The supper was provided by "Kate the coper," who had lately been "in
luck"; having netted handsomely on one of her steeds, sold to a young
"spoon" she had recently picked up, and who was one of the party.
The "coped" individual was no other than our old friend Frank Scudamore,
who, by the absence of his cousin abroad, and her benign influence over
him, had of late taken to courses of dissipation.
The supper given by Kate was a sort of return to her friend Fan for the
dinner at the McTavish villa; and in sumptuousness was a spread no way
inferior.
In point of time it might have been termed a dinner; for it commenced at
the early hour of eight.
This was to give opportunity for a quiet rubber of whist to be played
afterward, and in which "Spooney," as she called young Scudamore--though
not to his face--was expected to be one of the corners.
There was wine of every variety--each of the choicest to be found in the
cellars of the cafe. Then came the cards, and continued till Scudamore
declared himself cleared out; and then there was carousal.
The mirth was kept up till the guests had got into that condition
jocularly called "How come you so?"
It applied alike to male and female. Fan, the Honourable Geraldine, and
two other frail daughters of Eve, having indulged in the grape juice as
freely as their gentlemen fellow-revellers.
At breaking up, but one of the party seemed firm upon his feet. This
was the Count de Valmy.
It was not his habit to be hard-headed; but on this occasion he had
preserved himself, and for a purpose.
Busy with their own imbibing, nobody noticed him secretly spilling his
liquor into the spittoon, while pretending to "drink fair."
If they had, they might have wondered, but could not have guessed why.
The fiend himself could not have imagined his foul design in thus
dodging the drink.
His gay friends, during the early part of the entertainment, had
observed his abstraction. The Honourable Geraldine had rallied him upon
it. But in due time all had become so mellow, and merry, that no one
believed any other could be troubled with depression of spirits.
An outside spectator closely scrutinising the countenance of Mr Swinton
might have seen indications of such, as also on his part an effort to
conceal it His eyes seemed at times to turn inward, as if his thoughts
were there, or anywhere except with his roystering companions.
He had even shown neglectful of his cards; although the pigeon to be
plucked was his adversary in the game.
Some powerful or painful reflection must have been causing his
absent-mindedness; and it seemed a relief to him when, satiated with
carousal, the _convives_ gave tacit consent to a general _debandade_.
There had been eight of the supper party, and four cabs, called to the
entrance door of the cafe, received them in assorted couples.
It was as much as most of them could do to get inside; but aided by a
brace of Haymarket policemen, with a like number of waiters out of the
hotel, they were at length safely stowed, and the cabs drove off.
Each driver obeyed the direction given him, Scudamore escorting home the
Honourable Geraldine, or rather the reverse; while Swinton, in charge of
his tipsy wife, gave his cabman the order--
"Up the Park Road to Saint John's Wood."
It was spoken, not loudly, but in a low muttered voice, which led the
man to think they could not be a married couple.
No matter, so long as he had his fare, along with a little perquisite,
which the gentleman gave him.
Swinton's weather prophecy had proved true to a shade. The night was
dark as pitch, only of a dun colour on account of the fog.
And this was so thick that late fashionables, riding home in their grand
carriages, were preceded each carriage by a pair of linkmen.
Along Piccadilly and all through Mayfair, torches were glaring through
the thick vapour; the tongues of their bearers filling the streets with
jargon.
Farther on across Oxford Street there were fewer of them; and beyond
Portman Square they ceased to be seen altogether--so that the cab, a
four-wheeler, containing the Count de Valmy and his countess, crept
slowly along Baker Street, its lamps illuminating a circle of scarce six
feet around it.
"It will do," said Swinton to himself, craning his neck out of the
window, and scrutinising the night.
He had made this reflection before, as, first of his party, he came out
on the steps of the Cafe d'Europe.
He did not speak it aloud, though, for that matter, his wife would not
have heard him. Not even had he shouted it in her ear. She was asleep
in a corner of the cab.
Before this she had been a "little noisy," singing snatches of a song,
and trying to repeat the words of an ambiguous _jeu d'esprit_ she had
heard that evening for the first time.
She was now altogether unconscious of where she was, or in what
company--as proved by her occasionally waking up, calling out
"Spooney!"--addressing her husband as the _other_ count, and sometimes
as "Kate the coper!"
Her own count appeared to be unusually careful of her. He took much
pains to keep her quiet; but more in making her comfortable. She had on
a long cloth cloak of ample dimensions--a sort of night wrapper. This
he adjusted over her shoulders, buttoning it close around her throat
that her chest should not be exposed to the fog.
By the time the cab had crawled through Upper Baker Street, and entered
the Park Road, Fan had not only become quiet, but was at length sound
asleep; her tiny snore alone telling that she lived.
On moved the vehicle through the dun darkness, magnified by the mist to
twice its ordinary size, and going slow and silent as a hearse.
"Where?" asked the driver, slewing his body around, and speaking in
through the side window.
"South Bank! You needn't go inside the street. Set us down at the end
of it, in the Park Road."
"All right," rejoined the Jarvey, though not thinking so. He thought it
rather strange, that a gent with a lady in such queer condition should
desire to be discharged in that street at such an hour, and especially
on such a night!
Still it admitted of an explanation, which his experience enabled him to
supply. The lady had stayed out a little too late. The gent wished her
to get housed without making a noise; and it would not do for cab wheels
to be heard drawing up by "the door."
What mattered it to him, cabby, so long as the fare should be
forthcoming, and the thing made "square"? He liked it all the better,
as promising a perquisite.
In this he was not disappointed. At the corner designated, the
gentleman got out, lifting his close muffled partner in his arms, and
holding her upright upon the pavement.
With his spare hand he gave the driver a crown piece, which was more
than double his fare.
After such largess, not wishing to appear impertinent, cabby climbed
back to his box; readjusted the manifold drab cape around his shoulders;
tightened his reins; touched the screw with his whip; and started back
towards the Haymarket, in hopes of picking up another intoxicated fare.
"Hold on to my arm, Fan!" said Swinton to his helpless better half as
soon as the cabman was out of hearing. "Lean upon me. I'll keep you
up. So! Now, come along!"
Fan made no reply. The alcohol overpowered her--now more than ever.
She was too tipsy to talk, even to walk; and her husband had to support
her whole weight, almost to drag her along. She was quite unconscious
whither. But Swinton knew.
It was not along South Bank; they had passed the entrance of that quiet
thoroughfare, and were proceeding up the Park Road!
And why? He also knew why.
Under the Park Road passes the Regent's Canal, spanned by the bridge
already spoken of. You would only know you were crossing the canal by
observing a break in the shrubbery. This opens westward. On the east
side of the road is the park wall rising high overhead, and shadowed by
tall trees.
Looking towards Paddington, you see an open list, caused by the canal
and its tow-path. The water yawns far below your feet, on both sides
draped with evergreens; and foot-passengers along the Park Road are
protected from straying over by a parapet scarce breast-high.
Upon this bridge Swinton had arrived. He had stopped and stood close up
to the parapet, as if for a rest, his wife still clinging to his arm.
He _was_ resting; but not with the intention to proceed farther. He was
recovering strength for an effort so hellish, that, had there been light
around them, he and his companion would have appeared as a _tableau
vivant_--the spectacle of a murderer about to despatch his victim! And
it would have been a tableau true to the life; for such in reality was
his design!
There was no light to shine upon its execution; no eye to see him
suddenly let go his wife's arm, draw the wrapper round her neck, so that
the clasp came behind; and then, turning it inside out, fling the skirt
over her head!
There could be no ear to hear that smothered cry, as, abruptly lifted in
his arms, she was pitched over the parapet of the bridge! Swinton did
not even himself stay to hear the plunge. He only heard it;
indistinctly blending with the sound of his own footsteps, as with
terrified tread he retreated along the Park Road!