +reigned throughout the crowded court, broken only by the scratching +of the pen with which the counsel for the defence was taking notes +of the evidence, and the fluttering of the leaves of the reporters’ +pocket-books, as they threw off page after page of flimsy paper. + +The prisoner at the bar looked straight before him; the +firmly-compressed lips had never once quivered, the golden fringed +eyelashes had never drooped. + +“Can you tell me,” said the counsel for the prosecution, “whether +you have ever, since that night, seen this young man, who so closely +resembled your old friend, Jim?” + +“Never seen him since, to my knowledge”--there was a flutter in the +crowded court, as if every spectator had simultaneously drawn a long +breath--“till to-day.” + +“Till to-day?” said the counsel. This time it was more than a flutter, +it was a subdued murmur that ran through the listening crowd. + +“Be good enough to say if you can see him at this present moment.” + +“I can,” replied Mr. Withers. “That’s him! or my name ain’t vot I’ve +been led to believe it is.” And he pointed with a dirty but decided +finger at the prisoner at the bar. + +The prisoner slightly elevated his arched eyebrows superciliously, as +if he would say, “This is a pretty sort of witness to hang a man of my +standing.” + +“Be so good as to continue your story,” said the counsel. + +“Vell, I does vot he tells me, and I lays the body, vith his ’elp, on +the truck. ‘Now,’ he ses, ‘follow this ’ere old voman and do everythink +vot she tells you, or you’ll find it considerably vorse for your future +’appiness;’ vith vich he slams the door upon me, the old un, and the +truck, and I sees no more of ’im. Vell, I follows the old un through a +lot o’ lanes and back slums, till ve leaves the town behind, and gets +right out upon the ’eath; and ve crosses over the ’eath, till ve comes +to vere it’s precious lonely, yet the hedge of the pathway like; and +’ere she tells me as ve’re to leave the body, and ’ere ve shifts it +off the truck and lays it down upon the grass, vich it vas a-rainin’ +’eavens ’ard, and a-thunderin’ and a-lightnin’ like von o’clock. ‘And +now,’ she ses, ’vot you’ve got to do is to go back from vheres you come +from, and lose no time about it; and take notice,’ she ses, ‘if ever +you speaks or jabbers about this ’ere business, it’ll be the end of +your jabberin’ in this world,’ vith vitch she looks at me like a old +vitch as she vos, and points vith her skinny arm down the road. So I +valks my chalks, but I doesn’t valk ’em very far, and presently I sees +the old ’ag a-runnin’ back tovards the town as fast as ever she could +tear. ‘Ho!’ I ses, ‘you are a nice lot, you are; but I’ll see who’s +dead, in spite of you.’ So I crawls up to vere ve’d left the body, and +there it vos sure enuff, but all uncovered now, the face a-starin’ up +at the black sky, and it vos dressed, as far as I could make out, quite +like a gentleman, all in black, but it vos so jolly dark I couldn’t +see the face, vhen all of a sudden, vhile I vos a-kneelin’ down and +lookin’ at it, there comes von of the longest flashes of lightnin’ as +I ever remember, and in the blue light I sees the face plainer than I +could have seen it in the day. I thought I should have fell down all of +a heap. It vos Jim! Jim hisself, as I knowed as well as I ever knowed +myself, dead at my feet! My first thought vos as how that young man as +vos so like Jim had murdered him; but there vorn’t no marks of wiolence +novheres about the body. Now, I hadn’t in my own mind any doubts as +how it vos Jim; but still, I ses to myself, I ses, ‘Everythink seems +topsy-turvy like this night, so I’ll be sure;’ so I takes up his arm, +and turns up his coat-sleeve. Now, vy I does this is this ’ere: there +vos a young voman Jim vos uncommon fond ov, vhich her name vos Bess, +though he and many more called her, for short, Sillikens: and von day +vhen me and Jim vos at a public, ve happened to fall in vith a sailor, +vot ve’d both knowed afore he vent to sea. So he vos a-tellin’ of us +his adventures and such-like, and then he said promiscus, ‘I’ll show +you somethin’ pretty;’ and sure enuff, he slipped up the sleeve ov his +Garnsey, and there, all over his arm, vos all manner ov sort ov picters +done vith gunpowder, such as ankers, and Rule Britannias, and ships +in full sail on the backs of flyin’ alligators. So Jim takes quite a +fancy to this ’ere, and he ses, ‘I vish, Joe (the sailor’s name bein’ +Joe), I vish, Joe, as how you’d do me my young voman’s name and a +wreath of roses on my arm, like that there.’ Joe ses, ‘And so I vill, +and velcome.’ And sure enuff, a veek or two artervards, Jim comes to me +vith his arm like a picter-book, and Bess as large as life just above +the elber-joint. So I turns up his coat-sleeve, and vaits for a flash +ov lightnin’. I hasn’t to vait long, and there I reads, ‘B.E.S.S.’ +‘There ain’t no doubt now,’ I ses, ‘this ’ere’s Jim, and there’s some +willany or other in it, vot I ain’t up to.’” + +“Very good,” said the counsel; “we may want you again by-and-by, I +think, Mr. Withers; but for the present you may retire.” + +The next witness called was Dr. Tappenden, who related the +circumstances of the admission of Jabez North into his household, the +high character he had from the Board of the Slopperton Union, and the +confidence reposed in him. + +“You placed great trust, then, in this person?” asked the counsel for +the prosecution. + +“The most implicit trust,” replied the schoolmaster, “so much so, that +he was frequently employed by me to collect subscriptions for a public +charity of which I was the treasurer--the Slopperton Orphan Asylum. +I think it only right to mention this, as on one occasion it was the +cause of his calling upon the unfortunate gentleman who was murdered.” + +“Indeed! Will you be so good as to relate the circumstance?” + +“I think it was about three days before the murder, when, one morning, +at a little before twelve o’clock--that being the time at which my +pupils are dismissed from their studies for an hour’s recreation--I +said to him, ‘Mr. North, I should like you to call upon this Indian +gentleman, who is staying with Mrs. Marwood, and whose wealth is so +much talked of----’” + +“Pardon me. You said, ‘whose wealth is so much talked of.’ Can you +swear to having made that remark?” + +“I can.” + +“Pray continue,” said the counsel. + +“‘I should like you,’ I said, ‘to call upon this Mr. Harding, and +solicit his aid for the Orphan Asylum; we are sadly in want of funds. +I know, North, your heart is in the work, and you will plead the cause +of the orphans successfully. You have an hour before dinner; it is some +distance to the Black Mill, but you can walk fast there and back.’ He +went accordingly, and on his return brought a five-pound note, which +Mr. Harding had given him.” + +Dr. Tappenden proceeded to describe the circumstance of the death of +the little boy in the usher’s apartment, on the very night of the +murder. One of the servants was examined, who slept on the same floor +as North, and who said she had heard strange noises in his room that +night, but had attributed the noises to the fact of the usher sitting +up to attend upon the invalid. She was asked what were the noises she +had heard. + +“I heard some one open the window, and shut it a long while after.” + +“How long do you imagine the interval to have been between the opening +and shutting of the window?” asked the counsel. + +“About two hours,” she replied, “as far as I could guess.” + +The next witness for the prosecution was the old servant, Martha. + +“Can you remember ever having seen the prisoner at the bar?” + +The old woman put on her spectacles, and steadfastly regarded the +elegant Monsieur de Marolles, or Jabez North, as his enemies insisted +on calling him. After a very deliberate inspection of that gentleman’s +personal advantages, rather trying to the feelings of the spectators, +Mrs. Martha Jones said, rather obscurely-- + +“He had light hair then.” + +“‘He had light hair then,’ You mean, I conclude,” said the counsel, +“that at the time of your first seeing the prisoner, his hair was of a +different colour from what it is now. Supposing that he had dyed his +hair, as is not an uncommon practice, can you swear that you have seen +him before to-day?” + +“I can.” + +“On what occasion?” asked the counsel. + +“Three days before the murder of my mistress’s poor brother. I opened +the gate for him. He was very civil-spoken, and admired the garden very +much, and asked me if he might look about it a little.” + +“He asked you to allow him to look about the garden? Pray was this as +he went in, or as he went out?” + +“It was when I let him out.” + +“And how long did he stay with Mr. Harding?” + +“Not more than ten minutes. Mr. Harding was in his bedroom; he had a +cabinet in his bedroom in which he kept papers and money, and he used +to transact all his business there, and sometimes would be there till +dinner-time.” + +“Did the prisoner see him in his bedroom?” + +“He did. I showed him upstairs myself.” + +“Was anybody in the bedroom with Mr. Harding when he saw the prisoner?” + +“Only his coloured servant: he was always with him.” + +“And when you showed the prisoner out, he asked to be allowed to look +at the garden? Was he long looking about?” + +“Not more than five minutes. He looked more at the house than the +garden. I noticed him looking at Mr. Harding’s window, which is on the +first floor; he took particular notice of a very fine creeper that +grows under the window.” + +“Was the window, on the night of the murder, fastened, or not?” + +“It never was fastened. Mr. Harding always slept with his window a +little way open.” + +After Martha had been dismissed from the witness-box, the old servant +of Mr. Harding, the Lascar, who had been found living with a gentleman +in London, was duly sworn, prior to being examined. + +He remembered the prisoner at the bar, but made the same remark as +Martha had done, about the change in colour of his hair. + +“You were in the room with your late master when the prisoner called +upon him?” asked the counsel. + +“I was.” + +“Will you state what passed between the prisoner and your master?” + +“It is scarcely in my power to do so. At that time I understood no +English. My master was seated at his cabinet, looking over papers +and accounts. I fancy the prisoner asked him for money. He showed +him papers both printed and written. My master opened a pocket-book +filled with notes, the pocket-book afterwards found on his nephew, +and gave the prisoner a bank note. The prisoner appeared to make a +good impression on my late master, who talked to him in a very cordial +manner. As he was leaving the room, the prisoner made some remark about +me, and I thought from the tone of his voice, he was asking a question.” + +“You thought he was asking a question?” + +“Yes. In the Hindostanee language we have no interrogative form of +speech, we depend entirely on the inflexion of the voice; our ears are +therefore more acute than an Englishman’s. I am certain he asked my +master some questions about me.” + +“And your master----?” + +“After replying to him, turned to me, and said, ‘I am telling this +gentleman what a faithful fellow you are, Mujeebez, and how you always +sleep in my dressing-room.’” + +“You remember nothing more?” + +“Nothing more.” + +The Indian’s deposition, taken in the hospital at the time of the trial +of Richard Marwood, was then read over to him. He certified to the +truth of this deposition, and left the witness-box. + +The landlord of the Bargeman’s Delight, Mr. Darley, and Mr. Peters (the +latter by an interpreter), were examined, and the story of the quarrel +and the lost Indian coin was elicited, making considerable impression +on the jury. + +There was only one more witness for the crown, and this was a young +man, a chemist, who had been an apprentice at the time of the supposed +death of Jabez North, and who had sold to him a few days before that +supposed suicide the materials for a hair-dye. + +The counsel for the prosecution then summed up. + +It is not for us to follow him through the twistings and windings of +a very complicated mass of evidence; he had to prove the identity of +Jabez North with the prisoner at the bar, and he had to prove that +Jabez North was the murderer of Mr. Montague Harding. To the mind of +every spectator in that crowded court he succeeded in proving both. + +In vain the prisoner’s counsel examined and cross-examined the +witnesses. + +The witnesses for the defence were few. A Frenchman, who represented +himself as a Chevalier of the Legion of Honour, failed signally in an +endeavour to prove an _alibi_, and considerably damaged the defence. +Other witnesses appeared, who swore to having known the prisoner +in Paris the year of the murder. They could not say they had seen +him during the November of that year--it might have been earlier, +it might have been later. On being cross-examined, they broke down +ignominiously, and acknowledged that it might not have been that year +at all. But they _had_ known him in Paris _about_ that period. They +had always believed him to be a Frenchman. They had always understood +that his father fell at Waterloo, in the ranks of the Old Guard. On +cross-examination they all owned to having heard him at divers periods +speak English. He had, in fact, spoken it fluently, yes, even like an +Englishman. On further cross-examination it also appeared that he did +not like being thought an Englishman; that he would insist vehemently +upon his French extraction; that nobody knew who he was, or whence +he came; and that all anyone did know of him was what he himself had +chosen to state. + +The defence was long and laboured. The prisoner’s counsel did not enter +into the question of the murder having been committed by Jabez North, +or not having been committed by Jabez North. What he endeavoured to +show was, that the prisoner at the bar was not Jabez North; but that he +was a victim to one of those cases of mistaken identity of which there +are so many on record both in English and foreign criminal archives. He +cited the execution of the Frenchman Joseph Lesurges, for the murder +of the Courier of Lyons. He spoke of the case of Elizabeth Canning, +in which a crowd of witnesses on either side persisted in supporting +entirely conflicting statements, without any evident motive whatsoever. +He endeavoured to dissect the evidence of Mr. William Withers; he +sneered at that worthy citizen’s wholesale slaughter of the English +of her most gracious Majesty and subjects. He tried to overthrow that +gentleman by ten minutes on the wrong side of the Slopperton clocks; +he did his best to damage him by puzzling him as to whether the truck +he spoke of had two legs and one wheel, or two wheels and one leg: +but he tried in vain. Mr. Withers was not to be damaged; he stood as +firm as a rock, and still swore that he carried the dead body of Jim +Lomax out of Blind Peter and on to the heath, and that the man who +commanded him so to do was the prisoner at the bar. Neither was Mr. +Augustus Darley to be damaged; nor yet the landlord of the Bargeman’s +Delight, who, in spite of all cross-examination, preserved a gloomy and +resolute attitude, and declared that “that young man at the bar, which +his hair was then light, had a row with a young woman in the tap-room, +and throwed that there gold coin to her, which she chucked it back +savage.” In short, the defence, though it lasted two hours and a half, +was a very lame one; and a close observer might have seen one flash +from the blue eyes of the man standing at the bar, which glanced in +the direction of the eloquent Mr. Prius, Q.C., as he uttered the last +words of his peroration, revengeful and murderous enough, brief though +it was, to give to the spectator some idea that the Count de Marolles, +innocent and injured victim of circumstantial evidence as he might be, +was not the safest person in the world to offend. + +The judge delivered his charge to the jury, and they retired. + +There was breathless impatience in the court for three-quarters of an +hour; such impatience that the three-quarters seemed to be three entire +hours, and some of the spectators would have it that the clock had +stopped. Once more the jury took their places. + +“Guilty!” A recommendation to mercy? No! Mercy was not for such as he. +Not man’s mercy. Oh, Heaven be praised that there is One whose mercy is +as far above the mercy of the tenderest of earth’s creatures as heaven +is above that earth. Who shall say where is the man so wicked he may +not hope for compassion _there_? + +The judge put on the black cap and delivered the sentence-- + +“To be hanged by the neck!” + +The Count de Marolles looked round at the crowd. It was beginning to +disperse, when he lifted his slender ringed white hand. He was about +to speak. The crowd, swaying hither and thither before, stopped as one +man. As one man, nay, as one surging wave of the ocean, changed, in a +breath, to stone. He smiled a bitter mocking defiant smile. + +“Worthy citizens of Slopperton,” he said, his clear enunciation ringing +through the building distinct and musical, “I thank you for the trouble +you have taken this day on my account. I have played a great game, and +I have lost a great stake; but, remember, I first won that stake, and +for eight years held it and enjoyed it. I have been the husband of +one of the most beautiful and richest women in France. I have been a +millionaire, and one of the wealthiest merchant princes of the wealthy +south. I started from the workhouse of this town; I never in my life +had a friend to help me or a relation to advise me. To man I owe +nothing. To God I owe only this, a will as indomitable as the stars He +made, which have held their course through all time. Unloved, unaided, +unprayed for, unwept; motherless, fatherless, sisterless, brotherless, +friendless; I have taken my own road, and have kept to it; defying the +earth on which I have lived, and the unknown Powers above my head. That +road has come to an end, and brought me--here! So be it! I suppose, +after all, the unknown Powers are strongest! Gentlemen, I am ready.” He +bowed and followed the officials who led him from the dock to a coach +waiting for him at the entrance to the court. The crowd gathered round +him with scared faces and eager eyes. + +The last Slopperton saw of the Count de Marolles was a pale handsome +face, a sardonic smile, and the delicate white hand which rested upon +the door of the hackney-coach. + +Next morning, very early, men with grave faces congregated at +street-corners, and talked together earnestly. Through Slopperton like +wildfire spread the rumour of something, which had only been darkly +hinted at the gaol. + +The prisoner had destroyed himself! + +Later in the afternoon it was known that he had bled himself to death +by means of a lancet not bigger than a pin, which he had worn for +years concealed in a chased gold ring of massive form and exquisite +workmanship. + +The gaoler had found him, at six o’clock on the morning after his +trial, seated, with his bloodless face lying on the little table of his +cell, white, tranquil, and dead. + +The agents from an exhibition of wax-works, and several phrenologists, +came to look at and to take casts of his head, and masks of the +handsome and aristocratic face. One of the phrenologists, who had given +an opinion on his cerebral development ten years before, when Mr. Jabez +North was considered a model of all Sloppertonian virtues and graces, +and who had been treated with ignominy for that very opinion, was now +in the highest spirits, and introduced the whole story into a series of +lectures, which were afterwards very popular. The Count de Marolles, +with very long eyelashes, very small feet, and patent-leather boots, a +faultless Stultsian evening costume, a white waistcoat, and any number +of rings, was much admired in the Chamber of Horrors at the eminent +wax-work exhibition above mentioned, and was considered well worth the +extra sixpence for admission. Young ladies fell in love with him, and +vowed that a being--they called him a being--with such dear blue glass +eyes, with beautiful curly eyelashes, and specks of lovely vermilion +in each corner, could never have committed a horrid murder, but was, +no doubt, the innocent victim of that cruel circumstantial evidence. +Mr. Splitters put the Count into a melodrama in four periods--not +acts, but periods: 1. Boyhood--the Workhouse. 2. Youth--the School. +3. Manhood--the Palace. 4. Death--the Dungeon. This piece was very +popular, and as Mr. Percy Cordonner had prophesied, the Count was +represented as living _en permanence_ in Hessian boots with gold +tassels; and as always appearing, with a spirited disregard for the +unities of time and space, two or three hundred miles distant from +the spot in which he had appeared five minutes before, and performing +in scene four the very action which his foes had described as being +already done in scene three. But the transpontine audiences to whom the +piece was represented were not in the habit of asking questions, and +as long as you gave them plenty of Hessian boots and pistol-shots for +their money, you might snap your fingers at Aristotle’s ethics, and all +the Greek dramatists into the bargain. What would they have cored for +the classic school? Would they have given a thank you for “Zaire, vous +pleurez!” or “Qu’il mourut!” No; give them enough blue fire and honest +British sentiment, with plenty of chintz waistcoats and top-boots, and +you might laugh Corneille and Voltaire to scorn, and be sure of a long +run on the Surrey side of the water. + +So the race was run, and, after all, the cleverest horse was not the +winner. Where was the Countess de Marolles during her husband’s trial? +Alas! Valerie, thine has been a troubled youth, but it may be that a +brighter fate is yet in store for thee! + + + + + CHAPTER VII. + + FAREWELL TO ENGLAND. + + +SCARCELY had Slopperton subsided in some degree from the excitement +into which it had been thrown by the trial and suicide of Raymond de +Marolles, when it was again astir with news, which was, if anything, +more exciting. It is needless to say that after the trial and +condemnation of De Marolles, there was not a little regretful sympathy +felt by the good citizens of Slopperton for their unfortunate townsman, +Richard Marwood, who, after having been found guilty of a murder he had +never committed, had perished, as the story went, in a futile attempt +to escape from the asylum in which he had been confined. What, then, +were the feelings of Slopperton when, about a month after the suicide +of the murderer of Montague Harding, a paragraph appeared in one of the +local papers which stated positively that Mr. Richard Marwood was still +alive, he having succeeded in escaping from the county asylum? + +This was enough. Here was a hero of romance indeed; here was innocence +triumphant for once in real life, as on the mimic scene. Slopperton was +wild with one universal desire to embrace so distinguished a citizen. +The local papers of the following week were full of the subject, +and Richard Marwood was earnestly solicited to appear once more in +his native town, that every inhabitant thereof, from the highest to +the lowest, might be enabled to testify heartfelt sympathy for his +undeserved misfortunes, and sincere delight in his happy restoration to +name and fame. + +The hero was not long in replying to the friendly petition of the +inhabitants of his native place. A letter from Richard appeared in one +of the papers, in which he stated that as he was about to leave England +for a considerable period, perhaps for ever, he should do himself the +honour of responding to the kind wishes of his friends, and once more +shake hands with the acquaintance of his youth before he left his +native country. + +The Sloppertonian Jack-in-the-green, assisted by the rather stalwart +damsels in dirty pink gauze and crumpled blue-and-yellow artificial +flowers, had scarcely ushered in the sweet spring month of the year, +when Slopperton arose simultaneously and hurried as one man to the +railway station, to welcome the hero of the day. The report has +spread--no one ever knows how these reports arise--that Mr. Richard +Marwood is to arrive this day. Slopperton must be at hand to bid him +welcome to his native town, to repair the wrong it has so long done him +in holding him up to universal detestation as the George Barnwell of +modern times. + +Which train will he come by? There is a whisper of the three o’clock +express; and at three o’clock in the afternoon, therefore, the station +and station-yard are crowded. + +The Slopperton station, like most other stations, is built at a little +distance from the town, so that the humble traveller who arrives by the +parliamentary train, with all his earthly possessions in a red cotton +pocket-handkerchief or a brown-paper parcel, and to whom such things +as cabs are unknown luxuries, is often disappointed to find that when +he gets to Slopperton station he is not in Slopperton proper. There +is a great Sahara of building-ground and incomplete brick-and-mortar, +very much to let, to be crossed before the traveller finds himself in +High Street, or South Street, or East Street, or any of the populous +neighbourhoods of this magnificent city. + +Every disadvantage, however, is generally counterbalanced by some +advantage, and nothing could be more suitable than this grand Sahara +of broken ground and unfinished neighbourhood for the purposes of a +triumphal entry into Slopperton. + +There is a great deal of animated conversation going on upon the +platform inside the station. It is a noticeable fact that everybody +present--and there are some hundreds--appears to have been intimately +acquainted with Richard from his very babyhood. This one remembers +many a game at cricket with him on those very fields yonder; another +would be a rich man if he had only a sovereign for every cigar he has +smoked in the society of Mr. Marwood. That old gentleman yonder taught +our hero his declensions, and always had a difficulty with him about +the ablative case. The elderly female with the dropsical umbrella had +nursed him as a baby; “and the finest baby he was as ever I saw,” she +adds enthusiastically. Those two gentlemen who came down to the station +in their own brougham are the kind doctors who carried him through that +terrible brain-fever of his early youth, and whose evidence was of some +service to him at his trial. Everywhere along the crowded platform +there are friends; noisy excited gesticulating friends, who have +started a hero on their own account, and who wouldn’t turn aside to-day +to get a bow from majesty itself. + +Five minutes to three. From the doctor’s fifty-guinea chronometer, +by Benson, to the silver turnip from the wide buff waistcoat of the +farmer, everybody’s watch is out, and nobody will believe but that +his particular time is the right time, and every other watch, and the +station clock into the bargain, wrong. + +Two minutes to three. Clang goes the great bell. The station-master +clears the line. Here it comes, only a speck of dull red fire as +yet, and a slender column of curling smoke; but the London express +for all that. Here it comes, wildly tearing up the tender green +country, rushing headlong through the smoky suburbs; it comes within +a few hundred yards of the station; and there, amidst a labyrinth of +straggling lines and a chaos of empty carriages and disabled engines, +it stops deliberately for the ticket-collectors to go their accustomed +round. + +Good gracious me, how badly those ticket-collectors do their duty!--how +slow they are!--what a time the elderly females in the second-class +appear to be fumbling in their reticules before they produce the +required document!--what an age, in short, it is before the train +puffs lazily up to the platform; and yet, only two minutes by the +station-clock. + +Which is he? There is a long line of carriages. The eager eyes look +into each. There is a fat dark man with large whiskers reading the +paper. Is that Richard? He may be altered, you know, they say; but +surely eight years could never have changed him into that. No! there he +is! There is no mistaking him this time. The handsome dark face, with +the thick black moustache, and the clustering frame of waving raven +hair, looks out of a first-class carriage. In another moment he is on +the platform, a lady by his side, young and pretty, who bursts into +tears as the crowd press around him, and hides her face on an elderly +lady’s shoulder. That elderly lady is his mother. How eagerly the +Sloppertonians gather round him! He does not speak, but stretches out +both his hands, which are nearly shaken off his wrists before he knows +where he is. + +Why doesn’t he speak? Is it because he cannot? Is it because there is a +choking sensation in his throat, and his lips refuse to articulate the +words that are trembling upon them? Is it because he remembers the last +time he alighted on this very platform--the time when he wore handcuffs +on his wrists and walked guarded between two men; that bitter time +when the crowd held aloof from him, and pointed him out as a murderer +and a villain? There is a mist over his dark eyes as he looks round at +those eager friendly faces, and he is glad to slouch his hat over his +forehead, and to walk quickly through the crowd to the carriage waiting +for him in the station-yard. He has his mother on one arm and the young +lady on the other; his old friend Gus Darley is with him too; and the +four step into the carriage. + +Then, how the cheers and the huzzas burst forth, in one great hoarse +shout! Three cheers for Richard, for his mother, for his faithful +friend Gus Darley, who assisted him to escape from the lunatic asylum, +for the young lady--but who is the young lady? Everybody is so anxious +to know who the young lady is, that when Richard introduces her to the +doctors, the crowd presses round, and putting aside ceremony, openly +and deliberately listens. Good Heavens! the young lady is his wife, +the sister of his friend Mr. Darley, “who wasn’t afraid to trust me,” +the crowd heard him say, “when the world was against me, and who in +adversity or prosperity alike was ready to bless me with her devoted +love.” Good gracious me! More cheers for the young lady. The young lady +is Mrs. Marwood. Three cheers for Mrs. Marwood! Three cheers for Mr. +and Mrs. Marwood! Three cheers for the happy pair! + +At length the cheering is over--or, at least, over for the moment. +Slopperton is in such an excited state that it is easy to see it +will break out again by-and-by. The coachman gives a preliminary +flourish of his whip as a signal to his fiery steeds. Fiery steeds, +indeed! “Nothing so common as a horse shall carry Richard Marwood +into Slopperton,” cry the excited townspeople. We ourselves will draw +the carriage--we, the respectable tradespeople--we, the tag-rag and +bob-tail, anybody and everybody--will make ourselves for the nonce +beasts of burden, and think it no disgrace to draw the triumphal car of +this our townsman. In vain Richard remonstrates. His handsome face--his +radiant smiles, only rekindle the citizens’ enthusiasm. They think of +the bright young scapegrace whom they all knew years ago. They think of +his very faults--which were virtues in the eyes of the populace. They +remember the day he caned a policeman who had laid violent hands on a +helpless little boy for begging in the streets--the night he wrenched +off the knocker of an unpopular magistrate who had been hard upon a +poacher. They recalled a hundred escapades for which those even who +reproved him had admired him; and they gather round the carriage in +which he stands with his hat off, the May sunlight in his bright hazel +eyes, his dark hair waving in the spring breeze around his wide candid +brow, and one slender hand stretched out to restrain, if he can, this +tempest of enthusiasm. Restrain it?--No! that is not to be done. You +can go and stand upon the shore and address yourselves to the waves of +the sea; you can mildly remonstrate with the wolf as to his intentions +with regard to the innocent lamb; but you _cannot_ check the +enthusiasm of a hearty British crowd when its feelings are excited in a +good cause. + +Away the carriage goes! with the noisy populace about the wheels. +What is this?--music? Yes; two opposition bands. One is playing “See, +the conquering hero comes!” while the other exhausts itself; and gets +black in the face, with the exertion necessary in doing justice to +“Rule Britannia.” At last, however, the hotel is reached. But the +triumph of Richard is not yet finished. He must make a speech. He +does, ultimately, consent to say a few words in answer to the earnest +entreaties of that clamorous crowd. He tells his friends, in a very few +simple sentences, how this hour, of all others, is the hour for which +he has prayed for nearly nine long years; and how he sees, in the most +trifling circumstances which have aided, however remotely, in bringing +this hour to pass, the hand of an all-powerful Providence. He tells +them how he sees in these years of sorrow through which he has passed +a punishment for the careless sins of his youth, for the unhappiness +he has caused his devoted mother, and for his indifference to the +blessings Heaven has bestowed on him; how he now prays to be more +worthy of the bright future which lies so fair before him; how he means +the rest of his life to be an earnest and a useful one; and how, to the +last hour of that life, he will retain the memory of their generous and +enthusiastic reception of him this day. It is doubtful how much more +he might have said; but just at this point his eyes became peculiarly +affected--perhaps by the dust, perhaps by the sunshine--and he was +forced once more to have recourse to his hat, which he pulled fairly +over those optics prior to springing out of the carriage and hurrying +into the hotel, amidst the frantic cheers of the sterner sex, and the +audible sobs of the fairer portion of the community. + +His visit was but a flying one. The night train was to take him across +country to Liverpool, whence he was to start the following day for +South America. This was kept, however, a profound secret from the +crowd, which might else have insisted on giving him a second ovation. +It was not very quickly dispersed, this enthusiastic throng. It +lingered for a long time under the windows of the hotel. It drank a +great deal of bottled ale and London porter in the bar round the corner +by the stable-yard; and it steadfastly refused to go away until it +had had Richard out upon the balcony several times, and had given him +a great many more tumultuous greetings. When it had quite exhausted +Richard (our hero looking pale from over-excitement) it took to Mr. +Darley as vice-hero, and would have carried him round the town with +one of the bands of music, had he not prudently declined that offer. +It was so bent on doing something, that at last, when it did consent +to go away, it went into the Market-place and had a fight--not from +any pugilistic or vindictive feeling, but from the simple necessity of +finishing the evening somehow. + +There is no possibility of sitting down to dinner till after dark. +But at last the shutters are closed and the curtains are drawn by the +obsequious waiters; the dinner-table is spread with glittering plate +and snowy linen; the landlord himself brings in the soup and uncorks +the sherry, and the little party draws round the social board. Why +should we break in upon that happy group? With the wife he loves, the +mother whose devotion has survived every trial, the friend whose aid +has brought about his restoration to freedom and society, with ample +wealth wherefrom to reward all who have served him in his adversity, +what more has Richard to wish for? + +A close carriage conveys the little party to the station; and by the +twelve o’clock train they leave Slopperton, some of them perhaps never +to visit it again. + +The next day a much larger party is assembled on board the +_Oronoko_, a vessel lying off Liverpool, and about to sail for +South America. Richard is there, his wife and mother still by his side; +and there are several others whom we know grouped about the deck. +Mr. Peters is there. He has come to bid farewell to the young man in +whose fortunes and misfortunes he has taken so warm and unfailing an +interest. He is a man of independent property now, thanks to Richard, +who thinks the hundred a year settled on him a very small reward for +his devotion--but he is very melancholy at parting with the master he +has so loved. + +“I think, sir,” he says on his fingers, “I shall marry Kuppins, and +give my mind to the education of the ‘fondling.’ He’ll be a great +man, sir, if he lives; for his heart, boy as he is, is all in his +profession. Would you believe it, sir, that child bellowed for three +mortal hours because his father committed suicide, and disappointed the +boy of seein’ him hung? That’s what I calls a love of business, and no +mistake.” + +On the other side of the deck there is a little group which Richard +presently joins. A lady and gentleman and a little boy are standing +there; and, at a short distance from them, a grave-looking man with +dark-blue spectacles, and a servant--a Lascar. + +There is a peculiar style about the gentleman, on whose arm the lady +leans, that bespeaks him to the most casual observer to be a military +man, in spite of his plain dress and loose great coat. And the lady on +his arm, that dark classic face, is not one to be easily forgotten. It +is Valerie de Cevennes, who leans on the arm of her first and beloved +husband, Gaston de Lancy. If I have said little of this meeting--of +this restoration of the only man she ever loved, which has been to +her as a resurrection of the dead--it is because there are some joys +which, from their very intensity, are too painful and too sacred for +many words. He was restored to her. She had never murdered him. The +potion given her by Blurosset was a very powerful opiate, which had +produced a sleep resembling death in all its outward symptoms. Through +the influence of the chemist the report of the death was spread abroad. +The truth, except to Gaston’s most devoted friends, had never been +revealed. But the blow had been too much for him; and when he was told +by whom his death had been attempted, he fell into a fever, which +lasted for many months, during which period his reason was entirely +lost, and from which he was only rescued by the devotion of the +chemist--a devotion on Blurosset’s part which, perhaps, had proceeded +as much from love of the science he studied as of the man he saved. +Recovering at last, Gaston de Lancy found that the glorious voice which +had been his fortune was entirely gone. What was there for him to do? +He enlisted in the East India Company’s service; rose through the Sikh +campaign with a rapidity which astonished the bravest of his compeers. +There was a romance about his story that made him a hero in his +regiment. He was known to have plenty of money--to have had no earthly +reason for enlisting; but he told them he would rise, as his father had +done before him, in the wars of the Empire, by merit alone, and he had +kept his word. The French ensign, the lieutenant, the captain--in each +rising grade he had been alike beloved, alike admired, as a shining +example of reckless courage and military genius. + +The arrest of the _soi-disant_ Count de Marolles had brought +Richard Marwood and Gaston de Lancy into contact. Both sufferers from +the consummate perfidy of one man, they became acquainted, and, ere +long, friends. Some part of Gaston’s story was told to Richard and his +young wife, Isabella; but it is needless to say, that the dark past +in which Valerie was concerned remained a secret in the breast of her +husband, of Laurent Blurosset, and herself. The father clasped his +son to his heart, and opened his arms to receive the wife whom he had +pardoned long ago, and whose years of terrible agony had atoned for the +wildly-attempted crime of her youth. + +On Richard and Gaston becoming fast friends, it had been agreed +between them that Richard should join De Lancy and his wife in South +America; where, far from the scenes which association had made painful +to both, they might commence a new existence. Valerie, once more +mistress of that immense fortune of which De Marolles had so long had +the command, was enabled to bestow it on the husband of her choice. +The bank was closed in a manner satisfactory to all whose interests +had been connected with it. The cashier, who was no other than the +lively gentleman who had assisted in De Marolles’ attempted escape, was +arrested on a charge of embezzlement, and made to disgorge the money he +had abstracted. + +The Marquis de Cevennes elevated his delicately-arched eyebrows on +reading an abridged account of the trial of his son, and his subsequent +suicide; but the elegant Parisian did not go into mourning for this +unfortunate scion of his aristocratic house; and indeed, it is +doubtful if five minutes after he had thrown aside the journal he +had any sensation whatever about the painful circumstances therein +related. He expressed the same gentlemanly surprise upon being informed +of the marriage of his niece with Captain Lansdown, late of the East +India Company’s service, and of her approaching departure with her +husband for her South American estates. He sent her his blessing and +a breakfast-service; with the portraits of Louis the Well-beloved, +Madame du Barry, Choiseul, and D’Aiguillon, painted on the cups, in +oval medallions, on a background of turquoise, packed in a casket of +buhl lined with white velvet; and, I dare say, he dismissed his niece +and her troubles from his recollection quite as easily as he despatched +this elegant present to the railway which was to convey it to its +destination. + +The bell rings; the friends of the passengers drop down the side of the +vessel into the little Liverpool steamer. There are Mr. Peters and Gus +Darley waving their hats in the distance. Farewell, old and faithful +friends, farewell; but surely not for ever. Isabella sinks sobbing on +her husband’s shoulder. Valerie looks with those deep unfathomable eyes +out towards the blue horizon-line that bounds the far away to which +they go. + +“There, Gaston, we shall forget----” + +“Never your long sufferings, my Valerie,” he murmurs, as he presses the +little hand resting on his arm; “those shall never be forgotten.” + +“And the horror of that dreadful night, Gaston----” + +“Was the madness of a love which thought itself wronged, Valerie: we +can forgive every wrong which springs from the depth of such a love.” + +Spread thy white wings, oh, ship! The shadows melt away into that +purple distance. I see in that far South two happy homes; glistening +white-walled villas, half buried in the luxuriant verdure of that +lovely climate. I hear the voices of the children in the dark +orange-groves, where the scented blossoms fall into the marble basin +of the fountain. I see Richard reclining in an easy-chair, under the +veranda, half hidden by the trailing jasmines that shroud it from the +evening sunshine, smoking the long cherry-stemmed pipe which his wife +has filled for him. Gaston paces, with his sharp military step, up +and down the terrace at their feet, stopping as he passes by to lay a +caressing hand on the dark curls of the son he loves. And Valerie--she +leans against the slender pillar of the porch, round which the scented +yellow roses are twined, and watches, with earnest eyes, the husband of +her earliest choice. Oh, happy shadows! Few in this work-a-day world so +fortunate as you who win in your prime of life the fulfilment of the +dear dream of your youth! + + + + + =TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES= + +Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. + +Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a +predominant preference was found in the original book; otherwise they +were not changed. + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75840 *** |