MARY KINGSFORD.
Towards the close of the year 1836, I was hurriedly despatched to
Liverpool for the purpose of securing the person of one Charles James
Marshall, a collecting clerk, who, it was suddenly discovered, had
absconded with a considerable sum of money belonging to his employers. I
was too late--Charles James Marshall having sailed in one of the
American liners the day before my arrival in the northern commercial
capital. This fact well ascertained, I immediately set out on my return
to London. Winter had come upon us unusually early; the weather was
bitterly cold; and a piercing wind caused the snow, which had been
falling heavily for several hours, to gyrate in fierce, blinding eddies,
and heaped it up here and there into large and dangerous drifts. The
obstruction offered by the rapidly-congealing snow greatly delayed our
progress between Liverpool and Birmingham; and at a few miles only
distant from the latter city, the leading engine ran off the line.
Fortunately, the rate at which we were traveling was a very slow one,
and no accident of moment occurred. Having no luggage to care for, I
walked on to Birmingham, where I found the parliamentary train just on
the point of starting, and with some hesitation, on account of the
severity of the weather, I took my seat in one of the then very much
exposed and uncomfortable carriages. We traveled steadily and safely,
though slowly along, and reached Rugby Station in the afternoon, where
we were to remain, the guard told us, till a fast down-train had
passed. All of us hurried as quickly as we could to the large room at
this station, where blazing fires and other appliances soon thawed the
half-frozen bodies, and loosened the tongues of the numerous and motley
passengers. After recovering the use of my benumbed limbs and faculties,
I had leisure to look around and survey the miscellaneous assemblage
about me.
Two persons had traveled in the same compartment with me from
Birmingham, whose exterior, as disclosed by the dim light of the railway
carriage, created some surprise that such a finely-attired, fashionable
gentleman should stoop to journey by the plebeian penny-a-mile train. I
could now observe them in a clearer light, and surprise at their
apparent condescension vanished at once. To an eye less experienced than
mine in the artifices and expedients familiar to a certain class of
'swells,' they might perhaps have passed muster for what they assumed to
be, especially amidst the varied crowd of a 'parliamentary;' but their
copper finery could not for a moment impose upon me. The watch-chains,
were, I saw, mosaic; the watches, so frequently displayed, gilt;
eye-glasses the same; the coats, fur-collared and cuffed, were
ill-fitting and second-hand; ditto of the varnished boots and renovated
velvet waistcoats; while the luxuriant moustaches and whiskers, and
flowing wigs, were unmistakably mere _pièces d'occasion_--assumed and
diversified at pleasure. They were both apparently about fifty years of
age; one of them perhaps one or two years less than that. I watched them
narrowly, the more so from their making themselves ostentatiously
attentive to a young woman--girl rather she seemed--of a remarkably
graceful figure, but whose face I had not yet obtained a glimpse of.
They madeboisterous way for her to the fire, and were profuse and noisy
in their offers of refreshment--all of which, I observed, were
peremptorily declined. She was dressed in deep, unexpensive mourning;
and from her timid gestures and averted head, whenever either of the
fellows addressed her, was, it was evident, terrified as well as annoyed
by thier rude and insolent notice. I quietly drew near to the side of
the fire-place at which she stood, and with some difficulty obtained a
sight of her features. I was struck with extreme surprise--not so much
at her singular beauty, as from an instantaneous conviction that she was
known to me, or at least that I had seen her frequently before, but
where or when I could not at all call to mind. Again I looked, and my
first impression was confirmed. At this moment the elder of the two men
I have partially described placed his hand, with a rude familiarity,
upon the girl's shoulder, proffering at the same time a glass of hot
brandy and water for her acceptance. She turned sharply and indignantly
away from the fellow; and looking round as if for protection, caught my
eagerly-fixed gaze.
"Mr. Waters!" she impulsively ejaculated. "Oh, I am so glad!"
"Yes," I answered, "that is certainly my name; but I scarcely
remember----. Stand back, fellow!" I angrily continued, as her
tormentor, emboldened by the spirits he had drank, pressed with a
jeering grin upon his face towards her, still tendering the brandy and
water. "Stand back!" He replied by a curse and a threat. The next moment
his flowing wig was whirling across the room, and he standing with his
bullet-head bare but for a few locks of iron-gray, in an attitude of
speechless rage and confusion, increased by the peals of laughter which
greeted his ludicrous, unwigged aspect. He quickly put himself in a
fighting attitude, and, backed by his companion, challenged me to
battle. This was quite out of the question; and I was somewhat at a
loss how to proceed, when the bell announcing the instant departure of
the train rang out, my furious antagonist gathered up and adjusted his
wig, and we all sallied forth to take our places--the young woman
holding fast by my arm, and in a low, nervous voice, begging me not to
leave her. I watched the two fellows take their seats, and then led her
to the hindmost carriage, which we had to ourselves as far as the next
station.
"Are Mrs. Waters and Emily quite well?" said the young woman coloring,
and lowering her eyes beneath my earnest gaze, which she seemed for a
moment to misinterpret.
"Quite, entirely so," I almost stammered. "You know us then?"
"Surely I do," she replied, reassured by my manner. "But you, it seems,"
she presently added with a winning smile, "have quite forgotten little
Mary Kingsford."
"Mary Kingsford!" I exclaimed almost with a shout. "Why, so it is! But
what a transformation a few years have effected!"
"Do you think so? Not _pretty_ Mary Kingsford now then, I suppose?" she
added with a light, pleasant laugh.
"You know what I mean, you vain puss you!" I rejoined quite gleefully;
for I was overjoyed at meeting with the gentle, well-remembered playmate
of my own eldest girl. We were old familiar friends--almost father and
daughter--in an instant.
Little Mary Kingsford, I should state, was, when I left Yorkshire, one
of the prettiest, most engaging children I had ever seen; and a petted
favorite not only with us, but of every other family in the
neighborhood. She was the only child of Philip and Mary Kingsford--a
humble, worthy, and much-respected couple. The father was gardener to
Sir Pyott Dalzell, and her mother eked out his wages to a respectable
maintenance by keeping a cheap children's school. The change which a
few years had wrought in the beautiful child was quite sufficient to
account for my imperfect recognition of her; but the instant her name
was mentioned, I at once recognised the rare comeliness which had
charmed us all in her childhood. The soft brown eyes were the same,
though now revealing profounder depths, and emitting a more pensive
expression; the hair, though deepened in color, was still golden; her
complexion, lit up as it now was by a sweet blush, was brilliant as
ever; whilst her child-person had become matured and developed into
womanly symmetry and grace. The brilliancy of color vanished from her
cheek as I glanced meaningly at her mourning dress.
"Yes," she murmured in a sad quivering voice--"yes, father is gone! It
will be six months come next Thursday that he died! Mother is well," she
continued more cheerfully after a pause, "in health, but poorly off; and
I--and I," she added with a faint effort at a smile, "am going to London
to seek my fortune!"
"To seek your fortune!"
"Yes: you know my cousin, Sophy Clarke? In one of her letters, she said
she often saw you."
I nodded without speaking. I knew little of Sophia Clarke, except that
she was the somewhat gay, coquettish shopwoman of a highly respectable
confectioner in the Strand, whom I shall call by the name of Morris.
"I am to be Sophy's fellow shop-assistant," continued Mary Kingsford;
"not of course at first at such good wages as she gets. So lucky for me,
is it not, since I must go to service? And so kind, too, of Sophy to
interest herself for me!"
"Well, it may be so. But surely I have heard--my wife at least has--that
you and Richard Westlake were engaged?--Excuse me, Mary, I was not
aware the subject was a painful or unpleasant one."
"Richard's father," she replied with some spirit, "has higher views for
his son. It is all off between us now," she added; "and perhaps it is
for the best that it should be so."
I could have rightly interpreted these words without the aid of the
partially expressed sigh which followed them. The perilous position of
so attractive, so inexperienced, so guileless a young creature, amidst
the temptations and vanities of London, so painfully impressed and
preocupied me, that I scarcely uttered another word till the rapidly
diminishing rate of the train announced that we neared a station, after
which it was probable we should have no farther opportunity for private
converse.
"Those men--those fellows at Rugby--where did you meet with them?" I
inquired.
"About thirty or forty miles below Birmingham, where they entered the
carriage in which I was seated. At Birmingham I managed to avoid them."
Little more passed between us till we reached London. Sophia Clarke
received her cousin at the Euston station, and was profuse of
felicitations and compliments upon her arrival and personal appearance.
After receiving a promise from Mary Kingsford to call and take tea with
my wife and her old playmate on the following Sunday, I handed the two
young women into a cab in waiting, and they drove off. I had not moved
away from the spot when a voice a few paces behind me, which I thought I
recognised, called out: "Quick, coachee, or you'll lose sight of them!"
As I turned quickly round, another cab drove smartly off, which I
followed at a run. I found, on reaching Lower Seymour Street, that I was
not mistaken as to the owner of the voice, nor of his purpose. The
fellow I had unwigged at Rugby thrust his head half out of the cab
window, and pointing to the vehicle which contained the two girls,
called out to the driver "to mind and make no mistake." The man nodded
intelligence, and lashed his horse into a faster pace. Nothing that I
might do could prevent the fellows from ascertaining Mary Kingsford's
place of abode; and as that was all that, for the present at least, need
be apprehended, I desisted from pursuit, and bent my steps homewards.
Mary Kingsford kept her appointment on the Sunday, and in reply to our
questioning, said she liked her situation very well. Mr. and Mrs. Morris
were exceedingly kind to her; so was Sophia. "Her cousin," she added in
reply to a look which I could not repress, "was perhaps a little gay and
free of manner, but the best-hearted creature in the world." The two
fellows who had followed them had, I found, already twice visited the
shop; but their attentions appeared now to be exclusively directed
towards Sophia Clarke, whose vanity they not a little gratified. The
names they gave were Heartly and Simpson. So entirely guileless and
unsophisticated was the gentle country maiden, that I saw she scarcely
comprehended the hints and warnings which I threw out. At parting,
however, she made me a serious promise that she would instantly apply to
me should any difficulty or perplexity overtake her.
I often called in at the confectioner's, and was gratified to find that
Mary's modest propriety of behavior, in a somewhat difficult position,
had gained her the goodwill of her employers, who invariably spoke of
her with kindness and respect. Nevertheless, the cark and care of a
London life, with its incessant employment and late hours, soon, I
perceived, began to tell upon her health and spirits; and it was
consequently with a strong emotion of pleasure I heard from my wife
that she had seen a passage in a letter from Mary's mother, to the
effect that the elder Westlake was betraying symptoms of yielding to the
angry and passionate expostulations of his only son, relative to the
enforced breaking off of his engagement with Mary Kingsford. The blush
with which she presented the letter was, I was told, very eloquent.
One evening, on passing Morris' shop, I observed Hartley and Simpson
there. They were swallowing custards and other confectionary with much
gusto; and, from their new and costly habiliments, seemed to be in
surprisingly good case. They were smirking and smiling at the cousins
with rude confidence; and Sophia Clarke, I was grieved to see, repaid
their insulting impertinence by her most elaborate smiles and graces. I
passed on; and presently meeting with a brother-detective, who, it
struck me, might know something of the two gentlemen, I turned back with
him, and pointed them out. A glance sufficed him.
"Hartley and Simpson you say?" he remarked after we had walked away to
some distance: "those are only two of their numerous _aliases_. I
cannot, however, say that I am as yet on very familiar terms with them;
but as I am especially directed to cultivate their acquaintance, there
is no doubt we shall be more intimate with each other before long.
Gamblers, blacklegs, swindlers, I already know them to be; and I would
take odds they are not unfrequently something more, especially when
fortune and the bones run cross with them."
"They appear to be in high feather just now," I remarked.
"Yes: they are connected, I suspect, with the gang who cleaned out young
Garslade last week in Jermyn Street. I'd lay a trifle," added my friend,
as I turned to leave him, "that one or both of them will wear the
queen's livery gray turned up with yellow, before many weeks are past.
Good-by."
About a fortnight after this conversation, I and my wife paid a visit to
Astley's, for the gratification of our youngsters, who had long been
promised a sight of the equestrian marvels exhibited at that celebrated
amphitheatre. It was the latter end of February; and when we came out of
the theatre, we found the weather had changed to dark and sleety, with a
sharp, nipping wind. I had to call at Scotland-Yard; my wife and
children consequently proceeded home in a cab without me; and after
assisting to quell a slight disturbance originating in a gin-palace
close by, I went on my way over Westminster Bridge. The inclement
weather had cleared the streets and thoroughfares in a surprisingly
short time; so that, excepting myself, no foot-passenger was visible on
the bridge till I had about half-crossed it, when a female figure,
closely muffled up about the head, and sobbing bitterly, passed rapidly
by on the opposite side. I turned and gazed after the retreating figure:
it was a youthful, symmetrical one; and after a few moments' hesitation,
I determined to follow at a distance, and as unobservedly as I could. On
the woman sped, without pause or hesitation, till she reached Astley's,
where I observed her stop suddenly, and toss her arms in the air with a
gesture of desperation. I quickened my steps, which she observing,
uttered a slight scream, and darted swiftly off again, moaning and
sobbing as she ran. The slight momentary glimpse I had obtained of her
features beneath the gaslamp opposite Astley's, suggested a frightful
apprehension, and I followed at my utmost speed. She turned at the
first-cross street, and I should soon have overtaken her, but that in
darting round the corner where she disappeared, I ran full butt against
a stout, elderly gentleman, who was hurrying smartly along out of the
weather. What with the suddenness of the shock and the slipperiness of
the pavement, down we both reeled; and by the time we had regained our
feet, and growled savagely at each other, the young woman, whoever she
was, had disappeared, and more than half an hour's eager search after
her proved fruitless. At last I bethought me of hiding at one corner of
Westminster Bridge. I had watched impatiently for about twenty minutes,
when I observed the object of my pursuit stealing timidly and furtively
towards the bridge on the opposite side of the way. As she came nearly
abreast of where I stood, I darted forward; she saw, without recognising
me, and uttering an exclamation of terror, flew down towards the river,
where a number of pieces of balk and other timber were fastened
together, forming a kind of loose raft. I followed with desperate haste,
for I saw that it was indeed Mary Kingsford, and loudly calling to her
by name to stop. She did not appear to hear me, and in a few moments the
unhappy girl had gained the end of the timber-raft. One instant she
paused with clasped hands upon the brink, and in another had thrown
herself into the dark and moaning river. On reaching the spot where she
had disappeared, I could not at first see her in consequence of the dark
mourning dress she had on. Presently I caught sight of her, still
upborne by her spread clothes, but already carried by the swift current
beyond my reach. The only chance was to crawl along a piece of round
timber which projected farther into the river, and by the end of which
she must pass. This I effected with some difficulty; and laying myself
out at full length, vainly endeavored, with out-stretched, straining
arms, to grasp her dress. There was nothing left for it but to plunge in
after her. I will confess that I hesitated to do so. I was encumbered
with a heavy dress, which there was no time to put off, and moreover,
like most inland men, I was but an indifferent swimmer. My indecision
quickly vanished. The wretched girl, though gradually sinking, had not
yet uttered a cry, or appeared to struggle; but when the chilling waters
reached her lips, she seemed to suddenly revive to a consciousness of
the horror of her fate: she fought wildly with the engulphing tide, and
shrieked piteously for help. Before one could count ten, I had grasped
her by the arm, and lifted her head above the surface of the river. As I
did so, I felt as if suddenly encased and weighed down by leaden
garments, so quickly had my thick clothing and high boots sucked in the
water. Vainly, thus burdened and impeded, did I endeavor to regain the
raft; the strong tide bore us outwards, and I glared round, in
inexpressible dismay, for some means of extrication from the frightful
peril in which I found myself involved. Happily, right in the direction
the tide was drifting us, a large barge lay moored by a chain-cable.
Eagerly I seized and twined one arm firmly round it, and thus partially
secure, hallooed with renewed power for assistance. It soon came: a
passer-by had witnessed the flight of the girl and my pursuit, and was
already hastening with others to our assistance. A wherry was unmoored:
guided by my voice, they soon reached us; and but a brief interval
elapsed before we were safely housed in an adjoining tavern.
A change of dress, with which the landlord kindly supplied me, a blazing
fire, and a couple of glasses of hot brandy and water, soon restored
warmth and vigor to my chilled and partially benumbed limbs; but more
than two hours elapsed before Mary, who had swallowed a good deal of
water, was in a condition to be removed. I had just sent for a cab, when
two police-officers, well known to me, entered the room with official
briskness. Mary screamed, staggered towards me, and clinging to my arm,
besought me with frantic earnestness to save her.
"What _is_ the meaning of this?" I exclaimed, addressing one of the
police-officers.
"Merely," said he, "the young woman that's clinging so tight to you has
been committing an audacious robbery"----
"No--no--no!" broke in the terrified girl.
"Oh! of course you'll say so," continued the officer. "All I know is,
that the diamond brooch was found snugly hid away in her own box. But
come, we have been after you for the last three hours; so you had better
come along at once."
"Save me!--save me!" sobbed poor Mary, as she tightened her grasp upon
my arm and looked with beseeching agony in my face.
"Be comforted," I whispered; "you shall go home with me. Calm yourself,
Miss Kingsford," I added in a louder tone: "I no more believe you have
stolen a diamond brooch than that I have."
"Bless you!--bless you!" she gasped in the intervals of her convulsive
sobs.
"There is some wretched misapprehension in this business, I am quite
sure." I continued; "but at all events I shall bail her--for this night
at least."
"Bail her! That is hardly regular."
"No; but you will tell the superintendent that Mary Kingsford is in my
custody, and that I answer for her appearance to-morrow."
The men hesitated, but I stood too well at head-quarters for them to do
more than hesitate; and the cab I had ordered being just then announced,
I passed with Mary out of the room as quickly as I could, for I feared
her senses were again leaving her. The air revived her somewhat, and I
lifted her into the cab, placing myself beside her. She appeared to
listen in fearful doubt whether I should be allowed to take her with me;
and it was not till the wheels had made a score of revolutions that her
fears vanished; then throwing herself upon my neck in an ecstacy of
gratitude, she burst into a flood of tears, and continued till we
reached home sobbing on my bosom like a broken-hearted child. She had, I
found, been there about ten o'clock to seek me, and being told that I
was gone to Astley's, had started off to find me there.
Mary still slept, or at least she had not risen, when I left home the
following morning to endeavor to get at the bottom of the strange
accusation preferred against her. I first saw the superintendent, who,
after hearing what I had to say, quite approved of all that I had done,
and intrusted the case entirely to my care. I next saw Mr. and Mrs.
Morris and Sophia Clarke, and then waited upon the prosecutor, a
youngish gentleman of the name of Saville, lodging in Essex Street,
Strand. One or two things I heard, necessitated a visit to other
officers of police, incidentally, as I found, mixed up with the affair.
By the time all this was done, and an effectual watch had been placed
upon Mr. Augustus Saville's movements, evening had fallen, and I wended
my way homewards, both to obtain a little rest, and hear Mary
Kingsford's version of the strange story.
The result of my inquiries may be thus briefly summed up. Ten days
before, Sophia Clarke told her cousin that she had orders for
Covent-Garden Theatre; and as it was not one of their busy nights, she
thought they might obtain leave to go. Mary expressed her doubt of this,
as both Mr. and Mrs. Morris, who were strict, and somewhat fanatical
Dissenters, disapproved of play-going, especially for young women.
Nevertheless Sophia asked, informed Mary that the required permission
had been readily accorded, and off they went in high spirits; Mary
especially, who had never been to a theatre in her life before. When
there, they were joined by Hartley and Simpson, much to Mary's annoyance
and vexation, especially as she saw that her cousin expected them. She
had, in fact, accepted the orders from them. At the conclusion of the
entertainments, they all four came out together, when suddenly there
arose a hustling and confusion, accompanied with loud outcries, and a
violent swaying to and fro of the crowd. The disturbance was, however,
soon quelled; and Mary and her cousin had reached the outer door, when
two police-officers seized Hartley and his friend, and insisted upon
their going with them. A scuffle ensued; but other officers being at
hand, the two men were secured and carried off. The cousins, terribly
frightened, called a coach, and were very glad to find themselves safe
at home again. And now it came out that Mr. and Mrs. Morris had been
told that they were going to spend the evening at _my_ house, and had no
idea they were going to the play! Vexed as Mary was at the deception,
she was too kindly-tempered to refuse to keep her cousin's secret;
especially knowing as she did that the discovery of the deceit Sophia
had practised would in all probability be followed by her immediate
discharge. Hartley and his friend swaggered on the following afternoon
into the shop, and whispered Sophia that their arrest by the police had
arisen from a strange mistake, for which the most ample apologies had
been offered and accepted. After this, matters went on as usual, except
that Mary perceived a growing insolence and familiarity in Hartley's
manner towards her. His language was frequently quite unintelligible,
and once he asked her plainly "if she did not mean that he should go
_shares_ in the prize she had lately found?" Upon Mary replying that
she did not comprehend him, his look became absolutely ferocious, and he
exclaimed: "Oh, that's your game, is it? But don't try it on with me, my
good girl, I advise you." So violent did he become, that Mr. Morris was
attracted by the noise, and ultimately bundled him, neck and heels, out
of the shop. She had not seen either him or his companion since.
On the evening of the previous day, a gentleman whom she never
remembered to have seen before, entered the shop, took a seat, and
helped himself to a tart. She observed that after a while he looked at
her very earnestly, and at length approaching quite close, said, "You
were at Covent Garden Theatre last Tuesday evening week?" Mary was
struck, as she said, all of a heap, for both Mr. and Mrs. Morris were in
the shop, and heard the question.
"Oh, no, no! you mistake," she said hurriedly, and feeling at the same
time her cheeks kindle into flame.
"Nay, but you were though," rejoined the gentleman. And then lowering
his voice to a whisper, he said, "And let me advise you, if you would
avoid exposure and condign punishment, to restore me the diamond brooch
you robbed me of on that evening."
Mary screamed with terror, and a regular scene ensued. She was obliged
to confess she had told a falsehood in denying she was at the theatre on
the night in question, and Mr. Morris after that seemed inclined to
believe any thing of her. The gentleman persisted in his charge; but at
the same time vehemently iterating his assurance that all he wanted was
his property; and it was ultimately decided that Mary's boxes, as well
as her person, should be searched. This was done; and to her utter
consternation the brooch was found concealed, they said, in a black
silk reticule. Denials, asservations, were vain. Mr. Saville identified
the brooch, but once more offered to be content with its restoration.
This Mr. Morris, a just, stern man, would not consent to, and he went
out to summon a police-officer. Before he returned, Mary, by the advice
of both her cousin and Mrs. Morris, had fled the house, and hurried in a
state of distraction to find me, with what result the reader already
knows.
"It is a wretched business," I observed to my wife, as soon as Mary
Kingsford had retired to rest, at about nine o'clock in the evening.
"Like you, I have no doubt of the poor girl's perfect innocence; but how
to establish it by satisfactory evidence is another matter. I must take
her to Bow Street the day after to-morrow."
"Good God, how dreadful! Can nothing be done? What does the prosecutor
say the brooch is worth?"
"His uncle," he says, "gave a hundred and twenty guineas for it. But
that signifies little; for were its worth only a hundred and twenty
farthings, compromise is, you know, out of the question."
"I did not mean that. Can you show it me? I am a pretty good judge of
the value of jewels."
"Yes, you can see it." I took it out of the desk in which I had locked
it up, and placed it before her. It was a splendid emerald, encircled by
large brilliants.
My wife twisted and turned it about, holding it in all sorts of lights,
and at last said--"I do not believe that either the emerald or the
brilliants are real--that the brooch is, in fact, worth twenty shillings
intrinsically."
"Do you say so?" I exclaimed as I jumped up from my chair, for my wife's
words gave color and consistence to a dim and faint suspicion which had
crossed my mind. "Then, this Saville is a manifest liar; and perhaps
confederate with----. But give me my hat; I will ascertain this point at
once."
I hurried to a jeweller's shop, and found that my wife's opinion was
correct: apart from the workmanship, which was very fine, the brooch was
valueless. Conjectures, suspicions, hopes, fears, chased each other with
bewildering rapidity through my brain; and in order to collect and
arrange my thoughts, I stepped out of the whirl of the streets into
Dolly's Chop-house, and decided, over a quiet glass of negus, upon my
plan of operations.
The next morning there appeared at the top of the second column of the
"Times" an earnest appeal, worded with careful obscurity, so that only
the person to whom it was addressed should easily understand it, to the
individual who had lost or been robbed of a false stone and brilliants
at the theatre, to communicate with a certain person--whose address I
gave--without delay, in order to save the reputation, perhaps the life,
of an innocent person.
I was at the address I had given by nine o'clock. Several hours passed
without bringing any one, and I was beginning to despair, when a
gentleman of the name of Bagshawe was announced: I fairly leaped for
joy, for this was beyond my hopes.
A gentleman presently entered, of about thirty years of age, of a
distinguished, though somewhat dissipated aspect.
"This brooch is yours?" said I, exhibiting it without delay or preface.
"It is; and I am here to know what your singular advertisement means?"
I briefly explained the situation of affairs.
"The rascals!" he broke in almost before I had finished; "I will briefly
explain it all. A fellow of the name of Hartley, at least that was the
name he gave, robbed me, I was pretty sure, of this brooch. I pointed
him out to the police, and he was taken into custody; but nothing being
found upon him, he was discharged."
"Not entirely, Mr. Bagshawe, on that account. You refused, when arrived
at the station-house, to state what you had been robbed of; and you,
moreover, said, in presence of the culprit, that you were to embark with
your regiment for India the next day. That regiment, I have ascertained,
did embark, as you said it would."
"True; but I had leave of absence, and shall take the Overland route.
The truth is, that during the walk to the station-house, I had leisure
to reflect that if I made a formal charge, it would lead to awkward
disclosures. This brooch is an imitation of one presented me by a valued
relative. Losses at play--since, for this unfortunate young woman's
sake, I _must_ out with it--obliged me to part with the original; and I
wore this, in order to conceal the fact from my relative's knowledge."
"This will, sir," I replied, "prove, with a little management, quite
sufficient for all purposes. You have no objection to accompany me to
the superintendent?"
"Not in the least: only I wish the devil had the brooch as well as the
fellow that stole it."
About half-past five o'clock on the same evening, the street door was
quietly opened by the landlord of the house in which Mr. Saville lodged,
and I walked into the front room on the first floor, where I found the
gentleman I sought languidly reclining on a sofa. He gathered himself
smartly up at my appearance, and looked keenly in my face. He did not
appear to like what he read there.
"I did not expect to see you to-day," he said at last.
"No, perhaps not: but I have news for you. Mr. Bagshawe, the owner of
the hundred and twenty guinea brooch your deceased uncle gave you, did
_not_ sail for India, and"----
The wretched cur, before I could conclude, was on his knees begging for
mercy with disgusting abjectness. I could have spurned the scoundrel
where he crawled.
"Come, sir!" I cried, "let us have no snivelling or humbug: mercy is not
in my power, as you ought to know. Strive to deserve it. We want Hartley
and Simpson, and cannot find them: you must aid us."
"Oh yes; to be sure I will!" eagerly rejoined the rascal "I will go for
them at once," he added with a kind of hesitating assurance.
"Nonsense! _Send_ for them, you mean. Do so, and I will wait their
arrival."
His note was despatched by a sure hand; and meanwhile I arranged the
details of the expected meeting. I, and a friend, whom I momently
expected, would ensconce ourselves behind a large screen in the room,
whilst Mr. Augustus Saville would run playfully over the charming plot
with his two friends, so that we might be able to fully appreciate its
merits. Mr. Saville agreed. I rang the bell, an officer appeared, and we
took our posts in readiness. We had scarcely done so, when the
street-bell rang, and Saville announced the arrival of his confederates.
There was a twinkle in the fellow's green eyes which I thought I
understood. "Do not try that on, Mr. Augustus Saville," I quietly
remarked: "we are but two here certainly, but there are half a dozen in
waiting below."
No more was said, and in another minute the friends met. It was a
boisterously jolly meeting, as far as shaking hands and mutual
felicitations on each other's good looks and health went. Saville was, I
thought, the most obstreperously gay of all three.
"And yet now I look at you, Saville, closely," said Hartley, "you don't
look quite the thing. Have you seen a ghost?"
"No; but this cursed brooch affair worries me."
"Nonsense!--humbug!--it's all right: we are all embarked in the same
boat. It's a regular three-handed game. I prigged it; Simmy here whipped
it into pretty Mary's reticule, which she, I suppose, never looked into
till the row came; and _you_ claimed it--a regular merry-go-round, aint
it, eh? Ha! ha! ha!---- Ha!"
"Quite so, Mr. Hartley," said I, suddenly facing him, and at the same
time stamping on the floor; "as you say, a delightful merry-go-round;
and here, you perceive," I added, as the officers crowded into the room,
"are more gentlemen to join in it."
I must not stain the paper with the curses, imprecations, blasphemies,
which for a brief space resounded through the apartment. The rascals
were safely and separately locked up a quarter of an hour afterwards;
and before a month had passed away, all three were transported. It is
scarcely necessary to remark, that they believed the brooch to be
genuine, and of great value.
Mary Kingsford did not need to return to her employ. Westlake the elder
withdrew his veto upon his son's choice, and the wedding was celebrated
in the following May with great rejoicing; Mary's old playmate
officiating as bride-maid, and I as bride's-father. The still young
couple have now a rather numerous family, and a home blessed with
affection, peace, and competence. It was some time, however, before Mary
recovered from the shock of her London adventure; and I am pretty sure
that the disagreeable reminiscences inseparably connected in her mind
with the metropolis, will prevent at least _one_ person from being
present at the World's Great Fair.