RALPH FINDS EVERYWHERE GREAT CHANGES--GIVES WAY TO HIS FEELINGS, AND
MAKES A FOOL OF HIMSELF--THIS CHAPTER WILL BE FOUND EITHER THE WORST OR
THE BEST OF RALPH'S CONFESSIONS, ACCORDING TO THE FEELINGS OF THE
READER.
Having stayed one week at Sheerness, and laid down my plan of future
action, I started in the passage boat for Chatham. There was not much
room for recumbency. I found it, however, and placed the only luggage
that I had, a small parcel, covered with brown paper, under my head as a
pillow. The parcel contained my logs, and my certificates, and a single
change of linen. Very providentially, I had placed my pay-ticket, with
my bank notes, in my pocket-book.
Once, as I opened my eyes at the explosion of an oath more loud than
usual, methought I saw the sudden and white-complexioned face of Joshua
Daunton hanging closely over mine. I started up, and rubbed my eyes,
but the vision had fled. I was determined to be watchful; and, with
this determination in full activity, I again fell asleep; nor was I once
more properly awakened until we had arrived at Chatham. When I had
roused myself up, to my consternation, I discovered that my pillow was
nowhere to be found. Many of the passengers had already gone their
ways, and those who remained knew nothing about me or my packet.
Indeed, I only drew suspicions on myself, as my paucity of baggage and
the pretensions of my dress were decidedly at variance. The gentleman
in top-boots and with the brown paper parcel seemed ridiculous enough.
Seeing how ineffectual noise was, I held my peace, now that I had
nothing else to hold; got on the outside of the first coach for London;
and, by ten at night, I found myself in the coffee-room of the White
Horse, in Fetter Lane.
The next morning, when I arose, it was my birthday, the 14th of
February; and I stood at mine inn, a being perfectly isolated. But I
was not idle; on descending into the coffee-room, I procured the Court
Guide; but my most anxious scrutiny could discover no such person among
the baronets as Sir Reginald Rattlin. Paying my bill, I next went to
Somerset House, and drew my pay; I then repaired to the aristocratic
mansion of Lord Whiffledale, in Grosvenor Square. "Not at home," and
"in the country for some time," were the surly answers of the indolent
porter.
It was a day of disappointments. The lawyer who cashed my bills was
civil and constrained. To all my entreaties first, and to my leading
questions afterwards, he gave me cold and evasive answers. He told me
he had received no further instructions concerning me; reiterated his
injunctions that I should not endanger the present protection that I
enjoyed, by endeavouring to explore what it was the intention of those
on whom I depended to keep concealed; and he finally wished me a good
morning, and was almost on the point of handing me out of his office.
But I would not be so repelled. I became impassioned and loud; nor
would I depart until he assured me, on his honour, that he knew almost
as little of the secret as myself, and that he was only the agent of an
agent, never having yet had any communication with the principal, whose
name, even, he assured me, he did not know.
I had now nearly exhausted the day. The intermingling mists of the
season and the heavy smoke of the town were now shrouding the streets in
a dense obscurity. There were no gas lights then. Profoundly ignorant
of the intricacy of the streets of the metropolis, I was completely at
the mercy of the hackney-coachmen, and they made me buy it extremely
dear. Merely from habit, I again repaired to the White Horse, and
concluded my nineteenth natal day in incertitude, solitude, and misery.
To Stickenham--yes, I would go there immediately. But the resolve gave
no exulting throb to my bosom.
I went to that spot so consecrated to my memory by bright skies and
brighter faces; the spot where I had so often urged the flying ball and
marshalled the mimic army--it was there that I stood; and I asked of a
miserable half-starved woman, "where was the play-ground of my youth?"
and she showed me a "brick-field."
I walked a few steps further, and asked for the school-house of my
happiest days--and one pointed out to me a brawling ale-house. It was a
bitter change. I asked of another where was now my old light-hearted,
deep-learned, French schoolmaster, Monsieur Cherfeuil. He had gone back
to France. The _emigres_ had been recalled by Napoleon.
There was one other question that I dreaded, yet burned to ask--I need
not state how fearful it was to me, since it was to learn the fate of
her whom I had honoured, and loved, and hailed, as my mother--the
beautiful and the kind Mrs Cherfeuil. I conjectured that she, too, had
gone to France with her husband, and the idea was painful to me.
"There have been great alterations here, my good girl," said I to a
young person whom I afterwards met.
"Very great, indeed, sir,--they have ruined father and mother."
"Your name, my dear, is Susan Archer."
"Bless me, so it is, sir!"
"And you seem a very intelligent little girl, indeed."
"Yes, I have had a good deal of book-learning, but all that is past and
gone now. When Mrs Cherfeuil lived in that house, she took care that
we should always have a home of our own, fire in the grate, and a loaf
in the cupboard--she had me sent to school--but now she is gone!"
"Gone!--where?--with her husband?"
"Don't you know, sir," said she, with a quiet solemnity, that made me
shudder with dreadful anticipations. "If you will come with me, I will
show you."
I dared not ask the awful question, "Is she dead?" I took my gentle
guide by the hand, and suffered her to lead me slowly through the
village. Neither of us spoke. We had almost attained to the end of the
hamlet, when my sad guide gently plucked me by the arm to turn down to
the right.
"No," said I, tremulously, "that is not the way; we must go forward.
That lane leads to the churchyard."
"And to Mrs Cherfeuil."
"Go on, and regard me not."
In another minute we were both sitting on a newly-made grave, the little
girl weeping in the innocent excess of that sorrow that brings its own
sweet relief.
My at first low and almost inaudible murmurs gradually grew more loud
and more impassioned. At last they aroused the attention of my weeping
companion, and she said to me, artlessly, "It is of no use taking on in
this way, sir; she can never speak up from the grave. She is in heaven
now; and God does not permit any of His blessed saints to speak to us
sinners below."
"You are quite right, my good girl," said I, ashamed of this betrayal of
my emotion. "It is very foolish indeed to be talking to the dead over
their damp graves, and not at all proper. But I have a great fancy to
stay here a little while by myself. Pray go and wait for me at the end
of the lane. I will not keep you long, and I have something to say to
you."
"I will do as you tell me, sir, most certainly. I will tell you all
about her death, for I was a sort of help to the nurse. I know you now,
sir, and thought I knew you from the first."
I shall not repeat the extravagances that I uttered when alone. I was
angry with myself and with all the world; and I fear that I exasperated
myself with the thought that I did not sufficiently feel the grief with
which I strove to consecrate my loss. I remember, I concluded my
rhapsody thus:
"Again I call upon you by the sacred name of mother--for such you were--
and no other will my heart ever acknowledge. I adjure you to hear me
swear that I will have all the justice done to your memory that man can
do! and may we never meet in those realms where only the injured find
redress, if I fail to scatter this sacred earth in token of dishonour
upon the head of him who has dishonoured you--were he even my own
father! It is an oath. May it be recorded, should that record be used
as my sentence of death!"
Having made this harsh and impious vow, the effect of over-excitement, I
tore a considerable portion of the earth from the grave, and, folding it
in my handkerchief I knotted it securely, and placed it round my heart
next to my skin, like those belts that are worn by Roman Catholics as
instruments of penance.
With a wish for something very like the shedding of blood in my heart,
and with a fervent prayer in my imagination and on my lips, I left Mrs
Cherfeuil's humble grave, and joined my companion.
In one little half-hour, I found my belt of vengeance so cold and so
inconvenient, that I heartily wished I was well rid of it: it is a
miserable confession, a sad falling off in my heroics; but the oath that
I had voluntarily and so solemnly taken prevented me from ridding myself
of the disgusting incumbrance.
According to the account of my companion, all was smiles, and happiness,
and sunshine, around Mrs Cherfeuil; when a person made his appearance,
by the description of whom I at once recognised that fiend, Daunton.
Domestic happiness then ceased for the poor lady; rumours of the worst
nature got abroad; her little French husband, instead of being as for
twelve years before he had been, her shadow, her slave, and her admirer,
became outrageous and cruel, and after the horrid word bigamy had been
launched against her, she never after held up her head.
She sickened and died. Nor did Daunton succeed in his plans of
extorting money--but his scheme was infinitely more deep and more
hellish. He had, _but not till after her death_, declared himself to be
her son. This, instead of having any effect upon the outraged widower,
only made him more eager to drive the impostor from his presence; and,
the opportunity offering itself to leave the spot now so hateful to him,
and the country that had sheltered him and in which he had grown so
rich, he availed himself of it eagerly. This account did not aggravate
my implacable feelings against this Daunton, for my hate was beyond the
capability of increase.
After hearing all that the little wench had to discover, and rewarding
her, I proceeded alone to wander over the spots that were once so dear
to me. In this melancholy occupation, when the cold mists of the early
evening fell, I continued heaping regret upon regret, until a more
miserable being, short of being impelled to suicide, could not have trod
the earth. About five, it began to grow dark; and, weary both in mind
and body, I commenced climbing the long hill that was the boundary of
the common, on my return to London.
On the Surrey side of the hill, for its apex separated it from another
county, the descent was more precipitous--so much so, that it is now
wholly disused as a road for carriages; and not only was it precipitous,
but excessively contorted, the bends sometimes running at right angles
with each other. High banks, clothed with impervious hedges, and
shadowed by tall trees, made the road both dank and dark; and, at the
time that I was passing, or, rather, turning round one of the elbows of
this descent, a sturdy fellow, with a heavy cudgel, followed at some
distance by a much smaller man, accosted me in a rude tone of voice, by
bawling out:
"I say, you sir, what's o'clock?"
"Go about your business, and let me pass."
"Take that for your civility!" and, with a severe blow with his stick,
he laid me prostrate. I was not stunned, but I felt very sick, and
altogether incapable of rising. In this state I determined to feign
stupefaction, so I nearly closed my eyes, and lay perfectly still. The
huge vagabond then placed his knee upon my chest, and called out to his
companion:
"I say, Mister, come and see if this here chap's the right un."
The person called to, came up; and, immediately after, through my
eyelashes, I beheld the diabolical white face of Daunton. It was so
dark, that, to recognise me, he was obliged to place his countenance so
close to mine that his hot breath burned against my cheek. He was in a
passion of terror, and trembled as if in an access of ague.
"It is," said he, whilst his teeth chattered. "Is he stunned?"
"Mister, now I take that as an insult. D'ye think that John Gowles need
strike such a strip of a thing as that ere twice?"
"Hush!--How very, very cold it is! Where is your knife? Will you do
it?"
"Most sartainly not. There--he's at your mercy--I never committed
murder yet--no, no, must think of my precious soul. A bargain's a
bargain--my part on't is done."
"Gowles, don't talk so loud. I can't bear the sight of blood--and, oh
God!--of this blood--it would spurt upon my hand. Strike him again over
the head--he breathes heavily--strike him!"
"No," said the confederate, sullenly. "Tell ye--u'll have neither 'art
nor part in this 'ere murder."
During this very interesting conference, I was rallying all my energies
for one desperate effort, intending, however, to wait for the uplifted
knife, to grasp it, in order that I might turn the weapon against the
breast of one assassin, and then use it as a defence against the other.
"Would to God," said the villain, adding blasphemy to concerted
murder--"would to God that my hand was spared this task! Give me the
knife now. Where shall I strike him?--I have no strength to drive it
into him far."
"Tell ye, Mister, u'll have nought to do with the murder--but u'd advise
thee to bare his neck, and thrust in the point just under his right
ear."
"Hush! Will it bleed much?"
"Damnably!"
"Horrible!--horrible! Do you think the story about Cain and Abel is
true?"
"As God is in heaven!"
"Can't it be done without blood?"
"I'll have nothing to do with the murder. But, Mister, if so be as you
are so craven-hearted, take your small popper, and send a ball right
into his heart. It is a gentleman's death, and will make the prettiest
small hole imaginable, and bleed none to signify. But, mind ye, this
'ere murder's all your own."
At this critical moment, as I was inhaling a strong breath, in order to
invigorate my frame for instant exertion, I heard two or three voices in
the distance carolling out, in a sort of disjointed chorus--
"Many droll sights I've seen,
But I wish the wars were over."
"Now or never," said Joshua, producing and cocking his pistol. I leaped
upon my legs in an instant, and, seizing the weapon, which was a small
tool, manufactured for a gentleman's pocket, by the barrel with my left
hand, and this amiable specimen of fraternity by the right, the struggle
of an instant ensued. The muzzle of the pistol was close upon my breast
when my adversary discharged it. I felt the sharp, hard knock of the
ball upon my chest, and the percussion for the moment took away my
breath, but my hold upon the villain's throat was unrelaxed. The
gurgling of suffocation became audible to his brutal companion.
"Ods sneckens!" said the brute, "but this 'ere murdered man is
throttling my Mister in his death-throe."
Down at once came his tremendous cudgel upon my arm. I released my
grip, and again fell to the earth.
"He's a dead man," said Gowles; "run for your life! Mind, Mister, I had
neither 'art nor part in this 'ere--"
And they were almost immediately out of sight and out of hearing.
At the report of the pistol, the jolly choristers struck up prestissimo
with their feet. They were standing round me just as the retreating
feet of my assassins had ceased to resound in the stillness of the
darkness.
A voice, which I immediately knew to be that of my old adversary, the
master's mate, Pigtop, accosted me.
"Holloa, shipmate!--fallen foul of a pirate, mayhap--haven't slipped
your wind, ha' ye, messmate?"
"No; but I believe my arm's broken, and I have a pistol ball between my
ribs."
"Which way did the lubbers sheer off? Shall we clap on sail, and give
chase?"
"It is of no use. I know one of them well. They shall not escape me."
"Why, I know that voice. Yes--no--damn me--it must be Ralph Rattlin--it
bean't, sure--and here on his beam ends, a shot in his hull, and one of
his spars shattered. I'd sooner have had my grog watered all my life
than this should have fallen out."
"You have not had your grog watered this evening, Pigtop," said I,
rising, assisted by himself and his comrades. "I don't feel much hurt,
after all."
"True, true, shipmate. But we must clap a stopper over all. Small-shot
in the chest are bad messmates. We must make a tourniquet of my skysail
here."
So, without heeding my cries of pain, he passed his handkerchief round
my breast; and by the means of twisting his walking-stick in the knot,
he hove it so tight, that he not only stopped all effusion of blood, but
almost all my efforts at breathing. My left hand still held the
discharged pistol, which I gave into the custody of Pigtop. Upon
further examination, I found that there was no fracture of the bone of
my arm; and that, all things considered, I could walk tolerably well.
However, I still felt a violent pain in my chest, attended with
difficulty of breathing, at the least accelerated pace.