GAMES OF DEATH AND CHANCE.
The Langdale establishment, changed into a furnace, belched forth
torrents of fire at every aperture. The roof had fallen, and the flames
ascended free of all impediment in one great sheet, which, being lashed
by the wind at a certain height, curved into an arch and threatened to
deluge the city with a devouring rain. Before the vast blazing pile a
hideous, anomalous mob clad in indescribable rags and tatters, danced
with furious, drunken joy. Several hours earlier the great hogsheads
which had been dragged out of the distillery had been knocked in the
head without ceremony, and every one had drunk his fill. Then the
precious liquids had escaped, forming foaming pools and rippling
rivulets, in which rare old port mingled with malmsey, and gin with
sherry. Along the line of these pools and rivulets a crowd of human
beings of both sexes and all ages, some with their infants in their
arms, crouched upon their hands and knees, stretching their lips to sip
the wine and mud. These were very soon rendered incapable of regaining
their feet and insensible to the brutal passage of fresh bands, who
trampled them under foot, and thus increased the quivering heap. At last
the sparks falling from the lurid heavens ignited this sea of alcohol,
which surged in bluish, spectral waves, enveloping the wretches,
drowning while it set them on fire. The wallowing bodies writhed like
mutilated serpents, the spasmodic convulsions, vain, desperate efforts,
and hoarse cries having in them no semblance to humanity. Thus the most
horrible of deaths fell upon them in the midst of their intoxication,
without so much as sobering them in the moment of dissolution. Meanwhile
the rest, amidst all this horror, continued their demoniacal dance.
One of these fiends espied Esther. Staggering with open mouth and
outstretched arms, hideous in his bestial carouse, he made two or three
steps towards her. She fled back to the house, which she reached in a
few moments. Upon the threshold stood Lebeau.
"At last!" she gasped. "I thought I was going mad!"
"Be calm," he replied. "I have found Mrs. Marsham, and I am going to
take you to her. I know a way, but there is not a moment to be lost. In
less than an hour this house will be reduced to ashes with the rest."
"But Maud!--she has lost her senses and refuses to follow me."
Without a word Lebeau hurried into the chamber, where he found the old
woman. During the moment of silence that ensued Esther heard a sound
upon the lower floor of the house.
"Some one has opened the door!" she cried; "some one is entering below!"
She thought with terror of the wretch who had followed her, and whom she
had seen stumble over some obstacle and fall heavily to the ground,
whence he was unable to rise.
Lebeau reappeared in answer to her warning of danger. Too late! Some one
was mounting the stairs, advancing with rapid step, and when at last
the flare of the conflagration fell upon his features through the open
doorway Esther and Lebeau recognized Lord Mowbray.
The first thought that presented itself to the girl's mind was that she
had been betrayed.
"Oh!" she cried, bending upon Lebeau a glance of despair and hatred,
"you have ruined me!"
This fresh shock proved too much for her endurance. Exhausted with
emotion, she fell, striking her head upon the foot of the bed, and lay
there motionless upon the floor. Lebeau sprang to her, raised her in his
arms, and placed her gently upon the bed; then he bent above her pallid
face.
"Swooned!" he murmured, as if speaking to himself.
With folded arms Lord Mowbray watched him, following every movement with
an ironical smile.
"Master Lebeau!" he said, breaking the silence.
"My lord?" answered Lebeau, turning and facing him, pale but resolute.
"Do you still deny that you have played me false?"
"More than ever do I affirm that I have served your lordship
faithfully."
"By thwarting my plans and robbing me of this girl?"
"By robbing you of this girl, yes. It was my duty."
"Your duty? That is the first time I have ever heard the word upon your
lips."
"That was my fault. After all, my lord, perhaps there is a God."
"You should have sooner told me so. If you are converted, go join the
hypocrites of your ilk, and leave me. This deserted place, this night of
conflagration and slaughter, this unconscious girl,--all suits me well.
I have a fancy for adventure which has no vulgar tang about it."
Standing between the bed where Esther lay and young Mowbray, Lebeau did
not move.
"Excuse me, my lord," he said steadily, "it is you who are to leave. You
will not lay a finger upon this child."
"Why not?"
"Because I forbid you."
"And pray why do you forbid me?"
"_Because she is my daughter and your sister!_"
For an instant Mowbray stood transfixed with amazement; then he burst
into a laugh.
"By my soul!" he exclaimed, "my father was right: you are the most
amusing rascal in the world! Long live Lebeau! No human being but you
could have conceived such an idea. The day that my father awoke in the
bottom of that monster pie, the surprise was good, but it cannot hold a
candle to this one! After this night's affair no one can ever say that
you are degenerating; for your imagination, my dear man, was never so
brilliant. Ask me a hundred pounds, or twice that amount; I will refuse
you nothing. But go away now and let the farce end. I have enough of
it."
"I shall not go, and this is no farce. I repeat, Esther Woodville is
your sister."
The young man smiled disdainfully.
"Would you have me believe that Lady Mowbray--"
"Lady Mowbray was a saint! May she hear and pardon me!"
"Amen!"
"Mock if you will, for you will not mock long. Lady Mowbray had nothing
whatever to do with this affair; moreover, Lady Mowbray was a stranger
to your birth, sir!"
This time the young nobleman recoiled in rage.
"Listen to me," said Lebeau authoritatively.
Esther was beginning to recover a vague consciousness. Athwart the
shadows of her swoon thought began to reassert itself, though doubtful,
timid, misty. Stretched upon the bed, incapable of movement, her eyes
closed, she heard voices without comprehending what they said, without
distinguishing the sense of what was spoken.
"Twenty-three years ago," continued Lebeau, "two women were _enceintes_
at the same time, the wife and the mistress of Lord Mowbray, one at his
residence in St. James's, the other in a chamber of his 'Folly' at
Chelsea. The latter was the daughter of a London shop-keeper, whom Lord
Mowbray had abducted from her family, and had concealed as his prisoner.
It was Fate's decree that his lordship should be made a father twice in
one and the same night. He called my attention to your vigor and
vitality when you came into the world. 'Look, Lebeau,' he said to me,
'it is a genuine love-child. See how strong he is, while the other--'
Then a thought occurred to him: why not substitute the illegitimate for
the legitimate child? He hated his wife as he hated all things good and
pure. The thought of rearing the child of a rival charmed him, and he
considered me worthy to execute the change. It was I who bribed the
young nobleman's nurse and placed you in his cradle. When your mother's
health was re-established Lord Mowbray washed his hands of her and the
child whom she believed hers. It was enough for him that the child
should be dispossessed of his fortune and title; he desired that he
should be wretched, deprived of everything. He knew that the family of
his mistress, inflexible as they were in principles, would close their
doors upon the fallen girl and her child. At rest upon this point, he
forbade me to give the sufferers aid, and I disobeyed him."
"That was the beginning of virtue!"
"No, sir. I found her beautiful and provided for her. In my turn she
made me a father, but I treated her as though I were a grand gentleman.
I sank to the infamous level of Lord Mowbray. I exposed her to all the
hazards and misery of a wandering life. She became an actress and
travelled from country town to country town, with a troop of mediocre
actors, dragging Lady Mowbray's son along with her, the child whose
position and name you had usurped. She died--almost starving!"
Lebeau pronounced these final words in a harsh tone of profound woe,
upon which slowly accumulated remorse had set the tinge of indescribable
bitterness.
"My daughter," he continued after a pause, "I saved from this cruel
existence, provided for her education, and placed her in the home of
honest folk."
"And the other,--the vagabond, my pretended brother?"
Beneath Mowbray's apparent irony Lebeau detected his anxiety.
"His life has been hard, frightfully hard, sir; until the age of ten
years so cruel was it that the recital of his sufferings would touch
any other heart than yours. From one adventure to another he at last
fell into the hands of the Thames pirates, who made a little thief of
him, and reared him for a life of shame and crime."
"Very much as you reared me."
"It is true. I merit the reproach and accept it; but while your evil
instincts grew apace, the germ of good developed in your brother. He
fled from those who had marked him for wrong-doing, and was received by
upright persons.--Ah, you would like to know if he still lives? Do you
think me fool enough to deliver him over to your jealousy and
suspicions? No. You now know enough of this business to understand that
you ought not to remain here an instant longer."
"I have listened to you even unto the end with a patience that
astonishes me. It would appear from this recital that I am under
nameless obligation to you, your _protege_, your creature. As the king
reigns by the grace of God, I am a nobleman by permission of Mons.
Lebeau, and if I cease to merit his good opinion, I lose everything!
Well," he added, suddenly changing his tone, "I do not care to know how
much truth there is in your story, but I do know that this situation is
no longer tenable. No such man as I am ought to be at the mercy of a
Lebeau, hanging upon his discretion. The surest means of my assuring
myself of your silence is to kill you! And kill you I will!"
Saying these words, he whipped out his sword and darted upon his former
tutor.
Esther uttered a feeble cry, but the cry was lost in a frightful crash.
A neighboring wall, undermined by the fire, reeled and fell, striking
upon the roof of the house. A rafter in falling struck the window and
shattered it. A dense, stifling smoke, starred with a myriad sparks,
filled the chamber.
Meanwhile Lebeau, who had never for an instant lost sight of Mowbray's
movements, had darted backward a pace or two, thus placing a table
between himself and his adversary, at the same time drawing his sword in
his turn. Now they were equally matched. It was he who had first placed
a fencing-foil in the young man's hand, he who had taught him with
infinite patience all the secrets of the French and Italian schools of
fencing. In those very schools had they studied the noble art in
company, not disdaining the lessons of resident masters. They had fenced
together every day for ten years, but had never succeeded in scratching
each other, so easy was it for either to parry the thrusts of the other
and to divine his intentions. However, it was necessary that one of
these two men, who had lived so long together as master and disciple,
almost as father and son, should take the other's life; and each bore
written upon his very eyes the fierce desire, the implacable longing, to
kill.
It was not a duel, but a combat. Shifting their footing, retreating
precipitately or lunging unexpectedly, profiting by every obstacle,
bending forward until they almost squatted upon the ground, or bounding
into the air, every few moments they would desist, watching each other,
panting, bathed in perspiration, their features rigid as if petrified
with the same mortal intent. The furniture lay about them upset and
broken, and all the while the smoke continued to thicken. It grew
suffocating and darkened the chamber, recently so bright, while at the
same time it altered the character of the combat, which threatened to
become a blind struggle in the dark. Not a word was exchanged; nothing
was audible but the stifled oaths, the short, harsh breathing that
rattled in the throat, the hissing of the crossed swords, that metallic
sound which freezes the marrow in the bones like a death-knell. In the
adjoining chamber old Maud chanted:--
"Saul hath slain a thousand, but David hath slain ten thousand! Glory be
to the God of hosts! _Deus Sabaoth! Alleluia!_"
Outside the house the tumult of the horrible fete had waned and expired
in a vague, distant wail, intermingled with the dying shrieks of the
participants.
Slowly Esther raised herself upon her elbow; with eyes dilated with
horror she watched the two men as they pursued and evaded each other,
leaping like stags in the ruddy smoke which was neither day nor night.
She fancied herself the dupe of some hideous nightmare.
Neither of the combatants seemed aware of her presence, since both held
their sight riveted upon the tips of their swords as if their very souls
had passed into the glittering points. But Lebeau was weakening, and he
knew it. His grasp trembled and his sight grew dim from minute to
minute. A cold sweat pearled upon his brow, which he attempted to wipe
away with a swift gesture of his left arm; but the beads grew more
abundant, dripped from his eyebrows to his eyelids, and obscured his
vision. His weary feet struck the furniture; already had he stumbled
once; a sort of vertigo caused surrounding objects to whirl about him.
It was death!... Then in sheer desperation he thrust out blindly.
Esther saw the two men run each other through, fall almost one on top of
the other, roll heavily over upon the floor, and lie motionless. Again
she lost consciousness, and for a time no sound disturbed the silence of
the chamber save the chanting of the mad woman.
However, Lebeau raised himself, and strove to collect his ideas and
strength. He was losing great quantities of blood, but the welfare of
Esther was the only clear thought which remained amidst the baleful
giddiness which had invaded his brain. Save Esther! But how? Bear her
away in his arms? He could not do it. Had he even the strength left to
crawl to the stairs, drag himself down and through the alley in search
of help? Yes, there was no alternative. But in the mean time would not
the fire reach her in its swift course? Would not the smoke asphyxiate
the poor child? Stimulated by this alarming thought, the unhappy man
began to drag himself by his bruised and bleeding hands. Every now and
then he was forced to pause, exhausted, fainting, believing that the end
had come. "Esther!"--that name alone revived him. His daughter! his
child! No, he would not leave her to die like that. As for himself, what
mattered it? But _she_, so young, so beautiful,--she, for whom life was
so full of promise! Thus he advanced step by step, lowering himself from
stair to stair amidst the most atrocious agony.
[Illustration]
But when he reached the foot of the stairs he discovered that the wind
had closed the door which Lord Mowbray had left open. He stretched out
his hand and tried to raise himself upon his knee. He could not do it.
Horrible mockery! So simple an action,--to raise a latch, thrust open a
door; but he could not do even so much, he who had accomplished such
extraordinary feats! And salvation lay beyond that door, for it seemed
to him--or was it an illusion?--that he caught the sound of voices in
the court. He strove to raise his voice, but no sound issued from his
lips. Then he sank down in an inert mass, his body obstructing the door
which he would have given the last hour of his existence to open!
Lebeau had not been mistaken; there were voices in the alley-way.
Perhaps, had he been able to attempt one supreme effort, he would have
recognized the voice of his compatriot, the surgeon of the poor, and
that of Francis Monday.
In fact, they were continuing their work of succoring the unfortunates,
upon which they had been engaged for several hours. They had relieved
more than one wounded sufferer, had snatched from the flames more than
one wretch lying at death's door. They pursued their course like
soldiers of duty and humanity, soiled with blood and mud, their
eyelashes singed, their clothing in disorder. Many times had the flying
bullets grazed them. Many times had they been insulted and menaced. They
had seen one of their number crushed by the fall of a blazing wall, but
their zeal had not been dampened; and it was Frank who, in a sort of
heroic frenzy, now urged on his companions.
It was rumored in the crowd that behind the flaming ruins of the
Langdale establishment was a group of dwellings, now wrapped in fire,
which had not been evacuated by the inhabitants.
In seeking a way to reach these unfortunate sufferers, Levet and Frank
had gained the alley-way upon which Lebeau's little house was situated.
Suddenly Frank paused.
"Did you hear that?" he exclaimed.
"What?"
"I don't know.--A voice--singing--in this house!"
They held their breath, and the psalmody of old Maud distinctly reached
the ears of the surgeon and his followers.
"There is someone in there!" cried Levet, "and the roof is already on
fire! They must be raving maniacs!--What ho! Within there!"
He walked around the house, endeavoring to attract the attention of the
inmates.
"Can you not see that the fire is gaining upon you?" he cried. "Come
out, quick!"
But there was no reply, only in the interim of silence they again heard
the old fool's monotonous chanting, the very words even being audible.
"We must save them at any cost!" exclaimed Levet. "Come, comrades!"
They tried to force the door, but as it resisted their efforts they
supposed it must be locked.
"To the window!" said Frank.
With a blow of his elbow he shattered the glass, and, inserting his hand
through the fracture, adroitly opened the casement. It was one of the
talents taught him by his early instructors, the river thieves.
Then, springing upon the window ledge, he entered the chamber, followed
by Levet.
"One dead already!" cried the surgeon. "Great Heaven, it is Lebeau! No,
he still breathes! Hand me a lantern, gentlemen!"
He was already upon his knees beside the dying man.
At the name of Lebeau a sudden thought crossed Frank's mind. If the man
he had sought high and low had been found in this sordid retreat,
perhaps he was close upon the solution of the enigma. Hastily he sprang
up the steep steps of the little stairway,--so hastily that he slipped
in the tracks left by Lebeau's bleeding hands. Upon the landing of the
second floor an unexpected enemy lay in wait for him; a jet of smoke and
flame, issuing from the wide-open door, scorched his face and nearly
suffocated him. With his hands upon his eyes he attempted to rush
through, but tripped over a pair of legs extended upon the floor.
"Still another body!" he thought with horror.
Upon his knees he felt his way with difficulty up to the face of the
dead. It was Lord Mowbray who lay there upon his back, his hair burned
to a crisp, his features blackened but still set in that last defiant
grimace.
Frank had seen enough and was about to recoil to the door, when it
seemed to him that in a corner of the chamber he descried a human figure
lying upon a bed.
Gathering all his energy, he darted thither.
Esther!--it was she!
"Help!" he cried; "help! Levet!"
The surgeon answered the call with several men, but they were arrested
by the terrible current of scorching air which traversed the chamber
from the window to the door.
"She is dead, and I will die with her!"
Such was the only thought that filled Frank's distracted brain. In
despair he threw himself upon the bed, murmuring, "Esther, my beloved!"
And even in that awful moment when his lips touched that still warm
cheek the supreme contact was one of ineffable sweetness. Knotting his
arms about the object of his love, who had not been granted the
opportunity to love him, the poor boy bade farewell to life.
But simultaneously a voice, scarcely more than a sigh, murmured in his
ear, "Save me!"
In an instant he was upon his feet. With a vigor of which he would not
have believed himself capable a moment before, he raised the girl in his
arms and sprang with her through the belt of igneous smoke.