THE JUGGLERS.
Nearly five weeks had elapsed since the day when the noble-minded Eliza
Sydney first took up her quarters at Ravensworth Hall.
Time was, therefore, now verging towards the close of May, 1841.
It was at about nine o'clock in the morning of a charming day, at this
period, that the Resurrection Man sauntered leisurely from the servants'
offices, at Ravensworth Hall, with the air of a person about to indulge
in a stroll after eating a good breakfast.
But when he was out of sight of the Hall, he quickened his pace, and
proceeded somewhat rapidly towards the ruined lodge where he had once
before met the Honourable Gilbert Vernon.
And it was to meet that very same individual that he now sought the
place again.
But as Vernon had not yet arrived, Tidkins, after walking round the
dilapidated cottage to convince himself that no stranger was near, took
a seat upon a pile of bricks, and, producing a cigar-case, was speedily
wrapped in the enjoyment of a mild havannah and his own delectable
meditations.
With the nature of those thoughts we shall not trouble the reader:
suffice it to say that they were all connected with the scheme which he
and his master were carrying on at Ravensworth Hall, and the last dread
act of which was now in immediate contemplation.
Tidkins had just lighted a second cigar, when he descried Vernon at a
distance.
He, however, continued to smoke—for he was not the man to stand upon any
ceremony with his employer, even were that employer a prince.
"Come at last?" said Tidkins, as Vernon entered the ruins. "Been doing
the amiable to the ladies, I suppose?"
"I have succeeded in that task tolerably well lately," answered Vernon,
with difficulty concealing an expression of disgust at the odious
familiarity of his agent; but he had already learnt that crime places
the menial upon a footing with the master, and compels the haughty
aristocrat to brook the insolence of the vulgar desperado.
"Well, now we are drawing to the end of the play at last," continued
Tidkins. "So much the better: for I was getting infernally sick of this
moping kind of life. But what if this plan of ours should happen to
fail?"
"Then I will try another—and even another, if necessary, until we
succeed," answered Vernon, emphatically. "Yes: I am now so bent upon the
deed—so resolved to become the lord and owner of these broad lands and
yon proud mansion—that I will even risk my neck to attain that end."
"You speak in a plucky manner that I admire," said Tidkins. "Besides,
when once you are Lord Ravensworth, who will dare to utter a
suspicion—even if there should seem any ground for it?"
"No one—certainly," replied Vernon. "But have you looked about the
ruins? Remember the last time we met here—there was an eaves-dropper
then——"
"Don't alarm yourself," interrupted Tidkins: "I walked carefully round
the place; and I'll swear no one is near. Unless, indeed," he added,
with a jocular chuckle, "some very curious person has got into that
great cistern up there; and I must confess I didn't climb up to look
into it."
"Cease this humour," said Vernon, somewhat sternly. "If you have been
round the ruins, that is sufficient. Our business is too important to
allow us to waste time in idle bantering. Do the jugglers understand
that they are to come up this evening?"
"Fully so," answered Tidkins, coolly inhaling the fragrant vapour of his
cigar. "They are all at the _Three Kings_—that public-house which you
see by the road-side yonder,—and most likely making merry with the
couple of guineas that I gave them last night. It is not necessary that
I should see them again before they come to the Hall."
"You mentioned to them that there was a sick lady at the mansion who
would be amused with their sports?" said Vernon.
"I have already told you what representations I made," replied Tidkins,
impatiently. "Where's the use of asking the question over again?"
"For the same reason that one reads a letter twice," rejoined
Vernon,—"to see that nothing has been omitted which ought to be said or
done. But are you sure that the fellows will understand how to use the
detonating balls?"
"Nothing is easier," answered Tidkins. "And as it was merely to try one
that we agreed to meet here now, suppose I just make the trial
directly?"
"Yes—I am anxious to be assured of the effect," said Vernon. "We are far
enough away from the Hall to do so in safety."
"Certainly we are," remarked Tidkins. "In the first place we're down in
this deep valley;—in the second place there's the thick grove on the top
of the hill;—and in the third place, even if there wasn't the hill at
all between us and the Hall, the back windows of the mansion don't look
this way. So the smoke can't be seen."
"True!" exclaimed Vernon. "And now for the test."
The Resurrection Man drew from his pocket a ball covered with coarse
blue paper, and nearly as large as a cricket-ball.
Then, rising from his seat, he dashed it with some degree of violence
upon the hard ground.
It exploded in the twinkling of an eye, with a din as loud as that of a
blunderbuss; and both Vernon and the Resurrection Man were immediately
enveloped in a dense cloud of black and sulphurous-smelling smoke.
When the dark volume had blown away, Vernon beheld the cadaverous
countenance of the Resurrection Man looking towards him with a grin of
ferocious satisfaction.
"Well—will that do?" cried Tidkins, triumphantly.
"Admirably," answered Gilbert, averting his face—for there was something
fiend-like and horrible in the leer of his companion.
There was a short pause; and then those two villains resumed their
conversation. But as the remainder of their discourse was connected with
the last act of their tragic drama, which we shall be compelled to
relate in detail, it is unnecessary to record in this place any more of
what passed between them upon the present occasion.
After having been nearly an hour together, Gilbert Vernon and the
Resurrection Man separated, in order to return by different routes to
the Hall.
Five minutes after they had left the building, the head of a man looked
cautiously over the brink of the empty cistern to which Tidkins had
jocularly alluded, and which stood on the top of the least dilapidated
portion of the lodge.
Seeing that the coast was now perfectly clear, the person who was
concealed in the cistern emerged from his hiding-place and let himself
drop lightly upon the ground.
[Illustration]
This individual was the gipsy, Morcar.
Being on his way to London,—alone, and upon some business connected with
his tribe,—he had stopped to rest himself in those ruins: but he had not
been there many minutes, when he heard the sound of footsteps; and,
almost immediately afterwards, he beheld, through a cranny in the wall
behind which he was seated, the well-known form and features of the
Resurrection Man.
His first impulse was to dart upon the miscreant and endeavour to make
him his prisoner; but, seeing that Tidkins looked suspiciously about,
Morcar instantly imagined that he had some object in seeking that place.
At the same time it struck him, from his knowledge of the Resurrection
Man's character, that this object could be no good one; and he resolved
to watch the villain's proceedings.
Thus, while Tidkins was making the circuit of the ruins, Morcar
clambered noiselessly and rapidly up to the cistern, in which he
concealed himself.
The consequence was, that the gipsy overheard the entire discourse which
shortly afterwards ensued between Tidkins and Vernon; and a scheme of
such diabolical villany was thus revealed to him, that his hair almost
stood on end as the details of the fearful plot were gradually developed
by means of that conversation.
When the Resurrection Man and Gilbert Vernon had taken their departure,
and Morcar had emerged from his hiding-place, his first impulse was to
proceed to Ravensworth Hall and communicate every thing he had overheard
to the lady of that mansion.
But, ere he took that step, he sate down, with the usual caution which
characterises his race, to ponder upon the subject.
We have before stated that it is repugnant to the principles of the
Zingarees to be instrumental in delivering a criminal over to any
justice save their own; and Morcar knew that if he did adopt such a
course, he must necessarily appear as a witness against the two villains
whose dark designs he had so strangely discovered. This appearance in a
court of justice would sorely damage him with his tribe, over whom he
was to rule at his father's death.
It is, however, probable that the excellent effects of Richard Markham's
example upon the generous-hearted Morcar would have hushed those
scruples and induced him to do what his good sense told him was his duty
towards society, had not the sudden reminiscence of a certain portion of
the conversation he had overheard confirmed him in the opinion that he
should be acting more prudently to counteract the project of the two
villains at the moment it was to be put into execution, rather than
deliver them up to justice ere it was attempted.
"_I am now so bent upon the deed_," had one of the miscreants said, "_so
resolved to become the owner of these broad lands and yon proud
mansion—that I will even risk my neck to attain that end!_"
The reasoning which these words now engendered in Morcar's mind, was
coincidentally similar to that upon which Eliza Sydney's conduct had
been based.
"This man," thought Morcar, "who dared to utter such sentiments, is the
member of a noble family—the next heir after an infant child, to the
title and lands of Ravensworth. Would the word of a wandering gipsy be
for a moment credited against his indignant denial of the accusation
which I should make against him, were he now delivered up to justice?
And, were he to escape from that accusation, would he not commence anew
his dark plots against the life of that child who seems to stand in his
way? Far better will it be for me to counteract his scheme, and then
proclaim his guilt when _my_ evidence can be corroborated by the fact
that _he_ did attempt the deed of which he will stand accused! Yes—it
must be so. Then will the law for ever remove him from a scene where his
detestable machinations would sooner or later prove fatal to their
innocent object!"
Having devised a mode of proceeding, Morcar quitted the ruins, and bent
his way towards the _Three Kings_ public-house, which was about a mile
distant.
On his arrival at the little rustic inn, the gipsy sauntered into the
tap-room, where he sate down, and ordered some refreshment.
At one of the tables five men were busily engaged in devouring bread and
cheese and washing down the same with long draughts of Barclay and
Perkins's Treble X. They were thin, but well-made and athletic-looking
fellows; and were dressed in garments of which fustian and corduroy were
the principal materials. On the bench near them were several bundles
tied up in handkerchiefs, through the openings and holes of which the
quick eye of the gipsy caught sight of certain nankin breeches and
flesh-coloured stockings, such as are worn by itinerant mountebanks. In
a corner of the room stood a large drum, and near it a wicker basket
with a lid.
Morcar was convinced that these persons were the same to whom Vernon and
Tidkins had alluded.
His object was now to get into conversation with them; and this was
easily effected by one of those casual remarks upon the weather which
invariably commence a discourse between strangers in this country.
"Fine day," said the gipsy, after quenching his thirst with half the
contents of a pint of porter.
"Very, indeed," replied one of the men. "Have you walked far this
morning?"
"Pretty well," returned Morcar. "I'm going to London presently," he
added with apparent carelessness, "to try and astonish the people a
little."
"Ah!" exclaimed another of the jugglers: "and how so? For it must be a
clever feller to do that with the Londoners. But may be your people have
got hold of some new way of telling fortunes—for the old one is veared
out by this time, I should think."
"You suppose that because I am of the gipsy race I must be connected
with women who tell fortunes," said Morcar, laughing good-naturedly.
"Well, so I have been; but now I'm going to begin in a new line. In fact
I don't mind telling you what it is—it's no secret; and I'm half
inclined to believe that it's more or less in your way also," he added,
glancing significantly towards the drum and the bundles.
"If you could only do some new trick in our line," cried one of the men,
eagerly, "you'd make your fortune: but it must be a good one, mind."
"I can do a trick that, I flatter myself, no other man in England can
perform," said Morcar, still speaking in a careless, indifferent kind of
way. "But as you tell me that you _are_ in the juggling line——"
"Yes—we are; and we ain't ashamed on't," exclaimed two or three of the
men together.
"Well—then I'll explain to you what I can do," continued Morcar. "I've
made a net that winds round an immense long roller, which must be raised
upon two upright stakes. When the net is drawn out at dusk, or in a
darkened room, it shows a thousand different figures—men, animals, fish,
birds, snakes, and monsters of all kinds."
"Capital!—capital!" exclaimed the jugglers.
"But that isn't all," continued Morcar. "These figures all move
about—skip—leap—dance—fly—crawl—or seem to swim, according to their
nature."
"Come, come—that won't do!" said one of the men, who began to think the
gipsy was bantering them.
"It's as true as you're there," answered Morcar, seriously; "and it's
very easy to do, too:—only a little phosphorus and other chemical
things, skilfully used in a particular way. I reckon upon setting all
the young children wild with delight when they see it."
"And if you can really do what you say," observed the man who had last
spoken, "you're safe to make your ten bob a-day. But, then," he added,
with a sly glance towards his companions, "the trick won't take so well
alone: it ought to come after the usual exhibition of chaps like us."
"That's just what I have been thinking myself," cried Morcar. "Only, as
I didn't know any people in your way——"
"Well, now you know some, at all events," interrupted the spokesman of
the party of jugglers; "and though I say it what shouldn't perhaps, you
won't find a jollier or better set of fellers than us in all England.
What should you say to making a bargain with us?"
"I have no objection," replied Morcar: "we can but give the thing a
trial. But I would rather begin in the country, if possible, than in
London."
"The very ticket!" cried the man: "you shall begin to-night. We're hired
to perform at that great house which you see from the window; and as we
are to be there about half an hour before sunset, it will just be dark
enough at the end of our performances for you to show yours. What do you
say?"
"Let us settle the terms," answered Morcar; "and I've no objection."
The five jugglers, who were evidently much delighted at the prospect of
securing so valuable an addition to their troop, consulted together in
whispers for a short period, while Morcar hummed a tune as if perfectly
indifferent whether a bargain were concluded or not. The men did not
fail to remark his free and off-hand manner, and took it as an
unquestionable proof of his confidence in the value of his invention and
the success which must attend upon its exhibition. They therefore
resolved to enlist him on almost any terms.
"Well," said the spokesman of the party, at length turning towards
Morcar once more, "me and my partners here have no objection to give you
one-third of the earnings."
"That will suit my purpose uncommonly," replied Morcar: "so let us shake
hands upon it."
"And wet it," added one of the jugglers, who, as the gipsy subsequently
discovered, was the musician of the party—his instrumental harmony being
composed of the huge drum and a set of Pandean pipes, vulgarly called a
mouth-organ.
The process of shaking hands all round and of imbibing more strong beer
was then gone through; after which the jugglers became very anxious to
see the marvellous net that was to make their fortunes. They were,
therefore, somewhat disappointed when Morcar informed them that one of
the tribe had conveyed it to London in his cart the day before; but
their elongating countenances expanded once more into smiles of
satisfaction when he assured them that he would instantly set off after
it, and be with them again at least an hour previously to the time when
they intended to visit the mansion in the neighbourhood.
Matters being thus arranged, Morcar took his departure—rejoiced at the
success of his project, though somewhat annoyed at having been compelled
to utter so many falsehoods to the credulous jugglers. But this vexation
was speedily dissipated by the remembrance of the important duty which
he had undertaken; and he moreover intended to make the poor fellows a
handsome recompense for the disappointment they were destined to
experience relative to the wonderful net.
It is not necessary to follow the gipsy's footsteps to the metropolis,
and back to the _Three Kings_ again: suffice it to say that he made his
appearance at the little public-house shortly after six o'clock in the
evening—much to the joy of the five jugglers, who began to imagine that
he had been hoaxing them.
But all their suspicions vanished when they beheld the gipsy return,
with an iron rod, as long as a hop-pole, and round which the magic net
was rolled, over his shoulder.
This rod was not much thicker than the thumb, but the bulk of the burden
was considerably increased by the folds of the net.
And at that net did the jugglers stare with such eager eyes, that Morcar
could hardly contain his laughter: for the net was nothing more than a
common one of the very largest size, such as poachers use to drag canals
and small rivers. It was, however, very strong, and when stretched out
would cover a room eighteen feet long, by twelve in width.
The iron rod was about thirteen feet long, and the net was rolled round
it breadthways.
"You will let us have a sight of the thing before we go?" said one of
the jugglers.
"I had rather rest myself for half an hour, or so if you please,"
returned Morcar. "My walk to-day has been none of the shortest; and I am
sadly fatigued. Your curiosity will keep till by and by; for as I have
fulfilled my word in coming back, you surely can trust me when I tell
you that this net, simple as it may appear, will do all I have promised.
Besides, we should only have the trouble of darkening the room, which
must be done with blankets, as there are no shutters."
"Let our new friend have his own way, Mike," said the musician of the
troop.
"And now," continued Morcar, "I must propose a certain condition,
without giving any explanation, but it belongs to my part of the
performance. What I require is this:—one of you must remain entirely
with me from the moment I pitch the stakes to which this net is to be
fastened; and the one who so remains with me, must do just as I direct
him in the arrangement of the net; because I must seize a particular
time of the evening, in regard to the twilight, to unroll it."
"Well—that can be managed without difficulty," said the man who had been
addressed as Mike. "It is always my business to collect the coppers
after the exhibition; and I take no share in the performances. So I can
remain with you—and whatever you tell me to do, shall be done."
"So far, so good," exclaimed Morcar. "And now, as it is pretty nearly
time to set off, we had better begin to dress."
"Are _you_ going to dress too?" demanded Mike, with mingled satisfaction
and astonishment.
"Only just to disguise myself a bit," answered Morcar, taking a huge red
wig from one pocket and a hideous mask from another; "because there's
often a prejudice amongst people—especially young ones—against gipsies."
"So there is," observed Mike. "Besides, it's much better to go in
character, as they say."
The jugglers were now in high spirits; and they speedily addressed
themselves to the process of changing their common apparel for the
professional costume.