SIR ANDREW APPEARS IN A NEW CHARACTER—HIS DESIGNS ON DAME
WORTHINGTON’S PROPERTY—HE CLAIMS RELATIONSHIP—THE POISONED
DRAUGHTS—THE OLD DAME’S SAD EXPERIENCE IN THE WORLD—A STRANGER
COMES UPON THE SCENE—NEWS FROM NED WARBECK.
There was some mystery attached to old Dame Worthington, Sir Richard
Warbeck, and his two adopted nephews, Charley and Wildfire Ned.
What this mystery was, no one could find out; but Mistress Haylark
swore in her own heart that there _must_ be one, and she would have
given her finger-ends to have found it out.
All that we can say at present is that, in her youth and prime, good
Dame Worthington must have been a great beauty, for even now she bore
traces of it.
All we know for a positive fact is that, when rather over thirty,
she condescended to marry a sea captain, who, through Sir Richard
Warbeck’s influence at the India House, had the command of a brig.
There were no children from the marriage and old Worthington proved
a worthless drunken fellow, and, when in his cups, gave way to all
manner of extravagances.
His jealous, uproarious disposition was fully manifested upon every
possible occasion when ashore.
When drunk he would lie on the sofa and sing uproarious songs all
night, to the infinite disgust of fellow lodgers.
When, perhaps, only half inebriated, and tempted as usual by
jealousy, he would toss the furniture about and break all the
crockery.
So that, everything considered, his absence was far more preferable
than his presence.
Hence, when the news arrived that the barque “Columbo” had grounded
in a gale, on the Florida Reefs, with the loss of all hands, Dame
Worthington gave vent to her feelings in a few sobs and a fainting
fit, but more than this she betrayed little of that grief which might
have been expected from a loved and cherished wife.
Her only true and fast friend through life was, as he always had
been, old Sir Richard Warbeck.
He furnished a private hotel for her, the management of which fully
occupied her time and brought in much money.
But now that Charley Warbeck was married and settled, she seemed in
part satisfied, and looked even younger than ever.
But still she fretted much for Ned Warbeck, who was at sea, for of
the two youths she loved him much the best.
He was younger, bolder, and far more handsome than Charley, but he
was always a wild, harum-scarum youth; and, since he had run away to
sea the old dame fretted much, wept in secret, and would have given
the world to have seen her darling boy once more.
But everybody said that, since he had gone out in search of the
Skeleton Crew, he would never return alive.
“Don’t believe such idle tales,” said Sir Richard, often. “Young Ned
has got as many lives as a cat. Put him where you will, he is sure to
fall on his feet.”
But now a stranger made Dame Worthington’s acquaintance.
This was no other than old Sir Andrew!
He had got tired of country life, and determined to start again in
the city.
He had heard and knew that old Sir Richard was not only very wealthy
and powerful, but that he constantly visited good Dame Worthington.
“She is a silly, soft-hearted woman,” thought Sir Andrew. “By going
to live there, I shall fall across Sir Richard, and it may be that
by-and-bye we may get better acquainted, and he may assist me in
re-establishing myself in business.”
“If any one wants to get favours out of a man, let him flatter the
woman that man most respects,” thought Sir Andrew.
He was a “canny Scot,” and, like all his nation, had a long,
calculating head.
He had not been residing long at Dame Worthington’s, therefore—his
wife was always in the country—when he and she became remarkably
chatty together, and communicative.
Sir Andrew passed himself off as a widower, and told such a pitiful
tale how he had been wronged and dishonoured by Phillip and his own
daughter, that the good dame listened attentively to all the old
hypocrite had to say, and not only sympathised with him, but even
went so far as to plead his cause to Sir Richard, who, she thought,
from his power and position, might help Sir Andrew on to the path of
fortune once more.
The cunning Scot knew that nothing pleases a woman more than
flattery, particularly in one who is a “good listener,” and can hear
out the many long stories which widows always have to tell.
Every one have their trials and troubles, as we have seen in this
tale, besides Sir Andrew, hence it need not surprise any one to
be informed that good Dame Worthington had a very long list of
grievances to complain of in her dealings with the world.
It was her settled conviction that old widows were the most oppressed
class in existence, and herself the most deeply wronged of them all.
Butchers, bakers, milkmen, and tax-collectors were her abomination,
and she often sighed that boarding houses could not be carried on
without them.
“For, my dear,” she would say, “one has scarcely got a few pounds in
hand, before down come the bills upon you, first for one thing, and
then for another, so that we never have a penny to call our own. And
then, there’s our _losses_; ah, my dear, you haven’t the _slightest_
notion of what I have to suffer; poor folks like me have occasion to
be ‘smart,’ these times, I can assure you, for we see a deal of this
wicked world in a very short time.
“Just fancy, my dear; little more than two years ago, a very
respectable-looking, genteel young man, calls on me.
“‘Good morning, Dame Worthington,’ says he.
“‘Good morning, sir,’ says I, ‘and what do you please to want?’
“‘I have been in search of hotel accommodation, ma’am,’ says he, ‘for
several days; respectable apartments in a respectable neighbourhood,
and hearing yours highly spoken of, I have called.’
“Well, my dear, he was the nicest young man you ever see; so mild and
quiet, and honest looking, very much like my brother was before he
was killed, and I thought that he certainly must be a very genteel,
amiable young man, and I let him have the lodgings.
“After a few nights he got more and more at home with the lodgers,
and even played the harp and guitar in the parlour; and Mistress
Haylark said, and the other ladies also, that he was the nicest young
man, that ever lived in my house.
“He dressed very stylish, my dear, and _would_ have his apartments
arranged, and swept, and dusted oftener than anybody else, for which
he was willing to pay ‘extra,’ he said, if required.
“The number of wax candles that young man had, and the coals, and
odds and ends of different kinds, were considerable, my dear, but
he said he had never denied himself in anything, being rich, and,
therefore, couldn’t do without them.
“The number of things which shopmen sent in, was wonderful; new boots
and shoes, new coats and waistcoats, and fine linen, until we all
began to think, at one time, he was going to make a runaway match
with Mistress Haylark’s daughter Fanny.
“For he seemed very sweet in that quarter, and Mistress Haylark
was very fond of him also; _too_ fond of him, _I_ think, between
ourselves, considering she’s a widow just as old as me almost, except
she primps and paints, and wears false back hair.
“Oh, bless you, we all liked him amazing, and he was so nicely
dressed and well behaved, and had so many ways of entertaining a room
full of company, that the first month passed like a single week.
“Although my rule is ‘weekly payments,’ he was so polite, and offered
me so many references that I felt I could trust my whole house in his
hands.
“I loaned him several sums on different occasions, as he was out of
‘small change,’ he said, and after he had been two months in the
house—oh! that I’m obliged to confess it—he, one night, suddenly
disappeared, trunks and all! without paying any one a single penny,
my dear!
“Oh, I was never taken aback so much in my whole life!
“Not that I cared for what he owed _me_, you know, although I _am_ a
poor lone widow without any natural protector, and earn every penny
by the sweat of my brow.
“Oh, it hurt Miss Josephine Smith, next door, very much, my dear; she
has never been the same girl since, for she was ‘dead on’ to him.
“Mistress Haylark was frantic almost; she had loaned him £10, and he
walked off with her best diamond ring; think o’ that.
“How that diamond ring (‘paste,’ my dear, between ourselves) should
have come into _his_ hands is a mystery to me, without she gave it to
him, which shows how _some_ people can lower themselves when they are
manœuvring to marry off a daughter.
“But between you and me, although everybody knows that I am not given
to backbiting or detracting, which I consider mean in anybody, but
specially in a landlady talking of her own lodgers, who pay regular,
and give little trouble, I _must_ say, my dear, that I think at that
time she was trying to get the young man herself!
“Because, although my eyes are not the best in the world, on account
of the troubles I have gone through, and the many briny tears I have
shed, I _can_ see as far as most folks, and when I hear silk rustling
on a dark landing, and hear a scuffling going on, it don’t take long
for me to guess which way the wind is blowing in certain quarters
that I know of, my dear.”
“You see there are so many different kinds of people, that it takes
great experience and the patience of Job, to keep a respectable
boarding house the way it should be.
“Now, there’s Mistress Tiffler, my dear, who keeps a house just round
the corner—why bless you, I wouldn’t have a place like hers for all
the world—I can’t go by the house without turning up my nose, for
really it seems to smell of nothing else but grease and dirt.
“_Nobody_ looks clean at that house; and, as to feeding, good
gracious! you should only see what half-starved wretches they are.
Well, how can it be otherwise, my dear?
“She goes off to market, and buys up all kinds of rubbish, which I
wouldn’t touch. She boards ’em cheap, and is a regular vixen, my
dear; a perfect ‘hurricane’ as my poor, lost sailor husband used to
say.
“But then, of course, there is no comparison between me and such a
woman as that. How she gets along with the Germans, and French, and
others who live in her place, I can’t see.
“They are always having rows there, but no one can even whisper, and
say that anything of the kind ever happened to my house, except once,
when two of the lodgers, young city clerks, fell out about a servant
girl, who was rather good-looking, and knocked each other down stairs.
“You have no notion, my dear, of my troubles.
“If I have mutton as the principal dish some one grumbles, if I have
beef another sniffs and says he’s dined already.
“Then Mistress this is too lazy to come down to breakfast, and almost
pulls the bell down for Sarah to take it up to her.
“Then Miss the other, her daughter, don’t like tea nor coffee and
must have chocolate and toast; while two or three others eat hot
cakes faster than we can make ’em; and then there’s more grumbling
and threatening to leave, until it worries my very life out almost.
“I don’t care much about how the _men_ talk, you know, because I can
manage _them_.
“If their boots and hot water aren’t ready I can plead an excuse of
some kind, and even if they _do_ ‘burst out’ like, and tell you what
they think, and threaten to go, I don’t dislike ’em, because, as my
poor husband used to say, ‘after the storm there’s always a calm,’
and then _my_ turn comes.
“If they owe anything I talks like a sensible woman to ’em, and
‘rides a high horse,’ but if they don’t I only smiles, and takes no
notice.
“Oh, I can get along with the men, my dear, I always could. I would
rather have to do with _ten_ men than _one_ woman; and wouldn’t have
one in the house at all if I could help it.
“But, then, you see, my dear, men _will_ have women in the house; I
don’t blame ’em a bit, it looks natural like.
“A house don’t look right without a woman or two but; heaven keep me
from having a houseful of young women and young men!
“I tried it once, but it wouldn’t answer, my dear.
“Oh, the sorrow and vexation I had with ’em. I had my hands full, and
soon gave it up.
“Young widows in the house are just as bad.
“I abominate widows in the house from my heart, particularly when
young and handsome, although I am a widow myself.
“There’s always trouble about ’em, and they are always flirting with
some one, and getting the men into fusses.
“But what can you do, my dear? You must have _some_ one that’s
attractive to keep the men together, otherwise the place would be as
cold and cheerless to ’em as an ice-house.
“But, then, my dear, they talk so much, there’s no end to their
chatter.
“You can’t keep ’em from it, and the older they get the more they
have to say about their neighbours.
“Not that _I_ care, you know, my dear; they can talk as much as they
like for all _me_, so they pays their bills, and don’t actually
insult me to my face.
“But it is very aggravating, my dear, to see ’em chatting and
whispering in each other’s rooms, passing unkind remarks behind one’s
back, and appearing all smiles and friendly like before your face.
“It don’t matter what you do for ’em, my dear, they will talk about
you; and, although I’m no eavesdropper, and wouldn’t listen at any
one’s door for all the world, I _do_ know certain things of certain
parties, which would surprise certain quarters, if it was only
whispered in their ear confidentially, my dear.
“But I’m _not_ one of that kind; I know my position too well for
that, my dear, and wouldn’t lower my dignity by peeping into their
rooms when they are out, not me! or prying into boxes and drawers,
and rummaging about with their work-boxes and private notes. No
indeed, nothing of that kind in my house, my dear.
“If they meets me on the landing and says,
“‘Dame Worthington, will you come in for a few moments?’
“I always says,
“‘Certainly, with pleasure, Mistress Perkins; how do you do this
morning ma’am? you are looking very well, I never saw you look so
young and captivating, indeed I didn’t. Come in! of course I will,
for a few minutes, to have a friendly chat, like, about old times.’
“But I always says,
“‘Please don’t offer me any refreshment, Mistress Perkins,’ I says,
‘because my stomach is weak, and I can’t stand it; a thimbleful of
brandy would knock me over, my dear, in a minute.’
“Because a glass of ginger wine don’t cost _much_, you know, my dear;
and if you accepts _their_ little deceitful offers, they always takes
advantage of it to wear the very legs off the poor servant girl, and
me too, if I’d let ’em.
“But I lets ’em ring away till tired, and takes no notice, until they
comes down stairs themselves, and then when they knocks at my door,
I seems surprised not to hear the bell, and then they gets what they
want.
“Bless you, my dear, if something wasn’t done, we should wear the
stairs out.
“First there’s old Mr. Brown upstairs, he wants hot water
half-a-dozen times a day and can’t hear the dinner bell without it is
rung outside his door.
“Mistress Perkins is always in want of something, and that wretched
pet dog of hers is _always_ causing trouble.
“It was only the other day I missed a beefsteak off the kitchen
table, and at last I traced it upstairs to Mistress Perkins,’ door,
where the dog stood growling and showing his teeth, until in fright I
upset the servant maid and her pail of water, and fell headlong down
stairs.”
The smiling old scoundrel, Sir Andrew, would sit and listen to the
good old dame, as she recounted her trials and troubles, and would
nod in approval as meekly as a lamb.
But he was a deep designing old villain, as we shall see.
It is true that the old dame had fallen downstairs and seriously hurt
herself and was then very ill.
He also had learned that, in some way, she was a very distant
relation of his, and the only one then living.
This discovery greatly surprised old Dame Worthington, and Sir
Richard Warbeck also; but the cunning scoundrel supported his
statement to relationship with so much plausible, but fictitious,
evidence that both Sir Richard and Dame Worthington took the cunning
Scotchman into their confidence.
Sir Andrew had now “the game in his own hands,” he thought, and he
also came by the information, that should Sir Richard die first,
_all_ his property, if Phillip Redgill was proved guilty of the
crimes of which Captain Jack accused him, would all go to Charley,
Ned Warbeck, and Dame Worthington.
“As she has made her will already,” thought Sir Andrew, “and left
me a small sum, and the rest to the Warbecks, it would not be very
difficult to get the will altered altogether in _my_ favour,
“_And poison her!_”
This devilish design he resolved to put into execution.
He was very attentive to old Dame Worthington, and would suffer no
one, as a “relation,” in the absence of Sir Richard, to administer to
her any medicine, however simple.
With these opportunities in his hand, Sir Andrew made good use of his
time.
He never allowed a chance to pass him, but, day by day, was gradually
poisoning her.
The old dame got weaker and weaker every day.
The doctors could not make it out.
Yet the sole object of her thoughts was the adventurous stray one,
Ned Warbeck, “her favourite boy.”
While propped up in her chair, one day in the parlour, and surrounded
by her friends, she was continually speaking of her “poor sailor
boy,” Ned, when a gentleman, who was present, said,
“Well, madam, I know not who your young favourite is, but I am a
sailor myself and love the profession.”
“It is a compliment to me to hear you speak in such glowing terms of
our gallant tars.
“And the bravest of them all is Ned Warbeck, I know,” said the old
dame with a flushed cheek.
“Of course he is,” said old Sir Andrew, trying to smile, but at the
same time, congratulating himself at the potent power of the secret
poison he was daily administering for the sake of the good old dame’s
money. “Ned Warbeck, of course he is the bravest of the brave,” he
muttered, “there isn’t a lad in all the king’s navy like to him.”
“Ned Warbeck?” said the stranger, in astonishment.
“Yes, do you know him?” asked the good dame, in great curiosity.
The stranger did not answer, but said, “If you will only listen, I’ll
tell you something that will gratify you.”
So saying, he lit his pipe again, and commenced his story round the
crackling winter fire.