INCIDENTS IN THE GIPSY PALACE.
For a few moments Richard remained rooted to the spot where the returned
convict had left him. He was uncertain how to proceed.
Warned by the desperate adventure which had nearly cost him his life at
Twig Folly, he feared lest the present occurrence might be another
scheme of the Resurrection Man to ensnare him.
Then he reflected that the individual who had just left him, had met him
accidentally, and had narrated to him circumstances which had every
appearance of truth.
We have before said that Markham was not a coward—far from it; and he
moreover experienced a lively curiosity to satisfy himself concerning
the fate of an individual whose inveterate malignity had so frequently
menaced not only his dearest interests, but his life.
This reflection decided him; and, without farther hesitation, he knocked
boldly at the front door of the Gipsies' Palace.
Some minutes elapsed ere his summons appeared to have created any
attention within; and he was about to repeat it, when the door slowly
moved on its hinges.
But to Markham's surprise no person appeared in the obscure lobby into
which the pale moon threw a fitful light; in fact, the front door was
opened by means of a simple mechanism which the porter worked in his
lodge overhead.
While Markham was lost in wonder at this strange circumstance, the trap
was suddenly raised above, and a strong light was thrown through it into
the lobby.
"Who are you?" demanded the gruff voice of the porter.
"I seek a few hours' repose and rest," answered Markham.
"Who sent you here?"
"A person who is a friend to you."
"Do you know what place this is?"
"Yes—it is the head-quarters of the Zingarees."
"So far, so good," said the porter. "Well—wait a few moments—I must
see."
The trap closed—the lobby was again involved in total darkness; and for
the next ten minutes the silence of death appeared to reign within the
house.
At the expiration of that time the inner door was opened:; and the
porter, bearing a light, appeared.
"You may enter," he said. "The Zingarees never refuse hospitality when
it can be safely granted."
Markham crossed the threshold without hesitation.
The porter closed both doors with great care.
"Follow me," said the man.
He then led the way up stairs to the first floor, and conducted our hero
into a room where there were several beds, all of which were unoccupied.
"You have your choice of the downies," observed the porter, with a half
smile; "and I shall leave you this light. Do you require any food?"
"None, I thank you."
"So I should think," said the man drily, as he surveyed Markham's
appearance in a manner which seemed to express a wonder why a person in
his situation of life had come thither at all.
We have, however, before observed that curiosity formed but a faint
feature of the gipsy character; and, even when it existed, it was not
expressed in verbal queries. Moreover, individuals in a respectable
sphere not unfrequently sought in the Holy Land a refuge against the
officers of the laws which they violated; and hence the appearance of a
person had nothing to do with the fact of admission into the gipsies'
establishment.
Nevertheless, the porter did survey Markham in a dubious way for a
moment; but whether the preceding incidents of the night, or the calm
tranquillity of our hero's manner,—so inconsistent with the idea that he
was anxious to conceal himself from the eyes of justice,—excited the
suspicions of the porter, it is impossible to say.
But that glance of curiosity was only momentary.
Averting his eyes from our hero, the porter placed the light upon the
floor, wished him a good night's rest, and retired.
But to the surprise and annoyance of Markham, the gipsy locked the door
of the apartment.
As the key turned with a grating sound, a tremor crept over Richard's
frame; and he almost repented having sought the interior of an abode the
character and inmates of which were almost entirely unknown to him.
Indeed, all that he knew of either was derived from the meagre
information of the man (and that man an acknowledged assassin!) who had
induced him to visit the place where he now found himself.
"How weak I am to yield to this sentiment of fear!" he exclaimed.
"Rather let me determine how to act."
He proceeded to examine the room in which he appeared to be a prisoner.
The numerous beds seemed to indicate that he really was in a species of
barrack, or lodging-house of some kind; and this circumstance, coupled
with the fact that the porter who had admitted him was evidently a
member of the Egyptian or Bohemian race, reassured him—for he felt
convinced that he was actually in the abode of gipsies.
So far the stranger, who had been the means of his visit to that strange
tenement, had not deceived him.
But how was he to satisfy himself in regard to the Resurrection Man? He
tried the door—it was indeed fastened; he examined the windows—they were
not barred, but were of a dangerous height from the back-yard on which
they looked.
Markham paced the room uncertain how to act.
Suddenly his reverie was interrupted by the tread of many steps upon the
stairs; and then a species of subdued bustle took place throughout the
house.
The whispering of voices—the removal of heavy objects overhead—the
running of persons hither and thither—and the opening and shutting of
doors, announced that some extraordinary movement was taking place.
Richard listened with breathless anxiety.
At length the sounds of several heavy steps, in the landing outside his
door, met his ears; and this noise was at short intervals varied by deep
groans.
The groans seemed to accompany the tread of the heavy steps just
mentioned.
These steps and those expressions of human suffering grew fainter and
fainter, as they descended the stairs, until at length they were no
longer audible.
Nevertheless Markham kept his ear fixed to the key-hole of his
chamber-door.
Silence now once more reigned throughout the house; but in a few minutes
the noise and bustle seemed to have been transferred to the yard.
Richard hurried to the window; but the moon had gone down and the
darkness without was intense.
He concealed the light in a corner of the room, and then gently raised
one of the windows.
But he could distinguish nothing with his eyes; and the sounds that met
his ears were those of footsteps bustling to and fro. At length these
ceased; a door was closed at the end of the yard; and almost immediately
afterwards Richard heard, in the same direction, the rumbling noise of a
vehicle moving heavily away.
When that din had ceased, the most profound tranquillity prevailed not
only in the home but also in its neighbourhood.
That silence was interrupted only for a few moments by the sonorous bell
of St. Giles's Church, proclaiming the hour of three.
"Time wears on," said Markham impatiently; "and no opportunity of
satisfying myself upon the one point seems to present itself. To attempt
to seek repose is impossible; to pass the dull hours in suspense like
this is intolerable!"
Then he seated himself on one of the beds, and considered what course he
should pursue.
Slowly—slowly passed the time; and though he revolved in his mind many
plans, he could fix upon none.
At length the clock struck four.
"The hour for departure will come, and I shall leave this house as full
of doubt and uncertainty as when I entered it!" he ejaculated, starting
up.
His eye chanced to fall upon a long nail in the wall opposite to the bed
from which he had just risen.
A scheme which had already suggested itself to his mind, now assumed a
feasible aspect:—he knew that the door was only locked, and not bolted;
and that nail seemed to promise the means of egress.
He, however, first examined the candle which had been left him, and
which still burned in the corner where he had concealed it:—to his joy
he found that there was an inch remaining.
"With the assurance of light for another half hour, and good courage,"
he said to himself, "I may yet accomplish my purpose."
Having extracted the nail from the wall, he proceeded to pick the lock
of the room-door—an operation which he successfully achieved in a few
minutes.
Without a moment's hesitation, he issued from the room, bearing the
candle in his hand.
As he crossed the landing towards the staircase, which he resolved to
ascend, his foot came in contact with some object.
He picked it up: it was an old greasy pocket-book, tied loosely round
with a coarse string, and as Markham raised it, a letter dropped out.
Richard was in the act of replacing the document in the pocket-book,
which he intended to leave upon the stairs, so as to attract the notice
of the inmates of the house, when the address on the outside of the
letter caught his eyes.
The candle nearly fell from his hand, so great was the astonishment
which immediately seized upon him.
That address consisted simply of the words "ANTHONY TIDKINS!"—but the
handwriting—Oh! there was no possibility of mistaking _that_! Markham
knew it so well; and though years had elapsed since he had last seen it,
still it was familiar to him as his own—the more so, as it remained
unchanged in style;—for it was the writing of his brother Eugene!
With a hasty but trembling hand he opened the letter, the wafer of which
had already been broken;—he did not hesitate to read the
contents;—judging by his own frank and generous heart, he conceived that
such a licence was permitted between brothers. Moreover, he experienced
a profound and painful anxiety to ascertain what link could connect his
brother with the terrible individual to whom the letter was addressed.
But all that the letter contained was this:—
"Come to me to-night without fail, between eleven and twelve. Knock
in the usual manner."
Richard examined the handwriting with the most minute attention; and the
longer he scrutinized it, the more he became confirmed in his belief
that it was Eugene's.
But Eugene a patron or colleague of the greatest miscreant that had ever
disgraced human nature! Was such a thing possible?
The letter bore no date—no signature—and was addressed from no place. It
had no post-mark upon it, and had, therefore, evidently been delivered
by a private hand.
"Oh!" thought Richard within himself, "if my unhappy brother have really
been the victim, the associate, or the employer of that incarnate demon,
may God grant that the wretch is indeed no more—for the sake of Eugene!"
And then his curiosity to ascertain the truth relative to the alleged
assassination of Tidkins, became more poignant.
"It must be so!" reasoned Markham within himself; "that stranger has not
deceived me:—the presence of this pocket-book here is an undeniable
trace of the miscreant. Oh, how much it now behoves me to convince
myself that he is indeed removed from the theatre of his crimes!"
Subduing as much as possible the painful emotions which that letter had
suddenly excited within him, Markham secured the pocket-book about his
person; for now that accident had revealed to him to whom it belonged,
he did not consider himself called upon to part with an object which, in
case the statement of Tidkins' death should prove untrue, might contain
some paper calculated to afford a clue to his haunts or proceedings.
Scarcely decided in what manner to pursue his investigation in that
house, and trusting more to accident than to any settled plan to aid him
in testing the truth of the self-accused stranger's statement relative
to Tidkins,—Markham stole softly up the staircase.
Arrived on the first landing to which it led, he listened attentively at
the various doors which opened from it.
All was silent as death within the rooms to which those doors belonged.
Not even the sound of human respiration met his ears. Could it be
possible that the house was deserted? Perhaps the bustle which he had
heard ere now was caused by the departure of its occupants?
As this idea grew upon him, he was emboldened to try the latch of one of
the doors at which he had already listened. It yielded to his hand; he
pushed the door open with great caution, and entered the chamber.
Not a human soul was there.
He visited the other rooms upon that landing, the doors of which were
all unlocked; and they were alike untenanted.
There was another storey above; and thither he proceeded.
The first three rooms which he entered were empty, like the preceding
ones; but in the fourth there were three men. They were, however, fast
asleep in their beds; and Richard's visit was so noiseless that they
were not in the least disturbed.
Hastily retreating, and closing the door carefully behind him, Markham
descended to the landing on which his own room opened, and where he had
found the pocket-book.
On that floor were four apartments, as on each of the upper flats, in
addition to the porter's lodge, which, it will be remembered, was
precisely over the lobby below.
To avoid elaborate detail, we may state that Markham found the doors of
the other three rooms (besides his own) on the first floor unlocked, and
the chambers themselves untenanted.
He was about to leave the last room, when the appearance of one of the
beds attracted his attention; and on a closer examination, he perceived
that it was saturated with blood. Moreover, on a chair close by, there
were pieces of linen rag, on which large stains of gore were scarcely
dry, together with lint and bandages—unquestionable proofs that a wound
had very recently been dressed in that apartment.
"No—that self-accuser has not deceived me!" thought Markham, as he
contemplated these objects. "All circumstances combine to bear evidence
to the truth of his assertion! Doubtless the gipsies have departed,
carrying away the corpse with them!"
He stood gazing on the blood-dyed bed at his feet musing in this manner;
and then he thought how fearful was the fate of the miscreant, the
evidences of whose death he believed to be beneath his eyes, cut off in
the midst of his crimes without a moment's preparation or repentance!
But suddenly he asked himself—"Am I certain that he is no more? That
lint to stanch the blood—those bandages to bind the wound,—do they not
rather bear testimony to a blow which was not fatal, but left life
behind it? And yet, for what purpose could the body be removed—save for
secret interment? Oh! if that man be yet alive—and if Eugene be indeed
his accomplice or his patron——"
And Markham experienced emotions of the most intense anguish! He loved
his brother with the most ardent affection; and the idea that the
individual so loved could be a criminal, or the friend of criminals, was
harrowing to his soul.
"But, after all," thought Richard, his naturally upright and almost
severe principles asserting their empire in his mind,—"after all, ought
I not to rejoice, if this man be indeed still alive, that he has
survived the assassin's blow—that he is allowed leisure for repentance!
My Maker, who can read all hearts, knows that I am not selfish; and yet
it is a principle of our frail human nature to rejoice at the fall of a
deadly enemy! Oh! when I think of all the wrongs and injuries I have
experienced at the hands of that man,—exposures—persecutions—attempts
upon my life,—I cannot pray that he may live to be the scourge of
others—and perhaps of my brother—as he has been of me!"
Unwilling to contend longer with the varied emotions which agitated his
breast, Markham hurried from the room.
The lower part of the house yet remained to be explored:—perhaps the
body—if the Resurrection Man were indeed dead—had been removed to a room
on the ground floor?
Determined to leave no stone unturned to satisfy his doubts, Markham
cautiously descended the stairs, and visited the refectory-rooms, one
after the other.
They were all empty.
His candle was now waxing dim; but he saw that his search was nearly
over. A flight of steps, apparently leading to offices in the basement
of the building, alone remained for him to visit.
To that part of the house he descended, and found himself in a small
place which had the appearance of a scullery.
On one side was a massive door, secured with huge bolts, and evidently
leading into a vault or cellar. But scarcely had Markham time to cast
one glance around him in the subterranean, when the candle flickered and
expired.
At the same moment a hollow groan echoed through the basement.
Richard started: he was in total darkness—and a momentary tremor came
over him.
The groan was repeated.
His fears vanished; and he immediately concluded that the Resurrection
Man, wounded and suffering, must be somewhere near.
At that idea, all sentiments of aversion, hatred, and abhorrence,—all
reminiscence of injury and wrong, fled from the mind of that
generous-hearted young man: he thought only that a fellow-creature was
in anguish and in pain—perhaps neglected, and left to die without a soul
to administer consolation!
Reckless of the danger which he might incur by alarming the inmates of
the house, he determined upon rousing the porter in order to obtain a
light.
He turned from the scullery, and was rushing up the stone steps in
pursuance of his humane intention, when he suddenly came in violent
contact with a person who was descending the same stairs.